by Renee Rose
She crawled forward off his lap and sprawled on her belly, her face turned to the side to watch him. He rubbed her back, settling next to her.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“No, I’m not mad.”
“You were mad, though. Out there, in the parking lot.”
One of the corners of his mouth lifted. “I was irritated,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in charge and I’d better watch it or you’d take a hairbrush to my ass?”
He grinned. He had actually considered something along those lines, but didn’t think bullying her was going to make her back down. If she didn’t trust him, she didn’t trust him. He couldn’t force her into it by threat of a spanking. “Do you think that would’ve gone over?”
She hesitated, perhaps remembering how angry she’d been. “I don’t know.”
“Well, honestly, I thought about it, but I decided pulling an ‘I’m the boss’ on a mama bear protecting her cub was liable to get me kicked out on my keister.”
She smiled, a fresh tear leaking out of the corner of one eye. “Good thinking.”
He thumbed away the tear. “What was that for?”
“You really do get me.”
“Yeah.” He stroked the hair back from her face. “Look, I know I haven’t been around to parent Parker and you’ve been doing it all alone. And I understand you don’t trust me to make the right decisions. But, like I said, I plan on showing you I’m worthy of your trust. He’s been missing a father in his life, and that’s my fault. But I’m here now, and I’m going to do my job. And the way I see it, my job is to push him a little. Your job is to kiss his knee when he falls.”
She blinked at him. He saw nothing of her earlier resistance to his words. Instead, she looked at him with the wide-eyed trust of a child, which he supposed was what is invoked in a submissive. It was quite possibly the most beautiful and energizing thing he’d ever seen. It made him feel as tall as a mountain. He knew he would give anything to live in the light of that gaze for the rest of his life.
“You’re the boss,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
He leaned over and kissed her temple, then her cheek. “Does that mean you trust me now?”
“Yes.”
“I spanked some trust into you?” he teased, running his hand lightly over the curve of her bottom.
“Well, I guess I figure anyone who knows how to handle me and my mixed messages—anyone who can make me submit when I have no intention of giving in, can probably teach a six-year-old to ride a bike.”
“Fear is debilitating to a kid. I think we should be cautious about instilling unnecessary fears in Parker. And he pays attention to your cues, Becca. When you’re afraid for him, he’s afraid.”
She frowned, but he could tell she was taking it in.
“Okay.”
He continued to stroke her beautiful ass. She lifted it into his hand and hummed her appreciation.
“And you’re right, it’s not fair to blame you for a situation I agreed to.”
A swell of love filled his heart, almost choking him. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I think we can make this work, Becca. I don’t know how, but I think we can. But, I want you to know, if you ever decide you want a man who can be with you full time, just say the word, and I’ll disappear.”
She frowned. “Don’t say that. You’ve done enough disappearing. I’ll live with what you can give. You’ll be my part-time Dom.”
“I want to be your part-time husband,” he said, surprised to find his heart had picked up speed. “I mean, not legally, because I don’t exist…but I already think of you as my wife.” He stopped, feeling less certain of himself than he ever remembered feeling.
Becca smiled at him, her eyes tear-bright. “Are you asking me to pretend marry you?”
He grinned. “Yes. Will you pretend marry me, Becca?”
She giggled.
“I’ll get you a ring you won’t be able to wear. And we can do pretend vows in front of Parker, how’s that sound?”
Her lips trembled. “Perfect.”
“How about a ring that doesn’t look like a wedding ring? That you wear on another finger? Or wait—I know—maybe you’d rather have a slave collar.”
She gave him a laughing shove. “I do not want a slave collar. Well, actually, I might like a slave collar in addition to a non-wedding ring. I like black pearls.”
He grinned. “I will find you a flawless black pearl and put it on a ring.”
She flushed. “It doesn’t need to be expensive.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll steal it,” he said, laughing when she looked up sharply to gauge his seriousness.
She laughed, too. “So, Zac, was that a punishment spanking, but you just didn’t call it that because I would’ve fought you?”
He chuckled. “Why label it? I gave you what you needed.”
She rolled to her side and leaned on one elbow. “But if you don’t give me rules and explain why I’m being punished, how will I ever avoid a spanking?”
“Does a naughty girl like you really want to avoid a spanking? You felt better about a reconnection than a punishment, and the results were probably better, right? You would’ve been pissed if it was a punishment and we’d probably still be arguing, even after your spanking.”
She stared at him, her lips parted, confusion pressing her eyebrows toward each other.
“So I’ll spank you when you need to be submissive, and you’ll work hard to please me, and we won’t have much need for punishment. Unless you pull another Lincoln Park stunt.”
She snuggled in closer to him. “I won’t. I’ll be good.”
“Of course you will,” he said, kissing her hair. The vibration of his cell phone made him scowl. “Damn,” he said, seeing it was Beatty. “I gotta go.”
The disappointment on her face nearly killed him.
