by Zara Cox
Cut the fanciful crap, Keely. You’ve always been in control of your destiny.
Not always...
I freeze as my mind veers to the email waiting on my laptop. The first email had only held eight numbers. Eight simple numbers that form a date.
02. 21. 2009.
It was one part of three dates that are forever seared in my memory. I’d convinced myself that the email was spam and deleted it.
The second email had convinced me it wasn’t.
02. 22. 2009.
But this time it hadn’t been just that date. The second email had come with a picture. To the casual reader the date and picture of a dungeon-like room would mean nothing. Together, I’m in no doubt it’s someone from my past.
That mansion, and its labyrinth of underground rooms, have featured large and menacing in my nightmares for the past six years. Why the sender wants to torture me about it is something I haven’t yet worked out. But I know the threat is real. Just as I know I’ll receive another email with the third and final date soon.
My heart thumps wildly, and I force myself to breathe through the terror threatening to seize me. As much as my mind screams at me to confront the danger, I know I can’t do anything until I have a clear demand. Only then can I form a plan of action. One that doesn’t involve the police. Because to involve them would mean divulging the whole sickening truth of what I’d done. And there is no way I’m about to do that.
All I can do is wait.
Continue to pretend I’m the girl everyone thinks I am. The one whose life is an endless carnival of high-flying job, partying and the occasional sexcapade. I’ve screwed this mask in place for six long years, not even showing a hint of what’s underneath to my best friend, Bethany.
I don’t doubt for a moment that she would try her best to save me if she knew of the many nights I’ve feared going to sleep alone, or the nightmares I deal with in my darkest moment.
But there’s a reason I haven’t told her.
I don’t think I’m worth saving.
What happened that weekend was horrific enough. What I did next was unforgivable.
Nothing and no one will be able to wash me clean.
###
I arrive at Jimmy’z at ten and flash a smile at the bouncer. It’s a smile I’ve practiced for years—the one that says I’m sexy, I can rock your world, so you’d be a fool not to give me what I want.
His answering smile is immediate, his manner deferring, and I don’t need to flash the VIP card languishing in my clutch.
I’m not sure exactly when I decided to use my sexuality as a tool. It’s a characteristic that crept on me without my knowledge or consent, but one I decided to embrace once I realized the path I’d taken. And so far, it’s been the most effective tool in combating my demons. It grants me the control I need to survive.
Strobe lights assault my senses the moment I step into Jimmy’z. I squint and look around. The dance floor is a heaving mass of writhing bodies and the scent of sweaty pheromones and alcohol fills the air.
I make my way to the bar, very much aware of lingering male interest, but not making eye contact long enough to attract singular attention. I’m more than a little bewildered as to why my libido seems to have chosen one person for its attention so I’m beyond irritated by the time I slap my hand on the counter to attract the bartender’s notice.
He looks my way with a quirked eyebrow.
“Stoli Gold. Neat.”
I usually start with a cocktail and work my way to the hard stuff, but tonight I’m edge, both from the email, whose presence is growing larger by the second, and also because I can’t stop thinking about Mason Sinclair.
Maybe I should just fuck him and be done with it. Maybe that will decrease this stupid mystique I’m sure I’ve built up around him in my head. Sure, the fact that he has a huge brain and happens to be good with his hands is a huge turn on. I’ve always had a fascination for those two characteristics. Combined in one guy, along with that rough and rugged good looks, I was bound to go a little nuts.
I also happen to know firsthand what those hands can do to my body. Which is another huge tick in his favor.
But then there are the danger signs. The ones that scream at me to keep my distance. The ones that warn me not to scratch the surface because I’ll be annihilated by what I find beneath.
Danger signs I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding toward...
The bartender slides the shot across. I down it one go, and he raises the bottle and says something in French I don’t understand. I nod anyway and indicate the glass. He refills and I drink, letting the sharp taste and burn slide down my throat.
When he raises the bottle again, I shake my head. I plan on getting drunk tonight but not until I’ve done a little recon for my project and taken a few necessary notes.
I start to turn just as someone nudges me.
I glance over my shoulder and see Henri, his charming grin trying a little too hard. “Mademoiselle Benson, I am glad you made it. I have been watching out for you.” He uses hand signals as he speaks, as if I don’t understand the accented English spilling from his mouth. “You look amazing!” His gaze conducts an appreciative head to toe assessment before he looks back up with eager puppy dog eyes.
I summon a smile I’m far from feeling. “Thank you, and call me Keely.”
He leans forward, and I’m engulfed in Hugo Boss aftershave as he says into my ear, “Can I buy you a drink?”
I shake my head. One of my many rules was to never let a guy I don’t know buy me drinks. “I’m good for now, thanks.” I mentally roll my eyes when he doesn’t move back. “I was about to go check out the VIP cubes downstairs.”
He nods eagerly. “I will come with you.”
I shrug. “Sure, why not?” Bringing him with me will keep other guys from hitting on me. Plus, he’s still as easy on the eyes as he’d been earlier this afternoon, despite the too busy leather jacket he’s wearing. He’s also a perfect candidate for taking my mind off my problems should I decide to go ahead with using him.
