Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  I study her. There’s an edge to her voice and a glint of panic in her eyes. It’s almost as if she thinks I’m…

  When it dawns on me, I feel like a complete idiot for not realizing it sooner.

  She’s afraid of being kidnapped.

  Not raped, like I thought when she was freaking out in the taxi cab. Though that’s likely part of it, too. But mainly her anxiety seems to revolve around being taken—and held—against her will.

  Fear of becoming a hostage is a very specific kind of fear. One ingrained by a specific kind of upbringing. And possibly a specific kind of training.

  Her words come back to me again.

  “Our fathers are all bad people. Very bad people. The kind who don’t care who they have to hurt to get what they want.”

  I thought she meant drug dealers, perhaps, or some other kind of commonplace felon. Maybe even a soulless billionaire CEO. But added together with the acid disdain in her voice every time she calls me a gangster, and the unnatural calm she displayed during the car chase and gunfight, and her paranoia about becoming a victim of kidnapping—and, frankly, everything else—I think my little thief is the offspring of someone a tad worse than I thought.

  Watching my expression, she demands, “What?”

  “Juliet,” I say thoughtfully. “That’s an Italian name if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “No. It’s English.”

  “Not if it’s given to a girl born into an Italian family.”

  As if she’s been slapped, her face turns white.

  Bingo.

  Something on my face makes her take a step back, shaking her head, her eyes wide.

  “I won’t hurt you. There’s no need to try to run away.”

  Her voice is strangled when she speaks. “Please let me go.”

  I say firmly, “Juliet, I don’t care who your father is.”

  She freezes in place as if turned to stone. The pulse in the side of her neck is flying.

  Keeping my tone low and unthreatening, I say, “I won’t hold you against your will. I swear to you. But I need to find out who exactly was behind that attack and deal with him—or them—before you can go. For your own safety, as well as mine. All right?”

  Her throat works. Her hands shake. I fight the urge to cross to her and take her into my arms and gesture to the corridor beyond the kitchen instead.

  “There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. You can stay there. I won’t disturb you.”

  When she doesn’t move, I add, “The door locks from the inside. The frame is reinforced with steel. No one can get in unless you let them in.”

  “Are there cameras?”

  “No.”

  She licks her lips, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether or not to believe me.

  “There’s also a gun in the nightstand. It’s loaded.” I add mildly, “Judging by how you held that rifle, I’m guessing you’re familiar with firearms.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. She’s probably wishing she had a gun in hand right now.

  Then she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “How long do you think it will take you to find out what you need to know?”

  “A few hours, at most.”

  She blinks. I hope it’s because she’s impressed.

  “So I could…maybe just…relax for a while until you’re done?”

  I incline my head, watching her try to maintain her composure and fight against the urge to run screaming to the front door. Except there is no front door, which she’s already well aware of.

  I take a few steps toward her. When she backs up, startled, I stop and hold up a hand, feeling pained. “Please. Trust me.”

  Her laugh is small and dry. “Can you appreciate how crazy that request sounds, coming from you?”

  “I did save your life.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She looks sheepish for a moment, then glances down at her feet. “Sorry. And, um…thank you.”

  Fuck, she’s adorable. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  She glances up from her feet, her mouth quirked. She studies me from under lowered brows for a moment, then sighs and throws her hands in the air.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. I’ll stay here for a few hours. I don’t want to believe you’ll keep your word, but I do. Mostly. Against my better judgment.”

  Then she props her hands on her hips and sends me her signature glare. “So don’t screw it up, okay?”

  I say solemnly, “I’d rather die than disappoint you.”

  It was an attempt at dry humor, but I surprise myself by meaning it.

  She rolls her eyes. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

  She turns on her heel and stalks off through the kitchen, toward the guest room down the hall. I hear a door slam and smile.

  Then I take a plastic Ziploc bag from a drawer, put my hand inside it, pick up her whiskey glass with the same hand and pour the contents into the sink, and head whistling to my office to discover who my beautiful thief really is.

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No.”

  “C’mon, Killian. Seriously. You’re joking.”

  “I’m not, Declan. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. Fingerprints don’t lie.”

  Silence crackles on the other end of the line for a moment, then I hear a low, disbelieving laugh. “Well, fuck. What are the odds?”

  “Approximately seven billion to one.”

  “Christ on a cracker. Antonio Moretti’s daughter?” More laughter. “That’s some serious shit right there.”

  I say drily, “You don’t say?”

  “So what’s your next move?”

  “Good question.”

  I gaze at the FBI report on my computer screen, my state of shock having only recently dulled to a more manageable amazement.

  It isn’t every day I discover that the most interesting and attractive woman I’ve ever met is none other than the only child of the head of an infamous New York Italian crime family.

  A man so vicious his breath is probably toxic.

  A man whom, inconveniently, has been trying to kill me for quite some time.

  “You think he set her up on the job?”

