Chayton

by Danielle Bourdon

  Not only didn't she hear those things, she hadn't heard anything. Not the slightest sound. The looming shadow appearing in the closet solidified her worst fears—they knew she was here.

  Staring up at the henchman with all his wounds and frowning eyes, Kate considered her options. Tell him what he already knew, or fight for all she was worth in hopes she got lucky and escaped. He was strong, though, pinning her against the counter with almost too much ease. Rather than an overload of obscene muscle, he was built leaner, more honed and sleek. Kate didn't think she could take him.

  “Look,” she said with a desperate swipe of her tongue across her lower lip, “I'll pay you three times what he's paying you. All you have to do is let me go. I'll give you cash, and you can just say I surprised you and got away.”

  The man's brows arched. “Who, exactly, do you think is paying me?”

  “Are you going to make me spell it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anton Bertini. That low life, murdering swine. Are you happy now?” The few swallows of alcohol she'd imbibed threatened to unravel her fury and bring tears to her eyes at the mention of murder. No, she wouldn't give any of them the satisfaction of seeing her pain. And that slightly bemused look on the man's face wouldn't sway her one bit. This bastard was trying to play her like a fiddle.

  “What if I told you that I had no idea who Anton Bertini is, and that I had nothing to do with...whatever you're involved in? What if I could prove it?”

  Surprised, Kate frowned. He looked and sounded quite sincere. Could she have the wrong person? Had she been totally mistaken? Then why had he crept through the suite and how had he known just where to find her?

  “How are you going to prove it?”

  “Have you ever heard of Luxe Resorts?”

  She scoffed and nearly announced she was a member. The exclusive Resorts, spanning the globe, were one of her favorite getaways. “Of course I've heard of them. Everyone on God's green earth has.”

  His mouth tipped into a tight smile. “Who owns and operates them?”

  “Are you ever going to get to the point?” she asked with no small amount of irritation.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “The Black family.”

  “That's right. Will you hold still for a moment if I release you?”

  “Yes.” Kate would do anything to put some space between them.

  He hesitated, searching her eyes again. Then he released her hands but didn't move his body. Reaching into a back pocket, he withdrew a leather wallet and produced a Montana driver's license with his picture clearly on the front. Along with his name.

  Chayton Black.

  “You don't expect me to believe you're related to the Black family that owns the Luxe Resorts, do you?” Being a member, Kate thought she recalled literature somewhere that had Chayton's name on it. A niggling feeling remained, even after he slid the identification away and re-pocketed the wallet. Perhaps she'd heard it in the elite circles she frequented right up until her untimely disappearance from society.

  “We can even look it up on the internet. Yes, I'm one of the heirs to the empire. Which means you should realize that I can't be whoever you think I am, and if I step away, you won't take a swing or stab me with your mascara wand.”

  “That's brilliant. Provoke me while I'm angry, and there's no telling what I might do.” Bristling from the entire confrontation, Kate stared at Chayton, tempted to push against his chest with her hands. He stood somewhere just over six-feet, and though lean, seemed immovable unless he wanted to move.

  “Like an annoyed little badger, hm? Are you going to grace me with your name in return, or are you going to force me to backtrack using Anton Bertini?” he asked.

  “You wouldn't dare.” Kate didn't want him doing any such thing.

  “Not only would I dare, I plan on it. Save us both the time and energy.”

  “My name, obviously, is Penelope.” She flicked the name tag on the uniform.

  “Penelope what?”

  Unprepared to come up with a last name, she floundered. Then said, “Penelope Smith.”

  “Mhm.” Chayton didn't sound like he believed her. At all.

  “Listen, Mister...Black. We've established who you are. Being an upstanding member of society, you must realize that you can't hold me here against my will. That's kidnapping. And if that got into the news, it wouldn't be--”

  “Before your little threats go too far, know this. I can and will hold you as long as I deem necessary. You've convinced me of nothing useful, and I'm not entirely sure you aren't a member of the trafficking ring I've been hunting. Your evasive tactics aren't exactly inspiring, if you know what I mean.”

  She gasped. A member of a trafficking ring? Did he mean human trafficking, or drug trafficking? Did it matter? Both were equally awful. “That's absurd.”

  “Not really. You wouldn't believe what people would stoop to in order to get out of a tough situation. Tell me who you really are, and what's going on, and perhaps I'll reconsider.”

  “You have no right--”

  “I have every right. You were hiding in my room, remember? You attacked me--”

  “With a hanger!”

  “...and I'm sure the police would be very interested to ask you the same questions I'm asking.”

  Kate couldn't believe the nerve of the man. Threatening her with jail. Yet he had a point; if he called security, they would discover she'd stolen the maid's uniform and that she wasn't who she said she was. She'd broken into Chayton's room and although a hanger couldn't be considered a serious weapon by any means, the police might haul her in for questioning. At least she would be out of the reach of Anton—or would she? Would he pull strings and get the police to release her to his custody? She didn't want to go to jail. Period. She also didn't want to remain under Chayton's scrutiny longer than she had to.