He takes my hand and guides me through the throng of people. We ascend black fiberglass stairs to a set of double doors roped off with red hooks and manned by two burly bouncers. They’re built like professional wrestlers, one fair-haired, the other ebony dark.
Henri rattles off a torrent of French, but the black bouncer stares at him with bored, dead eyes. Henri glances at me, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his collar. He rattles off an ever faster torrent. He bouncer looks at me, then back at him and utters a single word, “Non.”
I take pity on Henri and fish the VIP card from my clutch. I wave it in front of fair-haired one and his demeanor alters. “Welcome, Miss Benson, we’ve been expecting you.”
They part the doors, and I start walking, only to stop when I hear a scuffle behind me.
The fair-haired bouncer is restraining Henri. Sighing, I retrace my steps. “It’s okay, he’s with me.”
“Sorry, Miss Benson. The man said you were to come in alone.”
My nape tingles as I ask, “What man?”
“He’s in Room 10. He said I was to bring you to him when you came up. And that you were not to be accompanied by anyone else.”
“Did he?” I murmur to myself. “We’ll see about that.” I tell myself it’s annoyance fizzing through me, but my escalating excitement makes a mockery of my feelings. To Henri, I say, “Sorry about this. Maybe I’ll find you when I come back down?” I won’t, but I don’t see a need to be a bitch about it.
He looks crestfallen but nods eagerly as I turn away. The second bouncer points down a left corridor and accompanies me as I start walking.
“I can find it on my own.”
He gives me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, ma’am, I have my orders.”
I bristle as I march past black mirrored doors, counting off the gold numbering until I reach number 10. I’m seething. And Mason Sinclair is about to be the recipient of my temper.
/> Chapter 10
Keely
I slap my hand against the swing door and it gives way to reveal Mason Sinclair. His thickly muscled arms are flung wide on the seat, his gaze on the dance floor below. Since his back is to the door, I can only see the back of his head and shoulders, but immediately my nipples tighten and my pussy clenches with a hunger so fierce, I deeply resent him for the effortless power he seems to have over me.
He doesn’t turn around as I approach, although the room is quiet enough, despite the music thumping from below, that he would’ve heard me enter.
“Next time you feel the need to summon me, take a beat and remember serfs and overlords are a thing of the past.” I infuse my voice with bite, even though I’m far too enthralled with the black shirt draping his torso and the lights glinting through his vibrant black hair.
Shit, everything about this man is arresting to the point where I can’t tell where my interest in one feature ends and the other begins.
“Is it a summons if you were headed here anyway?” he replies in that smoky voice.
“You know very well what I mean.”
“Do I?” He finally turns his head and peruses me from head to toe. The look in his eyes tells me he appreciates what he sees. Most men would tell me I look beautiful after such a scrutiny. I wait for the compliment. It never arrives. “Sit down, Keely.”
“No, thanks. Oh, and I also don’t appreciate you instructing the bouncers to get heavy with Henri.”
I get close enough to see him drums his fingers on his ankle. The action draws my attention to the thigh straining against the material of his trousers. “You’re pissed off because I sent your admirer away?”
“I’m pissed off because you exist, full stop.”
His jaw flexes, and I wonder if I’ve over egged the pudding. Then I immediately hate myself for caring one way or the other.
God, he drives me insane!
“Were you planning on sleeping with him?” Tension thrums through his voice, and my hackles rise higher.
“None of your business.”
He turns his head and spears me with sharp hazel eyes, which are so very effective in pinning me to the spot. “What if I decide to make it my business?”
I affect a careless shrug, despite the electricity zapping through my bloodstream. “You’re welcome to do whatever the fu—the hell you want.”
A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only indication that he’s caught my hasty correction. The fact that I did pisses me off even more. I turn to walk out, but his voice stops me.
“Come and sit down, Keely. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
He returns his gaze to the dance floor, his gaze sweeping restlessly over the crowd. I sense he doesn’t want to be here. “At least stay for one drink?”
I look around the room for the first time and although there’s a well stocked bar, there’s no bartender or wait staff in sight as the write-up had promised. Before I can ask, Mason presses a silver button near his armrest. A dull red light I hadn’t seen in the upper right cover of the room turns green. A few seconds later, a side door opens and a hostess wheels in a black and chrome trolley teaming with domed platters.
“I thought we’d have some food while we talked?”
“I already ate.” Hours ago, but some instinctive need to keep battling with this man spurs me on.
He says nothing, just nods to the hostess, who begins setting out the food on the low table in front of him. When she’s done, she slips behind the bar and pours him a glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime, which she delivers with a far too intimate smile.
Perhaps it’s that smile that makes up my mind. Perhaps I was doomed the first day I set eyes on Mason Sinclair. All I know is that my feet are rounding the seat and I’m moving toward him. I drop my clutch at the end of the wide semi-circular sofa and perch two seats away.
He doesn’t acknowledge me as he begins unveiling the dishes. Delicious scents waft my way and my stomach reminds me I only had a small salade nicoise hours ago. “What can I get you?” he asks.