  The diaper theft, Declan means. “No. I can’t find any evidence of contact between her and her father.”

  I don’t tell him that her mother was killed in a car bomb explosion when Juliet was a child. I have a feeling that’s not something she’d want me to share. I also don’t share her years of homeschooling or her intensely sheltered lifestyle before she was sent away at thirteen to a boarding school in Vermont for the children of the ultra-rich. It seems her rebellious streak kicked in then, because as soon as she left her father’s household, she got into near constant trouble.

  Immediately after graduating at eighteen, she was arrested for shoplifting. The charges were dropped—daddy’s influence, no doubt—but whoever was in charge of daddy’s security team neglected to scrub her fingerprints from the police database.

  A mistake I’d never make, but a lucky one for me.

  After her arrest, the FBI file ends. They don’t have her alias listed, or any current known address. Neither does Interpol or the NSA, and they know everyone. Which means she did an excellent job of covering her tracks.

  Which means she’s even more impressive than I thought she was.

  “Huh. So why she’d target you for the diaper job, then?”

  My lips lift into a smile. “Apparently, she and her two sidekicks only steal from bad guys. Somehow, I ended up on their list.”

  After a moment of silence, Declan says, “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why you like her.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “She’s a do-gooder. That’s your particular brand of Kryptonite.”

  “How the hell would you know? You haven’t seen me with a woman since I took over for Liam.”

  “He t
old me.”

  I grit my teeth. This should be interesting. Annoying, but interesting. “What exactly did he say?”

  “That the only time you’ve ever lowered your guard in your life was for a woman who was so in love with someone else, she died to save him.”

  “She didn’t die,” I say through a clenched jaw. “And I saved him.”

  I can’t see it, but I know right now he’s blowing smoke rings and waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Details. The point is, she was a do-gooder. Selfless. Generous. This one’s the same.”

  “She’s a thief.”

  “A philanthropist thief,” he corrects, sounding smug. “Who only steals from bad guys and donates the take to charity. I mean, if that’s not the definition of a do-gooder, I don’t know what is.”

  When I stay silent too long, Declan says, “I know you’re sitting there trying to figure out how to argue with me, which is a problem because you also know that I’m right.”

  “Actually, I was just picturing your slow and painful death by poisoning.”

  “Psh. Poison’s a woman’s weapon. You’d just shoot me point-blank in the face.”

  “A tempting thought. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me you’re glad I survived our little run-in with the Serbians?”

  I deadpan, “I’m thrilled,” and jab my finger against the End button on my phone.

  He calls me back five seconds later. “Got a call from my buddy at the department. Feds are at the scene now.”

  “Good. Have them give me everything they’ve got as soon as they’ve got it.”

  He mimics a pirate’s accent. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  “Declan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t ever say that again.”

  “You don’t like it? It originated as a British Royal Navy nautical term meaning ‘Yes, I will do as you command.’ As opposed to the more generic ‘I understand’ in response to an order, which doesn’t implicitly connote obedience. Because, you know, the military’s real big on obedience.”

  “I do know. I was in the military.”

  His tone turns thoughtful. “That’s right. I always forget. Probably because I can’t picture you taking orders from anyone. I bet you got disciplined constantly, right?”

  I mutter, “I should’ve shot you on sight,” and hang up on him again.

  I sit thinking for several long moments. When my stomach grumbles, I realize I haven’t eaten anything for hours. I head to the kitchen to get something to eat, but stop in the living room, my ear cocked.

  I hear the sound again. It’s a low thump, like a blow against a wall.

  It’s coming from the corridor that leads to the guest room where Juliet is.

  A few seconds later, I’m applying my knuckles firmly to the door of her room.

  There’s a pause before she opens up. A pause in which I find it surprisingly difficult not to start pounding my fist on the wood and shouting. Then the handle turns, the door swings wide, and there she is.

  Red-faced, disheveled, and breathing hard.

  Behind her, the room is a wreck.

  I let my gaze wander around the overturned furniture, the artwork hanging askew on the walls, the bed stripped of sheets. A nightstand has been dragged underneath an air vent on the ceiling on one side of the room. The window coverings lie in a crumpled pile on the floor.

  I fold my arms over my chest, lean my shoulder against the wall, and say mildly, “I see you’ve been redecorating.”

  “I was looking for cameras.”

  “And trying to find a way out.”

  “Yes.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “I discovered that. Thank you.”

  We stare at each other. She’s so lovely with the color high in her cheeks and her eyes ablaze with anger. I want to reach out and stroke her face, but know I’d only get slapped for the effort.

  “You said you believed I’d keep my word.”

  “I said I mostly believed you’d keep your word. And you can’t blame me for having my doubts about your veracity.” After a pause, she adds, “I’m sorry if that’s insulting. I don’t mean to insult you.” She closes her eyes, sighs, and mutters, “I can’t believe I’m apologizing.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

  She opens her eyes and gazes at me with her brows drawn together, like I’m a frustrating puzzle she half wants to solve and half wants to set on fire and throw into the street.

