Black Surrender

by Jasmin Quinn

  His penthouse was masculine, the furniture spare. All the trappings of comfort, but no real effort to make it inviting or interesting. Not what she’d expected at all. Not his home. Her eyes landed on a soft dark brown leather loveseat and she considered dropping her tired body onto it. Now that the fear and adrenaline had ebbed, she felt like she’d just ran a half-marathon.

  But she was still feeling vulnerable, didn’t want to be alone, even if her options for comfort were limited. Her fear spiked again as she realized how truly alone she was. She had no one to turn to except for Michael and she’d just watched as he shot a man in the head with no more emotion than one would show watching paint dry.

  But he was all she had, and she needed to be near him right now. She traced his steps to his bedroom, the door was open and as she entered the room, she caught Michael in a state of undress. He was standing by the bed, partly turned towards the door, naked except for black boxer briefs that fit snug around his hairy muscular thighs and exceptional ass. She felt the same thrill of desire she felt every fucking time he came close to her. Sexy, charming, intense. She had enough experience to know how damaging a relationship with him would be, and yet that didn’t stop her from imagining what it would be like to be with him. It was only through sheer will power that she’d kept her hands to herself these past few months. And now he was standing in front of her, practically naked and physically flawless.

  “You know,” she said as she leaned against the door frame. Her eyes raked him, his strong biceps, his broad muscular chest, his well-hewn six pack, then fixated on the very generous bulge in his underwear. “If you had come to my door wearing that, I probably would have done the deed.”

  Michael immodestly turned more fully towards her. “Are you telling me that if I showed up in my underwear, I would have broken through your defences?”

  Isabelle shrugged, still gazing openly at all his man-parts. “Hmm, maybe.” Keep it together girl, he doesn’t need to know what your heart… no… loins… desire.

  He peered at her. “There’s nothing you’re seeing now that isn’t clearly evident in the cut of my clothes. This,” he waved his hand up and down the length of his breathtaking masculine body, “when finely dressed draws unending female attention.”

  Isabelle couldn’t help but smile. “Not a humble bone in your body, is there?”

  “Humility, guilt, regret, love – all useless emotions.” Michael shrugged before turning back to his packing.

  Isabelle frowned at his back. “And that’s why we’ve never slept together.”

  He looked up at her sharply. She thought for a moment he was going to stalk over to her, maybe toss her on his bed. Would she mind? Probably not. But he didn’t.

  “You’re cute, Isabelle, thinking there’d be sleeping involved.” He stepped into his closet and then back out holding two pairs of fine leather shoes, one pair brown, the other black. “The fact is, we’ve never slept together because I’ve never pressed the issue.”

  “I see.” Isabelle crossed her arms. “What you’re saying is that if you tried to seduce me, I would have fallen on my knees and begged you to take me.”

  Michael packed the shoes in his bag and tugged some finely woven cotton dress shirts around them. “Yes,” he responded as he slid flawlessly tailored trousers over his perfectly shaped ass. “When I want a woman, I have her.”

  Isabelle hugged her arms tighter to her, a slight jab of hurt rippling through her. “Then why haven’t you pressed the issue?”

  Michael stopped his packing and swiveled his head towards her, his black eyes searing her body from head to toe and then back up to her chest, lingering for a moment before landing on her face. “I wouldn’t have thought you so insecure.”

  Fuck him, Isabelle thought, feeling heat rise to her face. “It doesn’t appear that you’ve thought about me much at all.” Damn! Just proved his point!

  He gazed at her as he shrugged on a dark blue dress shirt that complemented the charcoal suit jacket laying on the bed. As he buttoned up the shirt he threw her words back at her. “It’s never wise to tap the girl next door. Makes things awkward the next morning.”

  “As if I’d let you spend the night.”

  Michael chuckled as he walked past her into his bathroom. “You would, Isabelle. Trust me, you would.”

