Killer Instinct: Charlie Fox book one

by Zoe Sharp

  His face was unreadable in the gloom inside the car. “You were most insistent I shouldn't take you to a doctor, and I didn't think it was wise to take you home again,” he said. “It was either here or drive you round in circles all night.” He put his hand under my chin and tipped my face up, studying. “You're a mess,” he added. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “you really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

  He flashed me a quick smile as he opened the car door and climbed out, moving round swiftly to help me out of my side. I got out experimentally, and found my ribs seemed to grate protestingly when I moved. I stifled a gasp as I stood up.

  Marc caught me. “Are you OK?”

  I shook my head. “It's nothing. I'm fine. Nothing a hot bath and a stiff whisky wouldn't cure – and not necessarily in that order.”

  Despite my denials, it seemed a long walk to the front door. Marc walked slowly alongside me, watching like a hawk for the first sign I was about to keel over. At one point I stumbled and his arm snaked round my shoulders instantly. His musky aftershave mingled interestingly with the smell of man.

  “I can manage,” I said. Having him so close when I wasn't in full control of my senses to begin with was altogether too distracting.

  The expression on the receptionist's face when we staggered in to the grand lobby area of the hotel spoke volumes about the state I was in. I suppose with my bloody face, dirty soaked shirt and scuffed leathers, I wasn't exactly representative of the target clientele. Marc silenced her protest with a single hard stare.

  “Miss Fox has had an accident,” he said, his voice like stone, brooking no argument. “She will be in my suite.” The woman probably thought he'd run me down in his car.

  Somehow, I don't remember the ride in the lift, or how I got from there to Marc's room. The next memory I have is the crackling noise of an open grate. I opened my eyes to find I was on a deeply cushioned sofa, with a soft blanket thrown over me. Marc's face appeared.

  “You had me worried for a moment there,” he said. “Here's that whisky you wanted, and the bath's running.” I fumbled to a sitting position and he handed me a lead crystal glass of liquid the colour of old gold.

  I stuck my nose into the glass, recognised single malt quality, then gulped two-thirds of it down like a rough blend anyway. The resultant fire lit my stomach and roared through my veins with a welcome blast.

  Marc moved round in front of me. He'd taken off his jacket, and folded back the sleeves of his shirt, revealing muscled forearms, covered with a fine layer of dark hair. I was surprised to see he had tattoos on both arms, blurred with age. He was carrying a wet flannel and a towel with the hotel crest on it.

  “Now,” he said, “let's get the worst of that off and have a look at the damage.” He smoothed my hair back and dabbed efficiently at the blood on my forehead.

  I sat with my eyes closed and let him get on with it, too weary to put up much of a fight. His hands were cool and careful, their touch firm but reassuring. The movement lulled me.

  “It's only a small cut, and it's stopped bleeding,” he murmured at last. “Scalp wounds always look worse than they are to begin with.”

  He took my hands and turned them over, wiping the worst of the grit away gently.

  “They're not too bad,” he decided. “Where else do you hurt?”

  I opened my eyes reluctantly and admitted that my ribs were still aching. Hardly stunning when I thought about it. I was lucky to be still walking.

  Marc had pulled my shirt out of my leather jeans and started to unbutton it before I had the wit to object. “Hey!” I tried to bat his hands away, but my depth perception was off, and he was determined. When he slid his hands over the skin of my ribcage my protests died in my throat as my heart leapt up and bounced there.

  “You're going to have some cracking bruises, Charlie,” he said, and his voice suddenly seemed very deep. “I don't think there's anything broken.” He seemed to be too close to me. I could see the individual pores in the skin of his face. The faint line of an old scar running through his eyebrow. Much too close. My breath hitched.

  He looked straight into my eyes and smiled, then got to his feet. “I think I'd better go and check on that bath,” he said, and strolled away.

  The brief pause gave me chance to look round the suite for the first time. The sofa had a low mahogany table in front of it, and beyond that was the open fire I'd sensed, full of burning logs. It was so healthily ablaze that it could only have been one of those fake gas affairs, but it was pretty convincing.

  There was a desk on the far side of the room, and doors leading off for the bathroom and bedroom. The decor was subdued, expensive. I didn't even begin to want to know how much a night it was costing him. I chucked back the remainder of my whisky and set the glass down on the polished wood without regard for watermarks.

  Marc returned, drying his hands on a towel. “You're all set,” he said. “Do you need any help?”

  I wavered for a moment, enticed, then shook my head. “I can manage,” I said. It was becoming a mantra.

  I got to my feet stiffly, trying to ignore the complaints from my body, and tottered across to the bathroom. Inside it was all white marble and mirrors clouded with steam from the bath. I almost groaned at the sight of it. Marc had dropped in a generous quantity of the foam bath furnished by the hotel, and hadn't stinted on the hot water. It was filled to the brim.

  I shut the door and took a moment to study my reflection in the mirror. What I saw made me grimace. Marc had managed to mop away most of the blood from my face, but my hair still looked matted like a stray cat's. The flesh over my left cheekbone seemed swollen, closing my eye a little, but some ice would probably sort it.