Chapter Eight
He wiped the sheen of sweat building on his forehead. He was not cut out for field work. He had never been able to get over his nerves. He was the type whose palms sweat so badly, his gun slipped in his grip. He checked his gun in its holster for the fourteenth time. Not that he planned to discharge it. He would make this quick and easy—grab the kid, point the gun at his head, and tell the mom to keep her mouth shut and get in the car. Easy as pie. Yeah, right.
He tried to push away the thought that they were as innocent as his own wife and daughters, whose lives he’d been defending when he got into this mess eight years ago. He checked his watch: 7:45 am. They should be coming down any time now. The elevator dinged and he stood in the shadow, pulling his hat low over his eyes. The doors swooshed open. The kid was talking, telling some story to his mom. He shot forward and grabbed him around the waist, pointing the gun to his temple. “Not a sound or he gets shot,” he said, but he needn’t have worried. El Demo’s daughter couldn’t have screamed to save her life—she clutched her chest, gasping for breath.
He jabbed toward his car with the butt of the gun. “Get in that gray car there. Quick! Go!”
There was terror in her eyes, and she reached toward her son. Realizing she wasn’t going anywhere without the kid, he led the kid to the car, so she would see they were all going together.
“You,” she gasped, the first sound she’d made. She’d recognized him. She knew his face from Lincoln Park, and from earlier when he’d posed as a marine to tell her Casper was dead.
He pushed her into the back seat and shoved the kid in behind her, pulling duct tape out of his pocket and making quick work of taping their mouths shut, wrists behind their backs, and ankles together. He shoved them down so they wouldn’t be seen through the windows, and ran around to jump in the driver side, just as Demo’s daughter managed to open her door. He pointed the gun at the kid. “Don’t try anything, or the kid dies. Got it?”
She stared at him with wild, frightened eyes.
“Got it?”
She
nodded quickly, the eyes filling with tears.
“Good. Now get back down.”
She hesitated, then laid back down on the seat.
“Don’t move again or I’ll make you sorry,” he threatened.
He slammed the door shut, opened his and jumped in, starting the car. He backed out before she could try anything else. His heart was pounding so hard he could almost hear it. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror, scanning all around for a tail.
They seemed safe.
He took them to an abandoned bungalow in Chula Vista, a musty, decrepit place, wood construction, perfect to blow up. Parking in the carport, he looked up and down the street. It appeared deserted. He only had to get them from the car door to the side door of the house—less than a yard—without being seen.
“Don’t move,” he barked, getting out. He walked around the car and opened the back passenger door, pulling out a knife and cutting the tape around the kid’s ankles. He repeated the action on Demo’s daughter. “Okay, out of the car and into the house, now!” he ordered, indicating the way with his gun.
The boy scrambled out, his eyes down, but narrowed. The mother followed closely behind, clearly not allowing him out of her sight.
The house was strewn with litter and smelled musty.
“Sit down. There, against the wall.” He pointed with the gun.
The two complied, the woman leaning her head against the wall, her chest moving up and down in tight little movements, as if she were struggling to breathe. The boy rubbed his cheek on her shoulder, in a touching gesture of child comforting adult. Still keeping the gun trained on them, he pulled out his phone and thumbed to the camera application. “Say cheese,” he muttered and took a photo of their stricken faces, pale against the black duct tape. It was perfectly horror-inducing. If it didn’t make the nightly news, he’d be shocked.
“So, Rebecca…I heard your father paid you a visit?”
She made an angry grunt through the tape.
“Did you know he was still alive?”
She glared at the floor. He shut up—talking to her was a bad idea, anyway. He was glad her mouth was taped, because he didn’t want to think of her as anything other than the means to tie up a loose end that had been hanging over his head for eight years. He sat on the floor as well, still palming his gun as he pulled out his laptop, to which he uploaded the photo and attached it to the email he’d already drafted. Hitting send, it went out, fully encrypted, to every news station in town, the school where the woman worked, and the school her son attended. The only way their kidnapping wouldn’t get reported and make the news would be if the FBI smothered it.
He unpacked the C4 plastic explosive he’d brought and set it up, duct taping it to Rebecca’s leg. Her nostrils pressed together with each breath, her struggle to breathe increasing.
“Keep very still, if you don’t want to blow up yourself and the kid.”
* * *
The tape over her mouth made her panicky about breathing. She knew she was starting to hyperventilate, could feel Parker’s wide, frightened eyes on her face.
Get a grip, Bec.
She leaned her head back against the wall and tried to find control.
Your lungs can obey me, too.
She groped for Zac’s voice, his calm, commanding presence.
You have all the breath you need, your body can manage on what you’re getting in and this asthma attack will pass, just like they all do.
She remembered his guidance that night he’d killed her nanny, sending her breath lower into her belly instead of struggling to expand her chest. She willed her exhale to lengthen and after five or six cycles, had control again. She opened her eyes and nodded at Parker, and saw relief there.
But what was going on? Had Zac’s organization ordered this mission as a result of her father’s visit? But that would mean Zac had betrayed him, and he’d told her he wouldn’t. But really, could she trust Zac at all? A man who killed for a living? Who’d already manipulated her life in so many ways? What was one more manipulation if it meant completing the mission he began the weekend they first met? A cold, sickening desperation swept over her.