  “Arrogant asshole,” she muttered at his back. Then thought she should stop the direction of this conversation. The truth is she knew he was as taken with her as she was with him; it was obvious by the way he looked at her. His eyes drank her up like fine brandy, his nose inhaled her deeply when he was near her. She knew he wanted her, but he’d never pursued her, other than little exchanges of banter that they would engage in from time to time. She doubted very much that it had anything to do with fear of her rejection. Michael was the most self-possessed man she’d ever met – if she said no to his advances, she suspected he would either walk away or push until she said yes. She thought it depended on how interested he was and she also thought, jealousy pricking at her, that very few women would say no to him. He confused her. She didn’t quite know why he never made an advance toward her. Maybe he saw through her defences, saw the damaged woman within or maybe it truly was as simple as the don’t-fuck-your-neighbour rule.

  She returned to the love seat in his living room, sitting down and crossing her legs. She listened to Michael moving around his bedroom, in his bathroom and her nipples hardened as a desperate wave of desire hit her. A newness for her and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her, riding it, reveling in it. It was crazy to think that she hungered for this inscrutable man; part of her thought it was because if he knew her, he would understand her. He was no saint, something in his past led him to the man he was today. Just like her – a twisted history, painful memories that made her strong and fearless. Would he share his story with her? Probably not. Would she? Maybe, maybe not. She was neither ashamed nor embarrassed by her past – it gave her the strength to be Isabelle Sterling. But it also isolated her. She couldn’t be a woman without a past and she couldn’t invent a different history. It wouldn’t explain how she came to be today. And anyone who knew her story would either pity or judge her. Except Michael Black. He had neither pity nor self-righteousness.

  The man haunting her thoughts entered the living room, speaking into a cell phone tucked to his ear. She popped her eyes open to see him freeze when he saw her, dropping his words mid-sentence. His gaze stroked her legs, caressing her calves, touching her knees and fondling her thighs before settling on her pussy, raking it, stoking her heat and causing her desire to pool in her panties. She flushed under his scrutiny, then his eyes met hers, a dark smoldering stare that seared through her.

  “Just a minute,” he said into the cell as he placed it on the table. He strode over to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her up off the couch. Then he buttoned her coat. “Isabelle, I need to keep my mind on the task at hand. You have to stop distracting me with your legs.”

  Isabelle frowned. “I can’t do anything about my legs. They’re one of my best features.”

  “You don’t have a bad feature.” Michael turned from her and pick up his cell phone. “Yeah, the carpet’s white as snow. You’ll need to pull it up and replace it. Make sure you scrub the floor under it.” He walked over to the bar as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line.

  “Cost’s not an issue. Make it perfect.” He crouched down and opened a bottom cabinet full of liquor bottles, excessive in Isabelle’s opinion. He proceeded to move the bottles from the cabinet to the floor, not glancing at them. “Yeah, tonight. Keep your heads up in case you get more company. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He ended the call and dropped the phone in his shirt pocket.

  “What are you looking for?” Isabelle asked curiously. And then added, “Oh,” as he lifted a false bottom in the cupboard and pulled out a small portable safe.

  “Money, ID,” he explained as he hauled the safe to the dining room table and opened it.
Not even locked, Isabelle observed as she walked over and stood next to him, curious of the contents. There were bundles of $100 bills along with several passports. He pulled out one of the passports and flipped it open. Inside were credit cards and a driver’s licence with Michael’s picture but not his name.

  “Wow,” Isabelle murmured, feeling like she was in a spy movie.

  Michael replaced the passport and pulled out a different one. “Ryan Hamilton. I think that’ll work. What do you think?”

  “It suits you.” Isabelle felt both fire and ice. His dangerous aura attracting and repelling her. Lust and fear were hard to reconcile and yet here she was doing it.

  “You’ll have to remember to call me Ryan, not Michael.”

  “Is Ryan your real name?”

  He furrowed his brow at her as if she’d just asked a stupid question. “No, it’s Michael.” He took out his wallet and dropped his Michael identification into the safe and replaced it with Ryan’s credit cards and driver’s licence. He slid the passport inside his jacket.

  “I see,” Isabelle lied. “Mr. Hamilton, where exactly do you hail from?”

