Shattered With You (Stark Security Book 1)

by J. Kenner

  “But you enjoy it.”

  I shook my head slowly, trying to find the right words. “I enjoy the idea of it. The camera gives me an excuse to go places. To just walk and look.”

  “Why do you need an excuse?”

  I shifted on the warm leather seat. “I don’t, I guess. But I like being someone.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down, and I could see that he was thinking about my words. Analyzing them. Probably seeing more than I’d intended him to. That seemed to be Quincy’s special skill.

  I expected him to eventually offer a platitude. Something along the lines of, “Everybody’s somebody,” or some equally facile bullshit.

  But what he said was, “Is it really that much better to have a role than to be yourself?”

  “I—” I sat back in the seat, my focus on our guide and not on the man beside me.

  “Eliza?”

  I told myself I didn’t want to answer. That he was digging too deep for someone I barely knew. But that mental lecture was for nothing, because it felt like I knew him, and before I even realized I was speaking, I heard myself saying, “I guess I’ve never been very good at being me.”

  Considering how ridiculously cryptic that was, I expected a moment of silence preceding a snappy change of subject. Instead, he said, “What are you hiding from?”

  The question surprised me so much, it stole my words, so that all I could do was sit there and wonder about this enigmatic man who saw so much. More, in fact, than I wanted him to see.

  An awkward silence hung between us. I considered not answering at all, but I was enjoying our time together and didn’t want to put him off. At the same time, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. Or maybe I didn’t really know the truth.

  Finally, I lifted a shoulder and simply said, “Isn’t everyone hiding from something?”

  He pursed his lips, as if he was truly considering the question. Then he nodded. “In my experience, yes. I’d have to say that’s true.”

  I leaned sideways, butting my shoulder against his. “Lots of clients hiding their funds? The deep, dirty, and mysterious world of high finance?”

  “Something like that,” he said, in the kind of voice that made me think that my joke had more truth in it than I’d intended.

  I wanted to ask him more, but I wasn’t sure if I should. I felt a connection to this guy, yes, but I didn’t trust it. Not yet. What if it was just the euphoria of meeting a nice, good-looking guy on a lovely spring day? What if he wasn’t feeling the connection, too?

  I thought he was, but—

  Screeeeeeech!

  My thoughts were rudely cut off by a burst of feedback from the guide’s microphone. “Sorry,” the guide said. “But at least it woke you all up, because we’re about to enter one of London’s poshest neighborhoods. Even if you don’t recognize the politicians’ and executives’ names, I’m sure you’ve heard of Madonna, one of the most famous former residents in this ritzy part of London. Can you guess some others?”

  As other guests in the group started to shout out the names of celebrities, I turned my attention back to Quincy. “So how often do you do this?”

  “This?”

  “Invite tourists you’ve stumbled upon to ride the double decker bus.”

  “Would you believe me if I said this was my first time?”

  I started to laugh, but something about his tone stopped me. “Actually, yeah.” I flashed a shy smile, and I’m really not that shy a person. “Yeah, I think I would.”

  Our eyes met, and if we’d been in a movie, that was where the couple’s theme would have started, low at first and then building to a dramatic kiss, probably with Big Ben in the background and the sun setting so that the sky was ablaze in orange.

  I was so lost in the fantasy that I was surprised when he broke the mood and said softly, “This is where I grew up.”

  “London? I assumed as much, though I guess anywhere in the UK would—oh, wait.” I cocked my head, then looked around at the stunning homes, like something out of an incredible movie. Or at least a fun one. Like the über-posh townhome where the British version of Lindsey Lohan lived in The Parent Trap. “You mean here here?”

  “Just down this road, actually.”

  “Wow.” I grinned. Apparently I’d been right about that whole came from money thing. “Which house?”

  He hesitated, then started to point in the direction of a stately white home when the guide, who’d paused to field celebrity guesses, began to speak again. “But it’s not all celebrities and high-flying business moguls. This neighborhood has a dark side, too.”

  “Oooh,” I said, in the same voice I’d used for a campy horror movie. “Now we’re getting to the real gossip.” I expected Quincy to crack a smile, and when he didn’t, I sat back, a little embarrassed by his less than enthusiastic reception to my sometimes warped sense of humor.

  “Take the house to my left—number 806. It looks like your typical high-end home. A lovely place, you’d think, to raise a family. To be a child, carefree and young.”

  I frowned, because number 806 was the mansion that I thought Quincy had indicated.

  “But this home—which became famous as the site of the murder of heiress Emily Radcliffe—hosts a dark history with a sad cast of characters. A terrified little boy. A mother, killed in her effort to protect him. A father who disappeared into the wind, only to be found assassinated within the year, and revealed as a traitor to both Britain and to the foreign power he’d so blithely and secretly served.”

  Beside me, Quincy stiffened, his shoulders back and his face unreadable. I didn’t know if I should, but I couldn’t stop myself. I reached over, and I twined my fingers with his. At first, his hand was a dead weight. Then his fingers gently curled around mine.

  “It’s a hop-on/hop-off bus,” I said quietly. “Why didn’t we get off before we turned in here? Surely you knew they’d mention it.”

