His breath hot on her face, his thick hands groping under her dress, bruising the flesh as he sought the tender folds, caused her to react in pure instinct as she raked her fingers down his face hard enough to draw blood. He grunted in shocked pain, drawing away a fraction, giving her more room to breathe and wiggle away from him but while the Town Car was roomier than the standard sedan, Carlton’s bulk made it difficult to maneuver far. She reached for the door but before her hand could touch the handle, he hauled her back with his fist tangled in her long hair.
“You bitch,” he growled in her ear, his grip tight at her scalp. She twisted against his hold, blinking back tears of pain, refusing to give him what the sadistic bastard wanted. His lips stretched in an ugly knowing smile as he held her captive, helpless and scared. “You’ve been a bad girl. I like that. But you’ve made a mark on my face. Only I’m allowed to leave marks.” He drove his fist into her belly, the shock and agony of it causing her to suck air. Heaven help her, he was going to beat her, maybe even kill her. He didn’t care about the consequences.
“B-belleni will have your balls,” she managed to choke out but Carlton just laughed.
“You’re a whore. Easily bought and easily replaced,” he responded with a shrug, shredding her designer sheath to expose her breasts.
“S-stop,” she shrieked, true fear blotting out rational thought as she frantically tried to cover herself. She’d never been in such a situation before. Belleni only allowed select clientele to book his girls. Never before had she been paired with such a monster. She knew how to deal with overeager clients, not ones with a sadistic streak. Her phone and pepper spray were in her clutch, which had fallen to the floor when he’d thrown her. She twisted and reached desperately for her clutch but a lightning-fast crack across her jaw caused stars to fly around her head and black dots to pulse before her eyes.
“You’re a feisty one,” she heard him murmur, the appreciative tone sickening her. “Let’s see if you’re worth what I paid.”
Blood filled her mouth from her busted lip but she opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth. Someone, oh, God, please help her.
CHRISTIAN HAD JUST STEPPED into the alley behind Martini to take his break when he stopped short at the muffled scream coming from the sleek Town Car that lurked in the shadows. The violent rock of the Town Car betrayed a tussle and by the sounds of it, a woman was involved. His brain directed him to return to the bar. It was best to remain uninvolved. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up in someone else’s business. But even as he turned, his hand reaching for the handle, his conscience balked. What if the woman was really getting brutalized? Could he live with himself if something bad happened to her? No. However, the logical side of his brain countered, what if it’s just some kinky couple who liked it rough and she’s in no real danger after all? Busting in on someone’s private time would only cause embarrassment all around.
The logical argument pulled considerable weight but as another scream sounded from the interior only to be cut suspiciously short, he said, “Screw it,” to the logical side of his brain and bounded for the car. But even as he told himself he’d deal with the ramifications of his actions later, he was shocked when he jerked open the door and saw the woman from the bar, bleeding and struggling feebly against the hulking mass on top of her, choking the life out of her.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT THE F—” THE FAT MAN startled as Christian reached inside the car and dragged him out and off the woman who looked in bad shape. He landed a solid punch to the man’s flabby, jowled face, knocking him to the ground, howling. The driver erupted from the car and trained a gun on him, the subtle shake in his grip betraying the fact that he’d probably never fired the thing, but it didn’t make Christian feel any less freaked that he was staring down the business end of a 9mm.
“Don’t do it, man,” he warned. “You’ve got a half-dead woman in your car right now and you don’t want to add more misery to your plate. I doubt your piece of shit employer is paying you well enough to cover up murder. Think about it. It ain’t worth it. I’m going to get the girl and we’re all going to walk away nice and easy.”
The driver gave a short nod as the fat man lumbered to his feet, wiping at the blood flowing from his nose. “Take the bitch. I’m through with her,” he said, his voice nasal and wet sounding. His lip curled in disgust. “Tell Belleni I want my money back. His whore wasn’t worth the asking price,” he said, mistaking Christian for someone affiliated with the woman and her business. That alone made him want to further rearrange the asshole’s face but he settled for a hard-edged glare at the man as he edged past him to gingerly pull the woman from the vehicle, cradling her against his chest.