  “New York, Mrs. Isabelle Hamilton. We both do. We’re in town for a second honeymoon, celebrating five years of married bliss.”

  Isabelle gagged. “Except for all the women you’ve cheated on me with.”

  Michael grinned as he took her right hand, pulling her large octagon-shaped sapphire ring from her index finger and transferring it to her left hand, nudging it up her ring finger. He grinned as he admired it. Then he made Isabelle’s heart flutter as he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it softly and intimately. “Forgive me my trespasses, my darling, and I will forgive you yours.”

  Isabelle suppressed a shiver as he stroked her hand between his before letting it go. “I expect I have far fewer trespasses than you.”

  Michael’s attention strayed to the safe as he picked up a bundle of the cash, dropping it on the table. “If I promise to stay faithful from this day forward, will you return that promise?”

  “Promises are meaningless, Michael… er… Ryan.”

  He walked to the loveseat and picked up Isabelle’s purse, bringing it over to the table where he opened it and drew out her leather wallet. From it, he took her credit cards, her loyalty cards, her driver’s licence, dropping them all into the safe. Her entire identity in his hands – it was terrifying but also perversely, liberating. He picked up a handful of the bills and slipped them into the wallet, then replaced it in her purse. He looked into her eyes as he handed it over to her. “Promise me anyway, Isabelle.” His words were hard, his coal black eyes deadly with expectation.

  A tremor of anxiety slid up Isabelle’s spine. But she didn’t want him to know how unsettled he made her. “I promise you, my dear philandering husband,” she said lightly.

  Michael’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “From this day forward, my dear Isabelle.”

  “Right,” Isabelle ran her tongue across her lower lip and then changed the subject. “Are we done here?”

  Michael slipped some bills into a money clip and slid it into the front pocket of his trousers. “Not yet. Put the liquor cabinet back together. False bottom, then the bottles. Close it up so it looks exactly the way it did when you walked in here.” He left the room before Isabelle could protest.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?” she muttered as she surveyed the cabinet. She sure as hell was not going to risk ruining her stockings by kneeling on the Berber carpet. She spied Michael’s coat, hanging on the back of a dining room chair. That will work, she thought as she grabbed it and laid it out on the floor in front of the cabinet, then carefully knelt in front. Her skirt stretched tightly across her ass as she forced her feet out behind her. What an asshole he was, she simmered. One simply did not kneel in high-heeled shoes and pencil skirts.

  She picked up the false bottom gingerly and tried to insert it back into the cabinet. He’s so damned bossy, she fumed as she struggled to maneuver the large square shelf into the cabinet opening. It was like trying to stuff a baby back into its mother’s vagina. Finally, after several tries, she wrestled the shelf into the cabinet and guided it down. As she let it drop, it caught the right fingernail of her pinky, painfully breaking it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Isabelle cried out as the shelf slammed into place. She yanked back her hands to her and hugged her right hand with her left, dropping them to her lap and rocking with pain. Michael ran into the room, his gun drawn, his eyes alert.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice intense and aggressive. He holstered his gun as he looked around the living room. Isabelle was alone.

  “Thanks to you, I broke a fucking nail,” she groaned, raising her pinky to her mouth and sucking on it, trying to ease the pain.

  “You broke a nail? That’s why you’re howling like a banshee?” But his voice was thick, his eyes glued to her mouth, watching her suck at her finger.

  “Have you ever broken a nail?” Isabelle retorted, glaring at him. “It’s worse than getting a Brazilian wax.”

  Michael’s expression shifted from desire to impatience. He sighed heavily, “Put the liquor bottles back in place. We need to go. And get my coat off the goddamn floor!”

  Chapter Three

  Michael and Isabelle rode the elevator down to the garage in silence, both occupied by their own thoughts, a certain gravity of their circumstance weighing on them. She was dragging her wheeled suitcase and holding her purse and Michael’s briefcase. Michael carried his suitcase and the safe. As they exited the elevator, the chill of the stormy night clutched viciously at them. Michael shivered. He hated this fucking weather. He headed towards his Mercedes expecting Isabelle to follow. She stopped instead.