  “Everyone has a story, Eliza. As an actress, you must know that.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But not everyone shares their stories so easily.”

  “You’re the first person who’s learned that about me in a long, long time. Not since Dallas. My friend,” he clarified. “Not the city. And I told him a lifetime ago.”

  “Oh.” Part of me wanted to ask why he let me learn this dark fact about him. Sure, the guide mentioned the name Radcliffe, but that’s hardly an unusual name. If he hadn’t started to point to the house—if he hadn’t reacted when the guide told the story—I doubt I would have guessed.

  I didn’t ask why, though. Instead, I heard myself saying, “I’m sorry about your dad. My father—well, he wasn’t a good man either.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to say it was the same—it wasn’t. It was bad.” I licked my lips, forcing myself to just talk and not to remember. “But it was different. He—well, it doesn’t matter. I just … I guess I just wanted you to know that I understand at least a little.”

  The bus had maneuvered to a stop, and several of our co-riders were getting off. Quince glanced at me, and though he didn’t say a word, we rose together and headed for the stairs in the front. When we reached the sidewalk, we didn’t talk about either of our fathers again, but that didn’t matter. Something fundamental had changed. At first, the connection between us had been like lighting. Fast and surprising and a little bit dangerous. Now, it felt warm and steady, like a softly glowing ember that had the power to ignite into flame.

  He took my hand silently, and I fell in step beside him. We walked out of the neighborhood, twisting and turning on small residential streets, narrow lanes lined with shops, and around a few fenced neighborhood gardens. The sun was beginning to creep lower, and we walked through more shadows cast by the many trees that lined the neighborhoods, their leaves dappling the late afternoon light.

  We walked for over an hour, talking about everything and nothing. The kind of conversation t
hat flows easily among old friends. And it really did feel as if I’d known him forever, as if the pain in both of our pasts had forged a bond between us. As if I hadn’t come to London for a job at all, but to see this man.

  After a while, we realized that it had been hours since we’d had lunch, if a single Scotch egg and fries could be considered lunch. I had no idea where we were, but Quincy quickly surveyed the area, announced that we were at Marble Arch, and that we’d managed to return very near to where we left the park. “If you don’t mind a walk, I know a great little Indian food place just over that way.”

  “I’d do pretty much anything for great Indian food,” I told him.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he countered, and there was no mistaking the suggestive tease in his voice.

  “Good,” I said boldly. Because, yeah, this whole day had been good. He was good. For that matter, we were pretty damn good.

  Dinner was good, too. We ordered almost every curry on the menu and shared them all. We also shared a bottle of wine. Okay, two bottles of wine. And it’s fair to say that I drank most of it. Because I knew what would come next. I knew he’d come to my apartment. I knew we’d get naked. I knew it would be fabulous.

  And I also knew that by morning this would all be over. Because it always was.

  “You’re frowning. Tired of me already?”

  I had to laugh. Only a confident man would ask a question like that, and I already knew that Quincy was a confident man. I liked that. It attracted me. Hell, it aroused me.

  But I knew damn well it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me, even though I wished otherwise with all my heart and soul. I wanted him. Right at that moment I craved him. Just watching him eat—the smooth motions as he lifted a fork. The small sounds of pleasure when he tasted a particularly satisfying dish. The heat in his eyes when he offered me a fork full of something delicious, as if it wasn’t the fork I was closing my lips around, but something so much more intimate.

  Oh, yeah…

  I wanted him.

  At the same time, I didn’t want it to end. And wouldn’t that be an awkward conversation? So, listen, Quincy. I’m pretty much so desperate for you that I’d do anything you asked, but the thing is that I know as soon as we do it’ll all be over, so I think I’d rather skip all that. Maybe we can just play chess?

  Yeah, not so much.

  He chuckled, and I realized that I’d just allowed a crazy gap of silence after he suggested I was tired of him. Definitely not earning stellar date points tonight.

  “Sorry. I think I’m getting tired. Or tipsy. Or both. This is a lot of wine on top of a lot of walking.”

  He reached across the table and took my hand, and wild bolts of anticipation shot through me. In that moment, I knew I had to be the mega slut of the year to want him so much even though I knew that would be the end of it. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted him. I wanted to feel his lips on me, his cock inside me. I wanted to be surrounded by his scent and lose myself to the sweet surrender of the wine as he whispered naughty things to me and then did every one of those things to my body. I wanted to fall asleep in his arms, and wake up with him beside me. I wanted a night of bliss. A night of passion.

  A night so incredibly transcendent that even though it would be the last time, I could hold onto it forever, a delicious memory to spice up my fantasies and keep me warm at night.

  He lifted a hand to signal for the check. “I think it’s time we get you home.”

  “Yes, please.” My pulse pounded in my throat. Hell, it pounded between my thighs. With each moment that passed, I was more and more turned on. I blamed the wine—it’s definitely my aphrodisiac of choice—but those lovely grapes weren’t entirely responsible for this sweet longing. On the contrary, that was all the man.

