by Jasmin Quinn
An awkward stillness settled on them as the elevator ascended. As it neared the 6th floor, Michael said, “Take off your shoes, Isabelle.”
“What? Why?”
“Because our room is on the 18th floor and we’re walking up the stairs to it. I don’t want your fucking husband to know what floor we’re on.”
Chapter Five
Michael’s irritation grew as he trudged up the twelve flights of stairs. He was in fantastic shape. He ran almost daily, he lifted weights, he was a machine in marathons, which he never allowed himself to win because he couldn’t afford that kind of attention. But there were things he didn’t do. He didn’t take busses, he didn’t rescue women and he didn’t do fucking stairs. And yet, today, he found himself doing all three. It was this woman, walking in silky stockings behind him, stilettos dangling from her hand, silent for the first fucking time today.
Who the hell was she? Married to Jack Creed of all the fucking people in all the world. His one misstep, thinking this was about Jackman’s war with his enemy, Rusya Savisin. Not giving Isabelle’s past more than a fleeting glance. The Russians were in her apartment after all. He was smarter than that, his instincts were what kept him breathing, so where the hell were they when he needed them? She was just his damned neighbour. Except she wasn’t. She was the first woman he’d ever met that made him think beyond the bedroom. She fucking bewitched him.
And he was furious at himself for letting her do that. Women didn’t own Michael Black. Ever. He loved women, worshipped them. But never in his life had he been sidetracked by one. And now, he had Isabelle, the most dangerous woman in the world, trudging contritely behind him up the stairs. Her face was red, her eyes distant and as she got a couple of steps in front of him, he got lost in the curves of her ass. It was at least ten more steps before Michael realized that his mind strayed and he shook himself. He sped up, gaining on her, then passing her. He couldn’t be distracted by her if he were in front of her unless he looked back. Her beautiful full breasts bounced with each step. If they were lovers, and he weren’t so furious at her, he’d stop right there in the stairwell and fuck her until she screamed his name.
She caught his eye and he turned his back to her. “You keep yourself in good shape, Isabelle.”
She didn’t respond. He didn’t expect her to. He thought she was thinking about how she was going to explain herself. How she managed to get Michael involved in her dangerous affairs. And that pissed off Michael. She had ample opportunity to tell him that this might not be about him. But she never once owned up to her past. And now he was exposed. He prided himself on being a ghost. None of his enemies who saw him, lived to talk about him. But fucking Jack Creed. He ruled Las Vegas. One didn’t just shoot him between the eyes. And Creed knew that. He didn’t know who Michael was though. Creed thought he was just Isabelle’s lover, an arrogant, testosterone-fuelled businessman. And that was good, because that meant that Creed would underestimate him. He didn’t mind when other men thought of him as weak. It played to his advantage and he savoured the shock on their faces just before they died.
They were finally at the 18th floor. Michael led the way to the suite and opened the door, stepping aside to let Isabelle enter first. She walked into the suite, then did a quick tour, her eyes sparking with appreciation. No wonder. The suite was exquisite. Nothing less than he expected from the Rosewood. The dining and living room to the right of the door and a small kitchen and guest bathroom to the left. Isabelle wandered into the bedroom and then a few minutes later emerged with a distrustful frown playing at her lips.
“There’s only one bed.”
“Of course there’s only one bed. We’re a couple. I couldn’t bloody well ask for the family suite.” The irritation simmering leaked out in Michael’s tone.
Isabelle glared at him, at his belligerent words, forgetting her role in his anger. “How’s that going to work, then?”
Michael’s temper flared at her stupid question. But he checked it. God, he was so fucking tired he couldn’t think straight. He locked and bolted door, then walked over to the dining table, to the sandwich platter and the bottles he’d asked for. He picked up the scotch and poured himself a shot, knocking it back in one swift motion, feeling a quick lightness to his head, then refilled his glass, picked up the sandwiches and set them on the coffee table in the living room. Isabelle hadn’t moved since she’d walked out of the bedroom, except for her eyes which followed him everywhere.