  I stripped off my shirt and prodded experimentally at my ribs. There was moderate blueing along them that was slightly alarming, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. More bruises came to light as I peeled off my leather jeans. Even with the kevlar and the padding, the hip I'd landed on was turning a regal shade of purple.

  I held my hands out in front of me and inspected the damage. A few cuts and scratches; a big graze on one palm. Nothing drastic. All in all, I was lucky to have got away so lightly.

  Despite my aches and pains, I finished stripping off in record time, sliding chin-deep into the delicately scented water. For someone who doesn't own a bath – all the flat has is a shower – it was the apex of luxury. I lay back and let the heat seep into my bones. My eyes closed, and I drifted off.

  It didn’t seem like more than a minute or two before I was groggily awake again to find Marc perched on the side of the bath, staring down at me.

  “Is there no peace?” I grouched, nerves jangling at the sight of him. It didn’t help that he was still fully clothed and I was naked. The bubble bath, traitor that it was, had dispersed enough to leave little to his imagination.

  “You’ve been in there nearly an hour,” he pointed out mildly. “I was worried about you and besides, the water’s cold.” He reached in to the far end and yanked the plug out. The admittedly tepid bath water started to slip away with disturbing speed. It hadn’t provided much in the way of a modesty blanket, but it had been better than nothing.

  Oh, what the hell. If he fancied me when I was doing my best impersonation of a human punchbag, the man needed help. I struggled to my feet, suddenly ponderous. He moved back to let me step dripping out of the bath, his face giving nothing away.

  Marc engulfed me in a huge fluffy towel, warmed from the heated rail. I was happy to sag weakly against the strength of his body. I rested my head against his crisp shirt front, and let him rub me dry. My eyes closed again, but even I couldn’t sleep standing up.

  He sat me down on the edge of the bath while he dried my legs, then towelled my hair. I was so far gone I nearly nodded off while he was doing it.

  “Oh Charlie,” he said ruefully, catching me as I rocked. “You’ve no idea what a temptation you are, but if I t
ake advantage of you now it will practically be necrophilia.”

  I was too drowsy to make either comment or objection as he hoisted me up into his arms and carried me through to the bedroom. The bed was voluminous and gave invitingly when he tipped me gently onto it. He pulled the covers up round my chin and tucked my damp hair away from my face, as you would a child.

  I think I was asleep before the mattress finished swaying.

  ***

  I started into wakefulness four hours later with a clear head and no idea where I was. I sat up abruptly, the bedclothes tangling round my legs so that when I tried to climb out of bed I ended up dropping in a knotted heap heavily onto the floor. The jar of it highlighted a myriad of bruises. Despite my efforts to stifle it, I cried out.

  It was only then I realised I wasn't alone in the room. I could sense someone's movement, but it was too dark to see them. I tried to scramble away, get to my feet, but the bed covers were relentless in their grip.

  There was a man looming over me. Instinctively, I lashed out with a strong right, connecting into unbraced muscle with enough force to leave him winded. Mind you, the effort didn't do my own ribs any good, either.

  “Charlie, for God's sake, it's me!”

  I recognised Marc's voice over the thundering of my heart, and dropped back, sweating and breathless, clutching at the bedclothes. I heard him move away and the next thing the bedside lamp had been clicked on.

  When I'd finished blinking in the glare, I saw Marc by the switch, rubbing at his stomach. One of the large armchairs had a rumpled pillow and quilt on the floor next to it. He'd evidently been keeping his eye on me.

  Marc was wearing the thick towelling robe the hotel provided, and pretty obviously nothing else. I felt a furious colour flaming my face. Never a good idea to blush when you've got my hair colouring. It clashes horribly.

  Marc looked at me sardonically. “You're feeling better,” he said, and it wasn't a question.

  “I'm sorry,” I said, shakily, climbing hastily back onto the bed and pulling the covers back with me. Marc came and settled on the edge, looking dangerous again, but for a different reason. I swallowed nervously as he traced a finger round my face, my eyes fixed on him.

  “Oh Charlie, you're such a puzzle,” he said, almost to himself. “So strong, but so vulnerable. Such a temper to go with that red hair.” He picked up a few strands, let them slip through his fingers, murmuring half to himself, “Not that it's really red; all those different shades of copper, and honey, and gold. And who'd have thought there'd be such a glorious body under all that denim and those heavy leathers you wear, hmm?”

  Looking back afterwards, I can't think what made me do it, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing in the world. To reach up for the back of his neck, and pull those tantalising lips down to meet mine. Maybe it was just the best way of stopping a flow of compliments I still didn't know how to cope with.

  He kissed me slowly, with great precision, pulling back after a few moments to look deep into my eyes as if asking a question. If I wanted to turn back, now was the time. I didn't want to. I closed my eyes and kissed him again, feeling little feathers of reaction stir through my body. I wanted him. It was as simple as that.