  “Are you hungry? I was just going to get something to eat.”

  Ignoring that, she demands, “Did you find out anything yet? Can I leave?”

  Ouch.

  I say softly, “I want you to trust me.”

  “And I want a unicorn pony. So here we are.”

  I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing, because I know it would only enrage her more. “I’ll work on that. In the meantime, I’ll feed you.”

  I turn around and walk away, feeling her gaze on my back as I go, trying to quell the dark, powerful surge of desire that moves through me when I hear her footstep on the marble and realize she’s following.

  10

  Jules

  Don’t look at his ass, idiot. He’s the devil, remember?

  I follow Killian down the corridor to the kitchen, admiring his hard, perfect butt despite myself. He walks like a king. Head held high, broad shoulders squared, his effortless swagger conveying total confidence.

  He’s the shit, and he knows it.

  I’d like to take off my shoe and chuck it at his conceited head to take him down a notch.

  But I don’t. I’ve already ruined the man’s guest room. Demolishing décor will have to be enough for one evening.

  My feet dragging with fatigue, I hop back onto the counter stool where I sat before, prop my chin in my hands, and watch as the head of the Irish mafia makes me a tuna fish sandwich.

  I swear that hipster bartender put something into my drink.

  When the sandwich is ready, Killian puts it on a plate and takes a knife from a drawer. From over his shoulder, he says, “Crusts or no crusts?”

  Yeah, that’s it. I’m definitely hallucinating. “Crusts are fine, thanks.”

  He slices the sandwich in half and turns and presents it to me. Then he folds his big arms over his big, stupid chest and gazes at me from under lowered lids with a smug half smile playing over his lips.

  “Don’t smirk,” I say, picking up the sandwich. “It’s unbecoming.”

  “It’s not a smirk. That’s just my face.”

  Holding his gaze, I bite into the sandwich, pretending it’s the tender space between his forefinger and thumb.

  I refuse to like him. He’s a gangster, a killer, a bad guy to the bone. Just because he saved my life and made me a tuna fish sandwich doesn’t change anything. Plus, the jury’s still out on whether or not he’s going to let me go like he said he would.

  “I’m really not so bad, once you get to know me.”

  I chew for a moment, irritated that he can so easily read my face.

  Then he completely flusters me by growling, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

  “It’s not flattery. It’s honesty.”

  I swallow and clear my throat, feeling blood pulse in my cheeks. “Well. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He stares at me in unblinking intensity, studying every nuance of my face, radiating pure masculine sexuality, until I can’t stand it anymore.

  “Are you always like this?”

  He cocks his head. “Like what?”

  I wave my hand at him. “This. You know. Alpha.”

  He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Of course.”

  Jeez, what was I expecting? Humility?

  He watches me chomp in aggravation for a few moments, then smiles. “I feel sorry for that sandwich.”

  I don’t have a smart comeback, so I simply
chew and swallow until the sandwich is gone.

  His cell phone rings. He whips it from his shirt pocket and answers with a curt, “Aye.”

  He listens intently. I try to listen, too, but can’t hear whatever the person on the other end is saying. Then he poses a series of rapid-fire questions, his jaw getting harder and harder between each one.

  “Just the one? Conscious? Where? Who’s with him? How long have we got?”

  He listens, his expression growing darker, until finally he glances up at me.

  His dark eyes have turned black.

  “I’m on it,” he says, and ends the call.

  I push the plate away, a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Let me guess. You have to go out for a while.”

  “Aye. I won’t be long. Make yourself comfortable while I’m gone.”

  I smile sweetly at him. “Oh, sure, I’ll just be here rifling through your drawers for evidence I can provide to the authorities.”

  If I thought that would make him think twice about leaving me alone—and possibly taking me with him, giving me a chance at escape—I was wrong.

  “Have at it, lass. My office door’s open. You won’t be able to get into anything without a matching biometric fingerprint, so you’ll be wasting your time, but you’re certainly welcome to try.”

  He turns and strides toward the direction of the elevator banks, but stops and turns back around to look at me. His voice comes low and rough. His dark eyes glitter with secrets.

  “And the authorities already know exactly what I am.”

  The man talks in riddles. There always seems to be layers under layers hidden beneath his words, a sly wink in his tone like he’s the only one in on the joke. It’s intriguing as much as it is irritating.

  “I know who you are, too, gangster. Everyone in this town knows who you are.”

  “I didn’t say who, lass. I said what.”

  I’m getting exasperated with his word games. “What’s the difference?”

  He murmurs, “Only everything that matters, little thief.”

  Eyes burning, he holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning and heading out.

  When the elevator doors slide shut and he’s gone, I shout after him, “What you are is annoying, devil man!”

  It doesn’t make me feel better.