But no. Zac may have turned her father in, but she couldn’t believe he’d knowingly place her and Parker in danger. She was certain she could trust him that far. He loved her, or he believed he loved her, if a man like him was capable of such a thing. But she couldn’t forgive him if he lied to her about her father.
She looked into the pasty, sweating face of their captor. She needed to calm herself and see what information she could get out of him.
“Mmm?” She made an inquiring sound through the tape, lifting her chin.
His eyes darted at her. He was nervous, that much was clear.
She repeated the noise and the lift of the chin.
“What?” he asked, but did not remove her tape. “Do you want your inhaler?”
That surprised her. He knew about her inhaler and had already considered it. She nodded eagerly. She did want her inhaler, but more important, he’d have to remove her tape to give it to her.
He pointed the gun at her, menacingly. “If you move, both of you will be blown to bits, got it?”
She nodded rapidly.
He walked out the door they’d come in and she heard the car door open and shut, and he returned with her purse. He watched her suspiciously as he fished through it. She kept her face relaxed, trying to look as innocent as she could muster. He produced the inhaler and set her purse by the door as if he were concerned she might make a grab for it, advancing slowly, gun still pointed at her face.
Parker was already taking his cue from her, relaxing his face. Their captor gripped the corner of the duct tape over her mouth and pulled, eliciting an involuntary screech when it separated from her skin.
He shoved the inhaler between her teeth and dispensed it before she could say a word.
“Thank you!” she gasped the moment he withdrew it. “Wait!” She turned her face away to keep him from refastening the tape.
He pressed the butt of the gun against her cheek.
“May I use the bathroom?” she asked in her meekest voice.
He remained unmoving, the gun pressed into her cheek for a long moment. Then he sighed and pulled out a knife, using it to slice the bomb from her leg and the tape from her ankles.
“There’s a bathroom in there, but I don’t think it works.” He pointed the gun at Parker’s head. “You’ve got twenty seconds to return or I pull the trigger.”
“Wait—my hands? I can’t pull my pants down otherwise.”
His eyes narrowed.
She nodded at Parker. “You think I’m going to take any risks with his life?”
He seemed to agree with that logic and cut her hands free.
Her heart slamming in her throat, she ran in the direction he indicated and found the bathroom, which had a little water sitting in the bowl. She did have to go, but more important, she wanted to buy time, to look around, maybe get him to talk. She used the toilet in record time and raced to return.
“What about him?” she asked.
“What?”
“Do you have to go, too, Parker?”
Parker nodded.
She looked appealingly at their captor. He rolled his eyes. “Turn around,” he ordered.
She turned around and willingly placed her wrists behind her back so he could re-tape them. “Is it my dad or Zac you’re luring in?”
“Shut up,” he snapped. “No questions.”
She sucked in her breath, trying to keep it even and slow. Sitting back down without being asked, she nudged Parker to stand. Their kidnapper cut Parker’s wrists free and pointed the gun at her head. “Twenty seconds or your mom dies.”
Parker took off for the bathroom.
“What if no one comes for us?”
The man wiped sweat from his forehead and considered her. “He’ll come.”
“And then
what?”
“I said shut up!” he flared, grabbing the tape and ripping off a piece to slap over her mouth. She was disappointed, but at least knew a tiny bit more than she had to begin with. Parker raced back in and despite his pale face, there was excitement bubbling underneath his fear—as if he’d enjoyed the challenge of peeing in less than twenty seconds when his mom’s life was in danger. With a stab, she realized he probably took after his father in that. She prayed he’d find a safer outlet for his thrills than Zac had.
Zac.
The thought of him made her heart grow warm and contract at the same time. Would he come for them? Would her father?
Their captor taped the bomb to her leg once more. She noticed he was not overly careful in handling it, causing her to doubt his threat that her movement would set it off. It had a detonator; that was what she needed to beware.
* * *
He’d just deplaned in Serbia, where he’d been sent to make a hit, when he had the powerful sensation something was wrong. Something with Becca. And with Parker.
He picked his bag up off the luggage cart and stood in the noisy airport, considering. How wrong could things be? His every instinct told him to turn around and get back on a plane without delay. But skipping out on a mission was serious enough to be considered treachery. And he had nothing to go on. He looked around, his eye catching the man who must be his local contact.
Shit.
He walked forward and greeted the man as if they knew one another, playing the designated cover role. He was taken to a hotel, provided with several guns and the information he needed to complete the job. He connected his laptop to satellite and opened it, firing up the security cameras at Becca’s. Nothing there. He looked at his watch. It was 5 pm in Belgrade, which meant it was 8 am in San Diego. They should be on their way to school. He called her cell phone. No answer.
The sense of urgency was in his body, a danger perceived in his cells despite the lack of evidence. He checked flights back to the States and booked one for later that night. The hit was planned to happen during a public parade the following day, but maybe he could somehow make it happen before the flight. He slipped on his Kevlar vest, holstered the pistol, and left the hotel to survey the security around the designated victim’s house.
