His Captive
By
Kiley Beckett
Copyright © 2020 by Stormy Night Publications and Kiley Beckett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Beckett, Kiley
His Captive
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Shutterstock/Lightfield Studios and Shutterstock/LedyX
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Kiley Beckett Links
Chapter One
The island of Dominica was nothing like Seattle, even in the dead of a Caribbean winter. If she wasn’t on the run and afraid for her life, she would be enjoying this.
Right now she had a piña colada on the patio table, cold enough the tropical humidity condensed to droplets on the outside of the pear-shaped glass. An ocean breeze rustled the queen palms above her head, while yesterday it was a frigid Washington wind laced with ice pellets. So, despite the threat of death, maybe things were looking up for Pearl Armbruster, the young girl with the old woman’s name.
It was eponymous. Pearl Armbruster was the name of her maternal great-grandma—a depression-era Kentucky farm woman who, along with great-grandpappy and a shed full of firearms, ran a moonshine bush-still and supplied her local county with the spirits it needed. A feisty woman by legend, and, though times weren’t as tough, Pearl’s mother had the streak, too, and always praised it when it shone in her daughter.
And look where it got me...
Not here. Here was nice. She was sitting in the sunshine with a twelve-dollar cocktail that better be mostly rum. Not here physically, here situationally.
On the run from a dangerous man. On the run from one of the world’s richest men. And most handsome. All because of her plucky nature.
A photograph was all she’d wanted. Innocent enough. Well, not that innocent; she did have to hide in the bushes for three days, sleeping in her clothes while she stalked her target. But one crafty picture could pay her college tuition for a year, and she was a feisty Armbruster after all.
“Ho, ho, boy,” she moaned to herself and ran her hands over her hair, gathering it behind her neck and letting it bunch in the hood of her sweatshirt. Eighty-five degrees and she wore a hoody, but the need to put it up in an emergency made it worthwhile. The man pursuing her had resources, resources that would buy eyes and ears, and shady thugs who might bop her over the head with a sock full of nickels and then put her in cement shoes—one short cigarette boat ride out into the Caribbean and she would be permanent fish food, her stupid body wavering at the bottom of the ocean like one of those inflatable men you see out front of used car lots fluttering their arms overhead.
The big mistake was confronting this wealthy man.
Julian Mann.
Why did she do that?
For money, honey.
Not to talk to him?—no, not one bit at all...
Not to look directly in those live-wire eyes and to hear the vibration of his deep voice near your ear? No... Who knew he wouldn’t take it so well?
Uh, because it was blackmail, Pearl, baby. You basically committed a felony and now the guy doesn’t want to turn you in to the cops, he wants you sleeping with the fishes.
She drew deep on the straw, got a reward of high-octane pineapple-coconut till one eye squinted shut with brain freeze. Through one good eye, she checked the time on her phone.
The dude should be here by now.
And who was her savior?—some Navy SEAL who would put an end to this torment with muscles and karate? Nope, couldn’t afford one. Could barely afford the guy who was coming (though she’d been assured he could do the job).
A lawyer.
When you deal with a high-power demon like Julian Mann, you deal with lawyers. Only Mr. Mann would most likely have a platoon of spit-polish Ivy Leaguers.
The man she was expecting, sitting here on the sunny patio of the Cayman Mystique motel, was one Bernie Shackelford, Esq. Hired and recommended by the same two women who got her on a plane ride to the island. When this crazy story went down, there was only one person who believed her—and then later, that person’s mother. Her roommate Marly had seen firsthand what Julian Mann—or his men—had done to their dorm room. Marly saw the message he left.
Under cover of night, she met Marly and Marly’s mother in her mother’s LeSabre in the parking lot of a Denny’s. Marly’s mom was shown the picture, was told the sequence of events, and thankfully believed Pearl. Marly’s mother was a flight attendant for American Airlines and used her pull to score a private off-the-books ticket. Asked where she wanted to go to hide, Pearl had said somewhere warm.
Now here she was, a sophomore college student, hiding out at the cheapest motel on the island. Sitting at a glass table for two underneath a sun-bleached canvas umbrella, she watched the patio’s main entrance.
Lo and behold, here came a man who had to be her hired lawyer. He was tall and thin, kind of handsome, wearing a crumpled tan suit, chambray shirt, and striped club tie. Clutched to his chest was a brown leather briefcase. His head oscillated, shoulders hunched up nervously, eyes going over the gathered sunbathers around the Mystique’s swimming pool.
She raised a hand to her shoulder and gave a timid wave. The man nodded, looked around again like he wanted to assure himself he’d not been followed. Now he made his way toward her table, glancing again around the hotel’s grounds. They were surrounded on all sides by four-story stucco blocks where the rooms looked down on the pool. The Mystique was not oceanside.