With a curt nod to his driver, the fat man disappeared into the Town Car and slammed the door behind him as the car melted into the night.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms. She was badly beaten. Blood dribbled from her nose and swollen lip, smearing the honey-hued locks he’d noticed at the bar. She was a far cry from the sophisticated trophy that’d been perched on the stool earlier. He couldn’t take her into the bar like this. She opened one eye and he could see the glaze of pain. “I need to take you to the hospital,” he told her. He wasn’t surprised by the weak shake of her head as she moaned.
“No hospital, p-please,” she said, laboring for each word. “I’ll be…punished.” The last part came out with a low sob as she huddled against him and his resolve broke.
Ah, hell. It was his mother all over again. She could be suffering internal injuries and there’d be no way for him to know until it was too late but he knew why she’d rather die than step foot in a hospital because the care came with a price. Hospital staff were required to report if they suspected a patient had been the victim of a violent crime. And if he dragged a broken woman into the E.R., they’d certainly start asking questions. He’d learned that the first time a john had nearly killed his mother. He’d been six and scared. The hospital staff had saved his mother but they’d had to sneak out when the questions had started.
He rolled his eyes to the midnight sky and cursed his own damn luck for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and landing himself a problem he didn’t want. Lucky for her, he lived in a loft above the bar. He supposed he could take her there for the time being until he figured out what else to do. He fished his phone from his pocket and dialed his friend Gage Stratham, who was also on the floor that night, telling him that he had an emergency and he needed coverage at the bar. Gage told him he’d take care of it and Christian carried the woman up to his loft.
He managed to open his front door and then close it with a nudge of his foot. The loft was a convenient pad and he’d turned the run-down space into something he didn’t mind people seeing but he doubted the woman in his arms cared much about the blond hardwood floors he’d installed himself or the four-poster California King bed with its goose down comforter that he was laying her gently on. After spending eleven years of his childhood in sleazy motels, sleeping on threadbare, worn and often dirty linens, Christian had a taste—no requirement—for fine bedding. He winced at the thought of blood staining the white duvet but he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t like she could manage to wash up on her own right now. He averted his eyes as the ruined dress hung on her slender frame, ripped down the center so that she had little covering her lithe body. Even as he looked away, he’d caught an unfortunate glimpse of creamy, well-toned thighs and near perfect rose-tipped breasts.
He swallowed and then cursed softly. He needed to assess her injuries. He went to his bathroom and pulled out hydrogen peroxide, a clean washcloth, cotton balls and antiseptic cream. He sighed, hating that he even had the knowledge required. After that first episode with his mother, he’d taken over bandaging and administering first aid when johns got a little rough.
He dropped the supplies on his bed beside her and after rummaging through his dresser drawers, he found an old T-shirt he didn’t mind parting with
and some old sweats she could wear. Her eyes slid open and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she understood his intention.
“Thank you,” she said in a low voice choked with pain.
“Save the thank-yous for later. This is likely going to hurt like a son of a bitch,” he muttered in warning. He wasn’t her prince charming coming to rescue her from her life but human decency demanded that he do what he could to help. “Can you sit up?” he asked. She struggled, blanching with the pain as she tried. He gently stopped her. “You might have a broken rib. You really should see a doctor,” he admonished but he knew it fell on deaf ears. “I’ll do what I can but you’re pretty messed up.” She gave a subtle nod to indicate she understood but otherwise remained silent. He swabbed the crusting blood from her jaw-line and wiped the matted strands of her hair. “Did you know him?” he asked, telling himself he wasn’t interested in the answer, he was just filling the space between them with words, perhaps to distract her from the pain. His mother had never known a single man who’d paid for her services. The only man she’d bedded and known was his father and it wasn’t as though he’d been a catch. He’d died in prison, serving time for aggravated assault. His biological family tree wasn’t anything to write home about. “You ought to file charges,” he suggested, dabbing her lip with antibiotic cream. She winced and he gentled his touch, a familiar well of frustration lacing his tone as he added, “If you don’t, at least tell the authorities. He might do this to someone else. Maybe a friend of yours or something.”