  There had not been many times over the period since my attack when I'd felt the urge to go to bed with a man, I admit, but that didn't mean I'd been celibate, either. I'd learned, almost to my surprise, that the horrors of rape had not made me shy away from all physical contact. Instead, they had served to detach it in my mind from the emotional involvement that seems to be so much a part of the female psyche.

  I didn't know if my reaction was normal for victims of sexual assault. I'd been offered the usual counselling, but the thought of discussing what I'd been through with anyone, however well-qualified and sympathetic, had sickened me. I'd turned them down, turned in on myself for a time, and followed my own direction instead.

  I suppose what made it worse, in some ways, was that I'd believed myself to be in love at the time. Sean Meyer had seemed so perfect, so right, and I'd been crazy about him. He'd gone overseas just weeks before the night when Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay had buoyed themselves up with a malignant mix of alcohol and bravado, and my nightmare had begun.

  I'd discovered afterwards, to my utter disillusionment, that Sean was nothing like the hero I'd always imagined he would turn out to be. It had taken me a long time to forget him. I wasn't in any hurry to expose myself again by replacing him with anyone else in my affections.

  I'd developed my own code of conduct instead. One that said if it feels good, and doesn't hurt anyone, then do it, and to hell with the hearts and flowers.

  Besides, I was willing to bet that anyone with Marc's magnetism was either going to be a striking success, or a spectacular disaster in bed.

  And I was intrigued to find out which was right.

  Marc proved himself an experienced and sophisticated lover. Somewhere along the line some farsighted woman had taken the time to develop his natural ability. He must have been a Grade A student.

  Some men appear to take it for granted that the knowledge of how to make love is instinctive, something they're born with. It isn't. It's a skill that has to be worked at and acquired like any other, although some do seem to have more aptitude than others.

  I was neither surprised nor insulted when Marc pulled open one of the bedside drawers and produced the sort of protection you can't afford to be without these days.

  I wasn't under any illusions that this was a sudden out-of-character burst of passion on his part, just as it wasn't going to turn into a great romance on mine. Sex was obviously just something he enjoyed, and was good at. I couldn't really see him being unprepared for it.

  Men, I've always thought, find it difficult to hide aspects of their true character when they're in bed. Marc was no exception. He was unselfish, yet at the same time utterly ruthless, and his control was absolute.

  If the way he reduced me to bonelessness, then rolled me gasping over the final precipice was masterly, it was perhaps because he wouldn't have tolerated the failure of anything less.

  Thirteen

  The next morning Marc took me back to the flat. It wasn't something I was looking forward to and, if I'm honest, I was relieved to have him with me.

  He drove back into Lancaster as he did everything, with a kind of restlessness bordering on restrained anger. His mobile phone rang almost from the moment he switched it on and he spent most of the journey with the lump of plastic stuck to the side of his head, steering with one hand. I was glad the BMW was an automatic.

  I took advantage of my enforced silence to turn over thoughts about last night. We hadn't talked much afterwards, not of anything that mattered, at any rate. Taken purely as a physical experience, though, it had been quite something. I couldn't honestly say I regretted it.

  He'd ordered a late supper – very late, actually – from room service. The elderly waiter had taken in my discoloured face as I sat huddled in a bathrobe on the sofa in front of the fire, and favoured Marc with a scandalised look.

  When Marc offered a folded banknote as a tip on the way out, the man had glared accusingly at him and point-blank refused. I managed to hold on until the door had firmly closed behind the waiter’s back before I collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  Marc, who’d missed the man’s glances, looked bewildered at his behavior, and mine. “What the hell is the matter with everybody?” he demanded.

  “He thinks you’ve been indulging in a bit of S&M and been beating me up,” I said when I’d calmed down.

  Marc’s head reared up, shocked.

  I took one look at him and burst out laughing again.

  ***

  When we’d eaten we’d gone back to bed, together. I was used to sleeping alone, but tonight it was nice to have the warmth of a male body curled round me. My eyes closed straight away and didn’t open again until the grey streaks of morning came slinking through the arrow-slit between the drawn
curtains.

  In the cold light of day we’d edged round each other carefully, being too polite about who got first crack at the bathroom, dressing coyly behind closed doors. Two breakfasts arrived, kept warm under silver domes on a spotless trolley. I realised, as I poured from the silver pot, that I’d been to bed with the man and I wasn’t even entirely sure how he took his coffee.

  We left about half an hour later making a very odd couple. Heads turned as this flawlessly dressed businessman, and a beat-up scruffy little biker ambled out side by side. Hell, I’d managed to sponge the worst of the blood off my leathers.

  Such was Marc’s pull with the hotel, they’d even arranged for someone to clean the interior of the BM while we slept. The cream interior was immaculate again, as though last night’s events had never happened.

  Although I was nervous about returning to the scene of the crime, I was glad of the breathing space it gave me. I was going to have to get my head around what had happened. Both with my masked attackers, and with Marc. I needed some time alone.