“An explanation as to why I’m here would be nice,” I reply. “And while you’re at it, care to tell me how you knew I’d be here in the first place?” It reeks of the sort of mildly stalkerish shit that Zach Savage had pulled with Bethany when they were dating. It had put my back up then, and I’m not entirely okay with it now either. I watch him and wonder if all billionaires are prone to such behavior. “Did you follow me here?”
He picks up a delicate looking hors d’oeuvre with his fingers, tosses it into his mouth and chews before he replies.
“No I didn’t,” is all he says. “I’ve decided to play your game. Or an abbreviated version of it, anyway.”
I open my mouth to press him more on how he knew where I’d be, but I find myself asking instead, “And what game is that?”
“The one where we dance around the fact that we want to fuck each other, because one of us doesn’t know how to take what’s in front of them without the song and dance.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. “What the—”
His raised hand stops my response and I’m stunned I actually obey. “You want me, Keely. I sure as hell want you. Call me a bastard for seeing what I want and going after it, but I intend to fuck you very, very soon. I’d prefer to do it without having to treat you like a bimbo princess who needs guiding into what can be a pleasurable experience for both of us. Frankly, it’s tedious and unattractive, considering you’re intelligent enough to cut the bullshit and admit this is what you want too.”
My mouth drops open and I splutter, “Does this brand of crap actually work to get you laid?”
He selects an array of finger foods and places them on a plate. “You assume I’ve ever had to work this hard.”
There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I can’t see it for the red haze of anger clouding my brain and my judgment. “For someone who’s obviously skilled enough to be the man you are today, you have a shockingly dense outlook on what makes a woman happy.”
He continues to inspect the food on the dishes. “You’re under the misapprehension that I’m in this to make you happy. I’m not. I want to fuck you and keep fucking you until I’m satisfied. Then I have every intention of letting you go.”
I look around, seeking some sort of divine revelation as to why I’m still sitting here listening to this arrogant bastard. “Are you for real?”
“I am. I promise. Eat.” He holds out the plate in front of me. I look from the offering in his hand and back to his face.
Everything about this wrong. So wrong. And yet my heart hasn’t stopped racing since I entered the room. And each time he mentions fucking me, my body goes crazy hot and my insides churn with blinding excitement.
He moves closer when I don’t take the plate. Long, elegant fingers pluck a sesame seed covered morsel that he dips into a dark condiment before he holds it to my lips. “Try this. You’ll enjoy it.”
“Because you’re an expert on the things I enjoy?” I snap.
He says nothing, just continues to hold the food a whisper away from my lips until they part of their own accord. My tongue slides out to help the morsel in, and his gaze drops to my mouth. He watches me as I chew, and I try not to moan at the sharp and spicy explosion of flavors on my tongue from the Thai food. I finally glance down at the dishes on the table and realize each one is comprised of delicacies from my favorite food regions—Asia and Europe.
Surprise widens my eyes, and I glance back to him to see something shift in his eyes, a hunger so wild it’s almost inhuman. He feeds me another mouthful, and his fingers brush lightly and deliberately over my lips before he withdraws.
My breath catches, and his mouth twitches in a ghost of a smile. He tosses two morsels into his mouth and chews with the ruthless efficiency of a predator. My loins catch fire watching him chew and I try to tear my gaze away, but I can’t look away from him.
“Drink?” he rasps.
The hostess suddenly appears beside me with a tray holding a cocktail I immediately recognize—a Studded Reverse Cowboy—my favorite cocktail. Aside from that seriously stalkerish vibe, which slams into me again, I’m also thrown by the fact that I hadn’t realized the hostess had been present the whole time. Had she overheard the exchange between Mason and I?
I look up to read her expression and find her attention once more riveted to Mason’s face.
Irritation churns in my belly. I pluck the glass from the tray with a curt thanks and down half of its contents. I tell myself I don’t care that she’s eye-fucking Mason. The admission echoes hollowly inside me.
Truth is I care a little too fucking much.
I shake my head when he leans forward to offer me another mouthful. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”
I mean it not just with regard to the food. Whatever this is, it’s got me so unbalanced I fear if I don’t claw back some control, he’ll steam roller me with the sheer force of his personality.
His eyes narrow at my tone, and he watches me set down the glass.
“Was this your idea of bringing me round to your way of thinking? A few mouthfuls of my favorite food and a drink or two before I decide to happily spread my legs for you?”
His face hardens. “Isn’t that what you said you wanted? Some non-sexual attention before you’re comfortable with this?”
“If I want that, I’ll happily pay for a gigolo, or one of those escort services you use.”
He looks genuinely puzzled. “Explain.”
“You’re right. I’m attracted to you.” His frown smooths out and his eyes gleam, but I shake my head. “Before you crow about it, let me finish. I’m not just attracted to you physically. I’m attracted to your brain. If I’m to entertain the idea of dropping my panties for you, I want to be stimulated mentally, not just physically.”
He regards me for endless seconds before his sneers. “You mean you want something meaningful to slot under the banner of relationship? Sorry, princess, that’s not going to work for me.”