  A man who took my hand and very gingerly helped me down the narrow stairs to the street, where he hailed a cab. “I’ll have to remember you’re a cheap drunk,” he said, his hand sliding down to cup my bottom. I bit my lower lip and leaned into it, then moaned with satisfaction as he nuzzled my neck. “That’s valuable information to store away.”

  “If that’s the kind of information you want, I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t stop doing that.”

  “Ah, but I have to. Your chariot awaits.”

  He stepped around me, leaving me bereft from the sudden lack of contact. He opened the door like a perfect gentleman, then stepped back, as if to close it, rather than sliding in beside me.

  “Are you getting in on the other side? I can slide over.”

  “You’re going home alone,” he said, and my entire body went cold from the giant bucket of rejection he’d just dumped all over me.

  “I—what? Why?” I frowned. “I thought you were buying me breakfast. I thought we were going to—” I closed my mouth because under the circumstances I really wasn’t going there.

  “You thought I was going home with you. That I was going to kiss you. That I was going to pull you so close your breasts were crushed against me, and your ass was tight in my hands.”

  “I—Quincy…” I shot a mortified look at the driver, who was sitting like stone, his hands glued to the steering wheel as he looked straight ahead.

  “Hmm,” Quincy said, then leaned over and handed the driver a ten-pound note. “Sorry to keep you waiting. This should cover the inconvenience.” And then, as if the delay was the only thing odd about this situation, he turned back to me and said, “That would be my very great pleasure, Eliza.”

  “But. Wait. What?” I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the shock, but he was making no sense.

  He put a hand on the roof and leaned in. “You’re dangerous, Eliza. You and me, we’re a lot alike.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “I told you. It’s dangerous.”

  “Oh. I see.” I swallowed. And told myself not to cry. I didn’t know him well enough to cry. Which begged the question of why tears were pooling in my eyes. “Well, it was—I mean, I had a nice day. Thank you. It, ah, it was really nice to meet you.” Bastard.

  His mouth twitched, and for a moment I feared I’d said that out loud. “Is that a brush off?”

  “What, no. Wait—I thought you were brushing me off.”

  “Do you want me to?” Again with that tiny smile.

  “No, and you’re teasing me. What the hell, Quince?” At that, he laughed outright.

  “Now I know.”

  “What?”

  “If you and I spend much time together—and I certainly hope that we will—when you call me Quince it’s because I’m in trouble.”

  I tilted my head and crossed my arms in a display of irritation. And I was irritated. But I was also hopelessly, giddily relieved. “Fine. You’re in trouble. Don’t scare me like that. You acted like you just wanted to send me on my way.”

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said, bending lower and speaking softer. But not so soft the driver couldn’t hear.

  “I don’t just want to go home with you. I don’t simply want to fuck you. I want to claim you, Eliza. I want you to surrender completely. To give me your trust entirely.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know what that means.”

  “I think you do. I want control.” He brushed my lips with the pad of his free hand. “To take you how I want you. In the back of a cab like this. In your bed. Tied down. On your knees. I’ll give you pleasure, Eliza. More than you can imagine or have experienced.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can, and I do.” He hesitated a moment, his eyes burning into me. “I can’t promise to save you from whatever darkness is inside you—only you can do that. But there are shadows in your eyes, and I want to be the one to bring back some light.”

  I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. His words… His promises…

  Was this really happening?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let me make it perfectly clear. I want you. All of you. Not just a body in my bed. I want your trust
, but not blindly. I will earn it. I can promise you that. And in exchange, the power over your pleasure belongs to me. It’s a responsibility I will cherish. And that you will enjoy. Surrender, Eliza, and let the layers fall away.”

  My mouth had gone entirely dry, and though I knew I shouldn’t look, I could see the driver’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed reflection in the rearview mirror. I told myself to get out of the cab. To put a stop to this unexpected and entirely inappropriate proclamation.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I asked, “Why?”

  He smiled. That’s when he knew he had me. And I couldn’t even rally against his smugness because, dammit, he was right.

  “Why?” I repeated, because right then, that was the only control I had.

  “Because that’s what I want. And I think we both know that it’s what you need. Isn’t it, love?”

  “I—I barely know you.”

  “We both know that’s not really true.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he pressed a finger over my lips and continued.

  “I want every thing I said. I do. But not now. Not tonight when you’re drunk and aroused and flattered and vulnerable. All I want from you tonight is to think about it.”

  “To think about it?” I sounded like a parrot and hated myself for it.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “The offer for breakfast still stands.” He nodded toward a small cafe at the end of the block. “If you want what I’m proposing, then meet me there at ten. I’ll buy you that breakfast, and then we’ll go from there.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll respect your decision.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good night, Eliza. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

  His words tormented me through the night. Making me ache with need. And also making me tremble with fear at the thought of being at his mercy. Not fear of him. Not fear that he would hurt me. But at the realization that what he was describing was the very thing that I’d been craving.

  I went to him, of course. How could I not? He’d said I had the power to walk away, that the decision was mine. But it wasn’t. Not really. He’d claimed me with his words. His touch. His promises. And so we had breakfast. And then, dear God, we had so much more.