At the side of her table, the man stopped, said, “Were you expecting company?” His voice was calm, cultured, his tone careful.
She removed her sunglasses, eyeing the tan-suited man, setting them on the table next to her drink. Hands folded together now, she said, “Please tell me you’re my lawyer.”
* * *
The guest at her table was indeed Bernie Shackelford, Esq., and despite the apparent nervousness expressed on his arrival, now the man wanted to get right to business. He shook hands—good, firm shake—sat across from her, and moved away all the detritus on the table; the balled-up napkins, the shredded bits of paper she’d peeled from the menu out of boredom and anxiousness, her empty cocktail glasses.
Briefcase unlatched, he withdrew a notebook, a pen, reading glasses, and a manila folder fattened by sheets of paper inside, then set the case at his feet. He clicked the pen a few times, then tested the nib on a blank page in his notebook. The glasses were unfolded and propped on his nose. Prepared now, he leaned forward with his arms on the table and studied her.
He said, “I expected a redhead.”
“Spycraft. I read novels. I also wore sunglasses and I have a hood. Julian Mann’s looking for a redhead too.”
“And your hair is black now.”
“You got it.”
“You don’t
look suspicious at all,” he said dryly and reached across the table to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers. She flinched, but when he withdrew his hand, he showed her black smudges on his skin from her impromptu hair dye.
“It’s really hot here,” she said, grimaced and plucked at the front of her sweatshirt to fan air in her face. She could use a shower. Her sweat smelled like fear.
“Tell me what brings us together today, Miss Armbruster, in the far-off locale of the Caribbean.”
“A man wants to kill me.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“You spoke to Marly and her mom? They told you what I’m up against?”
“They did. Now tell me in your own words.”
“What I’m up against?”
He nodded, clicked the pen again a few times.
“They tell you it’s Julian Mann?—Like, the Julian Mann, one of the world’s prominent tech billionaires, recluses, philanthropists, and psychopaths...”
“I’ve never read that he’s psychopathic.”
She scoffed, laughed, exhaled. “Yeah, just you wait.”
“You’re claiming he threatened to kill you.”
“Claiming? Yeah, how about he put it in writing.”
Shackelford thought that was interesting, furrowing his brow and leaning closer. “He threatened you in writing?”
“Sure did. I have the note, too. Even though I almost lost it falling out of my dorm room window. I twisted my wrist when I—”
“Wait,” he said, raising his palms as if to slow her. “This was in your dorm room? So, after you presented him with the incriminating photo.”
“It wasn’t what I’d call incriminating.”
“We’ll get to the photo,” he said. “You returned to your campus, to your dorm, and this is where you found the threatening missive?”
“Right, and as soon as I read it, that’s when shit got super real, and I’ve been on the run ever since.”
“Super real?”
“Uh—yeah,” she said, nodding her head earnestly and eye-locking him, “that’s when the men came to get me.”
“Tell me.”
“I read the note, then as soon as I do, there’s like a commotion in the dorm hall and I hear all these boots coming, and Marly’s like whoa, who’s that?—and the hall goes quiet, and usually it’s loud ‘cause everybody’s in their rooms in the afternoon, and so when it goes quiet—”
“Who were the boots coming?”
“Yeah, so, before I even see them, Marly is like taking me to the window, opening it, you know?”
“To flee...”
“Right, but I’m waiting to see, we’re watching the door, both of us, our mouths are hanging open...”
“Who was it?”
“Campus police.”
“Julian Mann sent the campus police?”
“I guess. Why else were they there?”
“Did they hear your room was ransacked? Maybe that’s why they were coming.”
“Maybe, but why were they running then? They got a busy schedule?”
“It’s not proof...”
“They tried to apprehend me.”
Now his brow lowered, getting a detail he could work with.
She continued, “They didn’t even pause, four of them all jammed up in the doorway and trying to get at me. I’m just glad they didn’t have guns...”
“You think they would have shot you?”
“You didn’t see the look on their faces. That’s what I’m telling you: they were there to ap-pre-hend me.”
“So what happened?”
“They come barging through the door, I’m half out the window, Marly is shoving me...”
“What floor are you on?”
“The second.”
“And then...?”
“Then I fell out the window. But I had the note, I have the photo, and I just bolt, I mean, I’ve never run like that in my life. I was running for my life...”
“And you’ve been hiding ever since.”
“Julian Mann is after me.”
“Okay,” Shackelford said, jotting something down. “What did the note say?”
She hugged her arms, cleared her throat, told him clearly and slowly, “I’m coming to get you.”
“If you have it, I’d like to see it.”
She glanced around, saw only sunbathers, no one paying them any mind at all. The note was in the pouch of her sweatshirt, and she stuck a hand in, brought it out and presented it to her lawyer. It was a folded-over piece of red construction paper, and Shackelford looked at it, puzzled.