  “Wait, Michael. We should take mine.”

  He turned to her, his irritation rising. He needed a shower, a good fuck and some sleep, in that order. What he didn’t need right now was Isabelle making decisions on what to do next. “Why should we take yours?” he growled.

  Isabelle threw him a narrow glance. “Because my Audi is bigger, less flashy and will handle the snowy roads better than your Benz. And the Russian’s are looking for you not me. No connection to my licence plate.”

  Michael thought he might slap her; her tone was that of a patient grown-up explaining logic to a child. But even more than that, she was right, which made him wrong. And being wrong pissed him off. He reined in his anger. “Right.” He turned abruptly heading for her car; she followed, her heels clacking loudly on the concrete.

  As they neared the car, she flipped the locks and opened the trunk with her fob. Michael heaved his suitcase into the trunk first, then hers, dropping the safe in the remaining space. “Put my briefcase in the back seat; I want it close in case I need it.” Isabelle frowned at his officiousness, but complied, placing the case on the floor behind the front passenger seat.

  “Done,” she said as she closed the car door.

  Michael held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

  “Why should you do the driving?” She took a step back from him, holding the keys close to her. “Just because you’re a man doesn’t make you a better driver than me.”

  Michael’s temper flared. “I’m a better driver than anyone I know, man or woman, and I know a lot of fucking good drivers. Give me the keys, Isabelle.”

  Isabelle tightened her fingers around the keys. “It’s my car, I’ll drive.” In that same patronizing tone she’d just used on him earlier.

  Michael’s patience snapped. He reached out abruptly, circling her throat with his hand, squeezing tightly, pushing her back against the car. His voice was low and menacing. “Unless you want to end up in the trunk of your car you will give me the fucking keys.”

  The keys fell to the concrete as she brought her hands up to his wrist, scrabbling at it with her nails, trying to get him to loosen his grip so she could draw air into her lungs. “Let go of me,” she croaked, her imploring eyes wide and frightened. B
ut she wasn’t even close to being strong enough to force her will on him.

  Instead, he squeezed a little harder, enough to stop her from talking. “We’re not going to keep arguing about how we’re going to do things. I’m the captain. And you’re going to be my compliant little first mate. Because I don’t want to hurt you, Isabelle, but I’m not going to keep justifying myself to you. Let’s just agree I have more experience dealing with assholes than you.”

  Isabelle caught Michael off guard as she dropped her hands in front of her, balled them into fists and struck out at him. A quick sharp punch to his stomach with her right hand while at the same time drawing her other fist up and hammering her forearm against his, causing him to loosen his grip on her neck just enough that she was able to twist out of his grasp and stumble away from him. “You fucking prick!” she gasped as she brought her hand to her throat, rubbing it while inhaling deeply.

  Michael watched her as she caught her breath, his head tilted slightly as he considered what she’d just done. He could have countered her self-defence moves, but it might have turned deadly if she tried to fight back. And he’d meant what he said, he didn’t want to hurt her. He felt his anger ebbing, replaced with a modicum of admiration. She was more than just a goddess. “Isabelle, you’re keeping secrets from me.”

  Isabelle regained her composure and was glaring at Michael, her eyes impaling him. But she didn’t respond. Instead, she walked over to her car keys, crouched down and picked them up, then handed them over to Michael.

  “You’ve made your point,” she said tersely as she turned her back to him and slid into the passenger seat.

  Michael glanced at the keys in his hand as he closed her door for her. He wanted to spend some time thinking about what just happened, wanted her to tell him her secrets. He was rarely curious about women or anyone for that matter unless he needed to understand them. Maybe that was it – he thought he knew what Isabelle was about but realized she had far more depth than he credited her with. Yes, he was suddenly very curious. And then his thoughts wandered back to all the possibilities about who she was, including being a spy. He was going to have to make her tell him her story. He hoped he didn’t have to press her too hard, and he hoped it was the truth.