Finally, Michael spoke. “Do you really think you are in a position to ask me to justify my actions?” His voice sounded unpleasant even to his ears. He wanted answers but wasn’t sure he wanted to terrorize her. She was already fearful of him and clearly terrified of Creed. This thing with Creed, whatever it was, was not going to be some simple errand. Michael needed Isabelle to be calm and collected, to trust him enough for her to tell him what this was about. Not this wary, fearful woman, but the other Isabelle, the sassy and confident one. This day had torn her down too, made her a shadow of herself. He dropped his eyes from hers and retraced his steps to the table.
“Why don’t you sit down with me, have a drink. Let’s get some food in us.” He tried to keep his voice neutral.
Isabelle hesitated. One of her arms dangled in front of her, and she held it with her other hand, making her appear small and defenceless. But she seemed to understand that he was offering her a white feather. She moved cautiously toward the table, standing next to him but keeping a foot of space between them.
“Scotch or wine?”
“Wine, please.” She reached past Michael, picking up the cheese and crackers, two small plates and a couple of napkins as he uncorked a French Pinot Noir and brought it over to the coffee table along with the bottle of scotch and a wine glass. Once the table was set and the wine was poured, they seated themselves, he on the loveseat and she on the couch, each at the corners closest to the other. Cozy but not too intimate. They could reach the food and drink, face each other while they talked.
Michael filled his plate with sandwiches. He was starving and exhausted. He needed to get some sleep. He needed some time to think this through. Before, when he thought this was about him, his motives for protecting Isabelle were selfish and purposeful. Keep her safe until he could figure out what to do about her. And enjoy her company as much as he could in the meantime. But now that this was about her, it took the risk to a whole new level. He’d inadvertently shared his world with her and she repaid him by omitting some of her own dangerous details. Fuck. He should just shoot her and move on.
Or give her back to Creed. Why not? Whatever the hell was going on between the two of them had nothing to do with Michael. The runaway wife of one of the most vicious mobsters in North America. A fucking legend. Someone who could cause Michael and Jackman a lot of grief. He looked over at her, at her nervous silence. Isabelle, so sexy and seductive. His mind conjured Creed and her together, Creed fucking her. Fury raced through him and he almost reached out and grabbed her. Almost dragged her to the bedroom. Almost ripped her clothes off and claimed her.
As much as she deserved to be shot or handed back to her asshole husband, Michael knew that he was not going to do either. She was his now. For however long he chose to keep her. She was his prize, her payment to him for his protection. He took a large swig of his scotch. Tired, angry and a little drunk. A perfect storm. He had to reign it back in. He was going to need all his wits about him if he was going to see Isabelle through whatever the fuck this was.
He met Isabelle’s eyes as he took a bite of his sandwich. They were guarded, and she dropped them quickly at his perusal. He watched her as she nibbled at her sandwich, sipped at her wine. Too nervous to eat? Too nervous to talk. They finished their meal in silence, Michael burning his way through most of the platter, Isabelle managing to eat half of one sandwich, the second half barely touched as she put the plate on the table and pressed a napkin to her lips before discarding it next to the plate.
Michael poured anot
her small measure of scotch. No more tonight – his head was buzzing, which told him how truly tired he was. “Interesting turn of events,” he said. Remarkably, his voice betrayed none of the turmoil still roiling inside him.
Isabelle glanced up at him through her long, thick eyelashes. She twisted the stem of the wineglass between her fingers. “How did you know that my husband was Jack Creed?”
Michael snorted in disbelief, his attempt at a truce abandoned. “That’s it, Isabelle? That’s your fucking answer? Not sorry, Michael, I didn’t mean to drag you into my fucking mess of a life! Not sorry, I should have told you that it was possible the assholes in my living room might have been after me!”
“There was no opportunity,” Isabelle protested breathlessly.
Michael stood abruptly and paced away from the love seat, raking his hands through his hair. “What utter bullshit! All you had to say at any time between you shoving your shoe in the Russian’s eye and our arrival at the Rosewood is that there was a possibility this was about you.”