“I don’t have any friends,” she responded, in a voice so scratchy he barely made out the words.
Then he saw the finger bruises along her throat. That man had nearly killed her, not figuratively, but literally. Another occupational hazard, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t understand her choice to lower herself in such a way. “You’re a beautiful woman. There are other choices out there. Hell, find yourself some sugar daddy and become his arm candy but at least get the ring on your finger so you have some kind of security if he ditches you for another.” He threw the soiled cotton swabs in the bedside trash and steeled himself for what came next. “Listen, I promise to do this quick,” he said, lifting the shirt in his hand. “But we gotta get you into some real clothes. Okay?” She nodded and he tried to gently pull off the remains of her dress without hurting her. “Here,” he said gruffly, sliding the T over her head as carefully as possible. He made quick work of tugging his faded sweats up her legs. They hung on her slight frame but at least they covered her. He released a short breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and rose, saying, “I’ll get you some Tylenol. I’m not big on meds so it’s the best I can do.”
He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment or, frankly, for anything, he simply bolted for the bathroom. He needed a minute to collect himself. His mother had been a street prostitute. She hadn’t slept on five hundred thread count sheets or enjoyed caviar and champagne. Not like the woman on his bed. She had the look of someone who knew all about fine living. Everything about her seemed delicate and fragile, refined and expensive. Yet, just like his mother, she sold herself for cold, hard cash.
In that they were the same. And for that reason, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow any kind of deep connection to take root.
When he finally left the bathroom, a few Tylenol tablets in his hand and a glass of water, he’d managed to put his emotions back in order.
He helped her with the painkillers and covered her with a blanket. “Is there someone I should call?” he asked, not quite able to bring himself to say the word pimp. Her bruised throat worked as she swallowed and he knew it must hurt like hell. That fat bastard had really done a number on her. She shook her head and he sighed. “Well—” he gestured to the bed “—you’re welcome to stay the night. I’ll take the couch.”
“Thank you,” she said again, and he was no more ready to accept her gratitude now than he was the first go-round but Mama Jo, his foster mother, had drilled manners into his head since the day he’d shown up on her doorstep, courtesy of the Bridgeport, West Virginia foster system so many years ago.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, taking his pillow and blanket to the couch. “Don’t mention it. Get some rest.”
Something told him sleep would find her sooner than it would him.
SKYE AWOKE TO A PARADE of pain. Her rib was most certainly broken on her left side. Early morning shafts of sunlight streamed into the loft, bathing everything in a soft creamy light that would’ve been beautiful if she hadn’t been sucking back tears at the agony in her body. Just breathing took effort.
As she slowly took stock of her situation, she remembered the details from the night. That corpulent pig—Carlton Essex III—had done this to her. She’d been unable to get to her phone or her pepper spray. And Carlton had been unconcerned by the threat of displeasing Belleni. In that the man was an idiot. Belleni was vicious when crossed.
Her gaze slid over to the sofa where soft snoring sounded. She rolled to her uninjured side, nearly crying out at the bite of pain, and slowly stood. She spied her clutch and the remains of her Anna Sui sheath. She grabbed the clutch but left the dress and made her way to the door. The man—she didn’t even known his name—didn’t stir even as she padded slowly to the door. She regretted leaving like this after he’d taken her in but Belleni was probably turning the city upside down looking for her and she’d rather not repay the man’s kindness by dragging him further into the mess that was her life. There was also her mangled pride in her reasoning, as well. How could she adequately express her gratitude to someone for saving her from someone she’d been paid to service? Shame twisted her guts in a knot and she slipped from the loft with only the hope that karma would find the man still sleeping and repay him appropriately for his kindness.