  “I said, my name is Penelope Smith.” It would take Chayton a while to find out the truth. Even if he did look up Anton Bertini, all he would find was a tale of mystery and heartbreak. The real heartbreak, the real terror, would never be found in print.

  Chayton's mouth thinned into a hard line. “And who is it you don't want to marry?”

  “That's none of your business.”

  “I'm making it my business. You're in my suite, remember?”

  “Someone. Just someone. I—you're bleeding.” Kate attempted to distract him with his injuries. The cut high on his forehead, half into his hairline was bleeding, a red streak trailing all the way down his cheek to his jaw. She could use his wounds to her advantage, throw him off her scent.

  “But I'm not dying. Answer the question.”

  “You should let me stitch it up. I know how.”

  He arched a brow, which made the wound weep even more. “I just bet you'd love to get near me with a needle.”

  “What do you think I'm going to do, poke your eye out with it?”

  “You've already tried that once.”

  She had the wherewithal to look sheepish. “I wasn't aiming for your eye.”

  Wearing an openly skeptical expression, he seemed to consider her offer. He took a step back. “All right. But we need a first aid kit and we don't have one. If you think I'm leaving you here to go find one, you're wrong.”

  Kate breathed a little easier. He'd been so close, so immediately in her personal space, that the foot he put between them seemed a much larger chasm than it really was. “I know where we can get it. There are stacks of them in the maid's utility closet just down the hall. Actually—they're for restocking. I bet each suite has its own kit.”

  Chayton stared at her, then said, “Don't try to dart out the door when my back's turned.”

  She couldn't make that promise. So she said nothing.

  Chayton crouched to start going through the bottom cabinets and drawers in the bathroom. He moved with sleek efficiency, as if whatever wounds he'd sustained had no bearing on his ability to function.

  She glanced pas
t to the main room of the suite and the door. He would be on her before she got halfway. Frustrated, she decided to help him search. The sooner she stitched him, the sooner, perhaps, he might let her go.

  The first-aid kit, sitting in the last drawer she searched, had everything they needed and many things they didn't. Gauze pads, antiseptic, cotton balls, sunburn spray, band-aids, a sewing kit, numbing gel and numerous other safety items. Kate closed the drawer after a quick scan of the first-aid contents.

  “Found it. I'll need better light.”

  Chayton closed the cabinet he'd been pawing through and exited into the main room, returning with an armless chair. He positioned it directly under the lights, which he switched on next.

  The bathroom lit up, allowing Kate to get her first good look at Chayton Black. His dark skin looked enhanced by hours in the sun, the sharp features of his face handsome to say the least. High cheekbones, a broad brow and narrow chin framed a straight nose and surprisingly blue eyes. The contrast between his eyes and his skin was striking. As was the long length of his black hair. Caught back at his nape with a band, it fell halfway to his waist. She vaguely recalled that his family was of Native American blood. His father's side, if she remembered correctly.

  He arched a brow. Realizing she was standing there staring like a silly girl, Kate approached the chair and set the kit on the counter. Opening the lid, she rooted around for everything she needed.

  Chayton sat, knees parted, hands resting on his thighs.

  The easiest place to stand was directly between his legs, she thought, and frowned at the swirl of nerves in her belly. Gusting a breath, exasperated with herself, she dampened a sterile pad with antiseptic and stepped into his personal space.

  “This might sting,” she warned him, just before the pad touched his skin.

  . . .

  Chayton sat motionless while Penelope—not her real name, he knew—got the supplies ready. The woman was an enigma, one he'd yet to figure out. What he did know, was that she was on the run from someone and didn't want to discuss the details. He no longer thought she had anything to do with the trafficking ring, and didn't feel guilty or bad for using that angle to keep her where he wanted her.

  After all, he spent his time saving lives, and he wondered if this one needed saving, too. The flight instinct could be all consuming depending on who was doing the chasing, and he understood she might need a little extra convincing to feel safe in his presence.

  When she stepped between his thighs, he parted them another few inches to give her plenty of room. If he was honest, he was a little tense that she might be desperate enough to use the needle as a weapon, maim him enough to escape. It kept him on edge. He was only allowing her to stitch him so he might squeeze her for a little more information.

  Because of his job with the Royal Elite, he was a man who took note of every detail. Like how narrow her hips were. Even with the extra layer of apron, she was tiny. Her breasts, on eye level thanks to his height and her own, were small yet full. There was something in one of the pockets of the uniform, foretold by a faint clink he heard every time she moved. She had a slender throat and clear skin and perfectly plucked eyebrows. A single, dark brown mole sat far back on her jaw.

  “Don't worry. I can take it,” he said after her warning. The sting was far less painful than the metal knuckles that had put the wound there to begin with. He endured in silence—his preferred state of being. Chayton couldn't recall the last time he'd talked this much at one time.

  “I don't know how well this numbing gel will work,” she said next, swabbing some of it around the cut.

  “It'll be fine. I've been stitched before with no painkiller and nothing to numb me.” He watched her retreat to the kit and come back with a threaded needle. His thighs tensed as well as his shoulders. She stood closer this time, close enough for him to feel the heat from her body. Close enough to detect the vague scent of alcohol.