Isabelle stood up too, agitated, her face flushed, her jaw set. “I didn’t think this was about me, Michael. It’s been almost three years. Three years! And he’s never tried to find me or follow me.”
“Bullshit, Isabelle. You can’t really be that naive. A man like Creed doesn’t just let his woman walk away from him. He’s probably known every move you’ve made since you left him.”
“No,” Isabelle shook her head. “I covered my tracks well. I’ve stayed under the radar, kept my head down.”
“This is your version of keeping your head down?” He waved his hand the length of her body. “Have you looked in a fucking mirror?”
“You don’t understand –” Isabelle started, but Michael cut her off.
“You’re right, I don’t understand a goddamned thing. Why don’t you enlighten me? Why don’t you explain how you came to be the wife of a fucking crime boss? How you learned your pretty little self-defence skills? Why you flounce around attracting as much attention as you can but think no one’s noticing?”
“It’s enough that you know now, isn’t it Michael? What more do you need?” Isabelle was trembling under his harsh words. It did nothing to settle him down.
He stopped his pacing and looked at her hard. She looked like a lamb. He wanted to devour her. He knew he was past the edge of reason, but it didn’t stop him. “A good fuck, Isabelle. A hot shower. And some sleep. In that order.”
Isabelle gaped at him, first surprise, then shock, then rage. If she’d been close enough, he thought she might have slapped him. “Go fuck yourself, you asshole!” She stormed past him towards the bedroom and he reached out with his hand, catching her by the upper arm, pulling him to her, holding her against him. She didn’t struggle like he expected. Instead, she stilled herself completely, rigid and contained, refusing to touch him with her hands, not pushing him away nor embracing him.
“Where are you going to sleep, Isabelle?” He leaned into her, spoke softly into her ear.
She leaned into him, echoed the timbre of his voice. “With you Michael. But if you fucking touch me, I’ll kill you.”
Michael let her go then and grinned at her. “That’s the Isabelle I know and love.”
Caught off guard by his swift change of mood, Isabelle frowned at him. “I’ll use the guest bathroom, so you can take your goddamned shower.”
Michael’s eyes followed her as she stomped away, disappearing into the bedroom. He had her off-balance and for some reason that gave him some satisfaction. He didn’t wait for her to emerge, instead stalked after her, leaning against the door frame, watching as she fumbled with her suitcase, her unsteady hands making her clumsy. Once opened, she pulled out her toiletries and a slip of a nightgown, then looked up as he arrogantly stood there, arms crossed over his chest, undecided what to do next. He didn’t move from the doorway and she had to slide past him to get out of the room. He restrained himself from reaching out to her as she brushed by him, pulling her into his arms, making her truly his. It was a good test of his control.
He waited until he heard the running water in the guest bathroom, then entered the master bath and closed the door behind him. The ensuite was as well-appointed as the rest of the suite, with a fully tiled walk-in rain forest shower, a large inviting soaker tub, dual sink vanities and a separate toilet area. Michael stripped off his clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor. Then he turned on the water in the shower and waited for it to heat before stepping under its luxurious stream. He propped his hands against the tiled wall and closed his eyes as the soothing water cascaded over his back.
But it wasn’t easing his tension. His tired mind couldn’t let go of Isabelle, her beauty, her scent, the knowledge that she was just feet from him, but off-limits. He wanted her like no other woman he’d ever met. He knew he could just take her. She’d submit to him because she had few other choices. She needed him. But he didn’t want her submission. He wanted her in his bed willingly. He needed the passion to be real, needed her to give herself to him freely. Needed to know she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He shampooed his hair and soaped and rinsed himself off. His balls ached, his cock begged for attention. He groaned as he willed himself to relax. There was not a fucking chance in hell he was going to jerk himself off in the shower when there was such a tempting woman in the next room. In his bed. Instead, he reached for the tap and turned up the cold water, letting it rain down on him until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
✽ ✽ ✽
Isabelle lay in bed, tense and alert, listening, waiting. She was lying on her side, facing the window, hands tucked under her pillow, knees curled to her stomach. She heard the shower turn off, tap water running, then a few minutes later, the bathroom door opening. She shut her eyes, tried to steady her breathing. He’d know anyway, that she wasn’t sleeping. He had the instincts of a wolf. The pack leader. His attraction to her was undeniable. She saw it in his eyes, his steady and constant perusal of her. She’d thought it was just lust, but then had a realization as she’d readied herself for bed. Tonight was not just a fight, it was his admission that he cared enough to be angry at her. That he didn’t throw her out on her ass or leave her.