God knew she couldn’t.
CHAPTER THREE
CHRISTIAN WOKE WITH A SNAP of his eyes, knowing without having to look that she was gone. Still, he rose and swore under his breath when he confirmed the suspicion. This was good, he told himself when irritation followed at the knowledge she’d snuck out while he slept. Now he didn’t have to deal with the inevitable awkwardness of the morning after, not the typical morning after mind you, but it would have been weird considering what had happened.
He walked to his bed and saw that she’d taken her little purse but left her dress behind. He lifted the ruined mess from the floor and her scent wafted from the material. The dress was cool against his fingers as he replayed the scenario from last night in his head. Questions nagged at him but he resigned himself to letting them go. She was gone. It was probably better this way. Christian tossed the dress into the trash, noting with wry humor, that scrap of silk had material that probably cost more than some people saw in a month’s wages. And now it was in his trash. Somehow that seemed sadly metaphoric. His brothers had always accused him of having the heart of a poet. Seems they weren’t wrong. Damn.
He sighed and headed for the shower and hoped for a day that was devoid of mystery women, their questionable choices in life and rich, well-dressed pricks.
SKYE SANK LOWER IN THE HOT water, the details from the night too fresh in her mind, and closed her eyes. Steam rose and drifted from her body as she allowed the heat to soak into her bones.
A tear slipped down her cheek and she winced as the pain reminded her of what had gone down only hours before.
Some men were rutting bastards who found excitement in the pain of others. She swallowed and wiped away the tear. He’d done more than leave just bruises. She touched the swollen flesh of her upper lip and winced. The doctor Belleni kept on the payroll confirmed the broken rib and gave her some painkillers with the advice to rest.
“He will not touch you again,” a voice at the door vowed, making her tense beneath the water. She opened her eyes to see Belleni standing in the doorway, gazing at her body as if he had the right. “The man was a pig but no worries, darling, he has enjoyed his last Belleni girl, I assure you.”
> She slid the washcloth over her breasts as a slow, quiet rage percolated in her chest at the liberties he took just because he believed she belonged to him. “I want to be alone, Belleni,” she said, hating the way his gaze roamed her nakedness, resting on areas that belonged to no man, least of all him. But even as she burned to tell him to get the hell out of her life, she was held captive by a past she couldn’t change.
Instead of complying with the curt response, he settled himself at the edge of the bathtub with an indulgent smile. He was a good-looking older man with an air of experience that was misleading in its seeming benevolence. Even as she loathed him, sometimes it was hard to separate her tangled feelings, for Nico was his spitting image and she adored her son with single-minded focus. She chose to keep her attention away from his roving stare for fear of her tongue getting the best of her. Still, she fairly vibrated with the tempest raging inside her over her inability to extricate herself and Nico from Belleni’s sphere of influence and she didn’t trust what might fly from her mouth.
“You are angry,” he surmised, his Italian accent smooth as fine liquor, his touch deceptively gentle on her cheek. She pulled away and he sighed. “Of course, you are. And you have every right to be. I should’ve listened to my instincts, no matter the hefty weight of his bank account. Can you forgive me, my love?” he asked, his gaze softening with an emotion Skye knew didn’t exist in his world. She choked down the bitterness stuck in her throat and nodded but the effort nearly killed her. Belleni smiled. “Good. But I must make amends to my best girl. While you heal I shall see to it that you want for nothing. You will have the best of care. Name it and you shall have it. But first, tell me how you managed to get away from this brute? Vincent said you didn’t call him for help.”
She wouldn’t give up her kind stranger. She wished she’d gotten his name but she recognized that it was better this way. She would likely never see him again as she planned to avoid Martini from here on out after the whole experience. Still, she found herself thinking of him and his kindness to her when she shouldn’t be thinking of him at all. “I sprayed him with pepper spray,” she lied. “Then I called a cab and came here.”
A Chance in the Night Page 2