  “Okay, here we go.”

  The first bite of the needle brought a flicker to the corner of his eye. He felt her breath brush across his hairline, sensed her intense concentration. The suture thread pulled through his skin, tugging at it. Then the needle bit again. As she stitched, Chayton grew less worried that she would stab him in the eye or the throat.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Not too many more.”

  “Where did you learn how to stitch?”

  “It's not a perfect job by far. You'll probably have a decent scar, unlike if you'd gone to the hospital.” She paused for another stitch, then said, “I learned it in basic survival training. My friends and I used to take three or four day hikes into the mountains and it's a good idea to know how to get by if an emergency arises.”

  “Used to?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don't go anymore?”

  “Not in the last year or two.”

  “Why not?”

  “I need to concentrate,” she whispered. The needle pierced his skin.

  Chayton grunted. Just when he thought she might stumble into truths rather than lies, she used his wound to clam up.

  A stitch later, she said, “Okay. That was the last one. How does it feel?”

  “Like I have five or six stitches in my forehead.”

  She dabbed the edges of the wound and cleaned the rest of his face with a gauze pad. Her eyes met his when the gauze slipped off his jaw.

  Chayton held her gaze until she cleared her throat and stepped out from between his thighs. He watched her clean up the small mess of bloodied gauze pads and swab disinfectant over the needle. Like they might need to use it again.

  Standing up, he moved the chair back to the main room, placing it near a window. Turning back to find Penelope standing in the archway to the bathroom, Chayton waited for the inevitable.

  “Are you going to let me go now?”

  She wasn't a part of the trafficking ring, he would have bet his life on it. Yet he didn't want to turn her loose without knowing more, without offering some kind of protection. How crappy would he feel if he woke up tomorrow and her face was all over the news, found dead in a dumpster behind the hotel? He could use the trafficking ring as an excuse, like the first time, or the fact that she'd broken into his room to detain her. Neither choice made him feel any better inside.

  “Yes. But,” he said, stalling her before she could bolt for the door, “I want you to know that you can rest here tonight. Sleep in the bed. I'll sleep in one of the chairs. You can recover tonight and figure out what you want to do in the morning.”

  His offer gave her obvious pause. Chayton didn't mistake the calculation in her eyes, the sudden wringing of her hands. She glanced at the bed, then to him, and then to the door.

  “No one knows you're here. Right? Whoever is on your tail won't expect you to be in a guest's suite, which should throw them off your scent. By morning, you should have a decent shot to get where you need to go.” Chayton didn't feel one ounce of regret trying to sway her decision. Any other member of the Royal Elite would likely be a little more insistent that the woman allow them to give her shelter. With the situation at an impasse, the least he could do was provide a safe sanctuary.

  “A few hours,” she finally said. “I'll stay a few hours.”

  “All right. Are you hungry? I can order up something to eat.”

  “I'm...yes. Actually, I'm starving.”

  He crossed to the phone on the nightstand and picked up the receiver. Despite the prickly tension, he asked, “Now then. What do you want?”

  . . .

  Kate stared at her nearly empty plate, one hand on her stomach. The halibut, steamed carrots and house salad had tasted as good as it had every other time she'd ordered it from her own suite. For most of the meal, Chayton had picked at his food, watching her rather than attack his steak and seafood platter. She'd been too hungry to care, eating with an appetite that rivaled any man.

  Now she suffered from exhaustion en
hanced by having an overly full belly. Undisturbed sleep sounded so good. Too good to pass up.

  Rising from the seat, she took full advantage of Chayton's offer and stretched out on the bed. She wasn't about to take off the uniform, though she did toe off the shoes and let them fall to the floor.

  “Will you wake me in three hours?” she asked.

  “Yes.” The sound of his fork clinking his plate came several times before silence reigned.

  “Thank you.” Kate laid an arm over her forehead and another across her waist. She felt mildly conspicuous taking her ease while he finished his dinner. Not knowing when she might get another reprieve like this, Kate allowed herself to sink further toward sleep. She discovered she wasn't nervous about being unconscious in Chayton's presence, and she didn't know if it had to do with viewing his license or because they'd come to some sort of strange truce. Either way, she let the creeping blackness rise up to meet her and carry her away into dreams.

  When she woke, Kate jerked upright in bed. Confused and disoriented, she clambered off the mattress, wincing when she banged her knee into the nightstand. The shadowy figure slouched in a chair by the window caused her heart to stutter in her chest—until it all came rushing back.

  The maid uniform, hiding in Chayton's closet, their brief battle and stitching his wounds.

  Oh yes.

  Rubbing her eyes, she jammed her feet into her shoes and sought the digital clock next to the lamp. 3:47 a.m. So much for a three hour nap. Chayton had failed to wake her, apparently because he'd succumbed to sleep as well. She thought she only had a narrow window of time to make good her escape from the hotel, and that time had nearly come and gone. Anton's henchmen wouldn't be stalking the halls in the middle of the night, and probably wouldn't be waiting in the parking lots or curbside, either. They would be back at dawn, lurking in the foyer and downstairs restaurants and perhaps even in her suite again. She needed to leave right now.