She felt the mattress shift as he settled down beside her. On his back. She inhaled him as her stomach knotted and her pussy throbbed. She should still be pissed at him for his crude remark earlier. Furious, really. And yet, if he reached for her, she would dive into his arms, do anything he wanted, anything he asked. How crazy was that? She heard his breathing deepen, then steady out. He was asleep already! So much for her wishes, and maybe it was for the best anyway. They were both tired, wound up, and still angry. The lovemaking would be too rushed and savage. It might be a release in the short-term, but she needed more than that. She wanted all of Michael.
Her mind shifted and she wondered if she might be walking into something that would take the same bad turns that her marriage to Jack Creed had. The way Michael so casually shot the Russians in her apartment. He didn’t have to kill his Russian. The power of control had swung to them. He could have forced the Russian to drop his gun. Or maybe not. After she’d plunged her shoe into the big Russian’s eye, the other guy’s gun was pointed directly at her. Did Michael save her life?
There wasn’t a lot of time for decision-making in that moment, just reflexes. She understood that. After all that’s how her shoe ended up where it did. Was she justifying Michael’s actions because he was softening her heart? The first time she’d seen Jack Creed kill someone, she got hysterical. And he was embarrassed by her behaviour. So much so, that later that night, he beat her savagely. It was strange, now that she thought about it objectively – it was the first time in their brief marriage that Jack touched her in anger. And the last time, because as soon as Isabelle was healed enough, she slipped away and never looked back.
Why didn’t he come after her, she wondered? Jack Creed forced the marriage on her in exchange for his silence. He saw h
er potential, honed it, exploited it, exploited her. He could do what he wanted to her, with her, because he held her freedom over her head. Funny that, prison or Jack Creed. Which would have been a harsher sentence? Jack’s world was violent and dangerous. One misstep got you killed. The men he surrounded himself with were as hard as he and they showed little more regard for her than any of the other women they used and discarded. They had their wives, their girlfriends and their whores. That was the way Jack’s world rolled. Was Michael’s world the same?
The difference between Michael and Jack was that Jack had an empire, had power, had respect. He needed his minions. No man could rule Vegas without a lot of lethal support – gained through loyalty and trust, but mostly through terror. But Michael, he seemed a loner, deadly, but adaptable. Who exactly was he? Who had his back? Michael knew Jack, but Jack hadn’t known him. And she was shocked that Michael would use his own name, rather than his cover name. It confused her. She wanted to know why. She needed to know why.
Michael shifted then, to his side so that he was facing her back. Isabelle tensed. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck as he slept. It was a bloody king-sized bed. Why was he so close? She gathered her silky slip and shifted closer to the edge of the bed. She should have slept on the couch, but she’d wanted to test him, stupid as that sounded. When he implied he wanted to fuck her, that rattled her more than anything else that happened today. Even his hand on her throat in the carpark was just a warning. If he was going to break her neck or strangle her he would have done it then in the dim light of the garage, with the car open so he could easily slip her body into it. But he hadn’t and that told her, at least for the time being, she wasn’t in mortal harm from him.
She wondered if he was the same domineering and possessive asshole that Jack Creed was. Michael’s possession of her in the lobby was for show. It was posturing for Jack, not for her. At least she didn’t think so. Because when he grabbed her tonight he let her go when she didn’t respond. It didn’t make him angrier, he didn’t force his will. And then the final test, her in his bed, beside him, in a provocative silky nightgown. The nightgown not intentional – it was all she owned, a half-dozen soft pastel little shifts that hugged her curves and fell elegantly to her thighs. She loved the feel of the cool silk on her skin, loved the femininity. And small lacy panties – a little modesty at least.