He unfolded it, said, “It’s shaped like a heart.”
“So?”
Shackelford shook his head. “He didn’t sign it or anything?” Now he opened it, and she watched him frown as he read the message, then darted his head closer. He said, “Whoever left it put a smiley face at the bottom.”
“It’s menacing. The smiley face is menacing.”
“To whom?”
Thumb jabbing her chest, she said, “To me.” Wasn’t it obvious?
The lawyer shrugged as if he didn’t see it that way.
She said, “Julian did it like that on purpose so I seem crazy...”
He smirked and cocked his head at her.
She said, “Hey, I’m not crazy—but he’s smart, signs it with a stupid smiley face and now no one believes it’s real...”
“It could have been anybody that left this.” He tucked it into his manila folder.
“He’s not going to sign his name on it... You had to see him when I confronted him to get the context.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Okay. So—”
“Wait. Show me the photo.”
This made her smile, and she gave the lawyer a nod and held an index finger up, indicating wait till you see this... From her sweatshirt pouch, she withdrew her phone—her replacement phone—and swiped it open. She located the photo that had caused all this trouble, then turned the phone so Shackelford could see it, four fingers of her other hand covering the lower portion of the image.
“What are you doing? Why are you blocking part of it?”
“It’s... provocative. You can see—” Now she looked to the side to make sure they weren’t overheard, then leaned closer and whispered, “You can see his penis.”
“That’s fine,” he said, somewhat irritated, “just let me see the whole photo, please.” He made a fanning gesture with his fingers like he wanted to brush her covering hand aside.
“Excuse me,” she said sarcastically and moved her fingers away.
Shackelford leaned closer, looked at the picture, saw Julian Mann’s dong. His eyebrows rose, and he nodded with a small measure of appreciation.
Tell me about it.
He sat back, said, “Is this the only copy of the photo you have?”
“It’s digital.”
“Did you transfer it to another device, upload it to the cloud?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Did you show it to anyone else?”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “All my friends.”
“Marly?”
“For sure.”
He wrote down Marly on his pad of paper. “Did you give a copy of the picture to any of your friends?”
“What?—no way. I love them and all, but thirty grand for a picture? One of those bitches would stab me in the back, turn the pic in, and collect the prize for themselves. I’m the only one who has them.”
“Them?”
She turned the phone to face her, admired her photographic skills and Julian Mann’s naked body. “I have more photos; this is just the best one.”
Shackelford nodded, clicking his pen and watching her. “So tell me how it started. Begin at the beginning, if you please.”
“All right. My uncle passed away, he was my dad’s brother, so I hardly knew him—my dad’s not always been in the picture, if you know what I’m saying... So my uncle was a photographer, a
nd he left some of his stuff to his nieces and nephews. Now I have no need for camera equipment, and I do need money, but Marly and I were going through the things he left me and Marly said instead of pawning it, why don’t you use it to make money...”
Shackelford scratched his forehead while scribbling in his notepad, trying to keep up with her. “This is where you got the idea to spy on Mr. Mann?”
“Right. But not spy. I’m a paparazzo.”
“Do you have a license?”
“You don’t need one. Just a camera. And like a telephoto lens.”
“Which your uncle bequeathed you?”
“You got it. So Marly tells me she heard some of these guys can get like thirty grand for a juicy photo. I’m twenty-one, living on dorm food for the last three years, and I have to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to afford my last year of tuition...”
“You were motivated.”
“Highly.”
He jotted that down too, underlining motivated.
Now he set his pen down and twined his fingers together over his notebook. Leaning closer, he watched over his reading glasses. “This is why you blackmailed Julian Mann...”
Chapter Two
“Is it blackmail?”
“I think it is.”
“But is it?” she asked again, her pitch higher, eyes squinted.
Shackelford removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. Now with his fingers laced together again, he asked, “Please, Miss Armbruster, tell me what happened when you met with Mr. Mann.”
She inhaled, held it, exhaled. Right to the point now, she said, “Everyone wants a picture of Julian Mann since he turned into a recluse.”
“Okay...”
“I figured if I want to pay my tuition, that’s the picture I need. A picture of Julian Mann.”
“So you trespassed on his property...”
“I did,” she admitted. “I had four days off from class for the holidays and I went to his house in Seattle.”
“How did you know he’d be at that house?”
It was something to consider. While the offices of WaavvTek were in Seattle, Julian wasn’t there day-to-day anymore. And with homes all across the world, he could have been anywhere. “I didn’t know. Just a guess. He’s from Seattle, it’s the holidays. Some people get nostalgic during the holidays, even big shot psychopaths like Julian Mann.”
His Captive Page 1
