Escape From Paradise (3 page)

I was happy when Sabrina and Megan came over. Caryn was deep in conversation with one of Fernando’s friends.

“We’re going in the next room to play pool,” Sabrina said. “Wanna come?”

I looked to Fernando, who shook his head.

“Not yet. One more dance,” he said. His smile melted me. Who could resist that kind of charm?

“Come over when you’re done!” Megan flung her arms around me for a hug before practically bouncing away. Sabrina squeezed my hand and gave me a meaningful look, like she was happy for me, and then she left to catch up with Meg. I smiled in their wake.

Fernando clinked his beer bottle to my glass and we both drank. When mine was almost done he said, “I want to see you eat your cherries.”

Now who was being bad? I’d never thought myself good at the whole seduction thing, but he made me want to give it a try.

I fished one out, licking the drop of coke and watching him as I took it into my mouth. He seemed to approve. I tried to feed him the other one, but he laughed and reverted the fruit toward my mouth. I dropped it on my tongue and closing my mouth. I’d never been so flirtatious with a guy.

“Angela…” Fernando trailed the back of his fingers up and down my arm. “Would you be very mad if I lied to your friends?”

“About what?” I asked.

“I do not wish to dance again. I want a few minutes alone before you leave me.”

I bit my lip as my heart sped up. “Where would we go? I don’t want my friends to worry.”

He leaned down to speak right in my ear, making me shiver. “My car is outside. In back where it’s private. We won’t be gone very long.”

When I looked up at him and nodded, I felt shy all of a sudden. I let him take my hand. We made our way through the people to an exit door, and into a small dirt lot behind the building. A handful of cars were there, along with nearby shanty houses with dirt yards. I thought I heard the low cluck of hens as Fernando opened the back door of a sedan with heavily tinted windows. He waved a hand for me to get in. A momentary pang of apprehension shot through me until I looked into his smiling face.

I climbed in and he slid beside me, closing the door and encasing us in darkness. It was a full moon, but there weren’t any street lamps. The car smelled like new leather. I looked down and could barely make out my tanned knees.

Fernando pushed my hair aside and kissed my neck. “How do you feel, Angela?”

“Nervous,” I whispered, immediately getting turned on again by the feel and smell of him.

“Are you a virgin?” He trailed kisses down my neck to my naked shoulder, exposed in the black halter top.

“No, but…” It was a little disconcerting that he’d ask such a personal question first thing. It showed he had sex on the mind. Of course he did—he was a guy. Even I’d had sex on my mind all day. But I still wasn’t sure if I planned to let it go that far. I wasn’t against it, but I also didn’t want it to be an assumed thing.

Fernando’s mouth found mine and his body pressed me back until I was laying with his weight on me. His hands pushed my skirt up and grabbed my knee, hiking it so he was between my legs. As nervous as I was I couldn’t help but be aroused from his confident control and the way he moved against me. Even through our clothes I could tell he would be an amazing lover. I pushed my fingers into his hair and he surprised me by reaching up, grabbing my wrists, and thrusting them over my head before he continued to kiss me more passionately than I’d ever been kissed.

Nobody had ever pinned my hands over my head before, and it did crazy things to me. I bucked my hips, trying to grind closer. He readjusted my wrists so that they were both held together in one of his strong hands, and his other hand trailed down my body, between my legs. He pushed aside my panties and slid two fingers inside me.

I moaned and pushed my hips against his hand.

“You are so wet for me, Angela. My beautiful little slut.”

I tensed and froze at what he’d called me, but his hands kept working.

“What is wrong?” he asked, pushing deeper. I could have sworn there was amusement in his voice. His fingers pushed slowly in and out, and I wished he would stop for a second. I was pissed off that he’d ruined our awesome moment. Maybe it was just a slip. A cultural misunderstanding. I needed to relax.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just...I don’t like that word,” I whispered. That was an understatement. I hated the word.

“It’s only a word.”

“I know. But where I’m from it’s...offensive.” I was ready to drop the subject. “Look, no big deal, okay?” I wanted him to kiss me again. Turn me on again.

“There are two kinds of women.” His voice seemed to get colder. “Prudes and sluts. I can tell you are a slut, though you don’t like to admit it.”

What. The. Hell.

The apprehension I experienced earlier had nothing on the sick sensation going through me now. I felt him trying to slip a third finger inside me, and I pushed with my shoulders, attempting to sit up. His hand tightened on my wrists and his body felt heavier as his breathing picked up.

“Fernando…
stop
.” I rocked my hips and turned to the side, knocking him slightly off balance.

He pulled his fingers out of me and slapped my face hard, making me yelp.

Holy shit.
In the dimness I saw the white of his smile. That’s when panic set in and I really began to struggle. The more I fought and the louder I yelled, the harder I felt him get between my legs.

This could not be happening. My friends didn’t know where I was! Why was he doing this? Everything had been going fine. I started feeling woozy.

“Angela.” His voice was so smooth. So sickening. “Relax. You are angry over nothing. Be still and you will enjoy this.”

I blinked, my eyes feeling heavy, but my mind still angry.

“What alternate fucking reality do you live in where women enjoy being raped?” I spat the words, panting and verging on tears. A very small part of me still clung to the hope that he would see reason and stop.

“American girls. Always so quick to cry rape. Where you are from, women wish to rule the men. Where I am from, women know their place. And they enjoy submitting. You should try it, Angela. I’m told it is
freeing
.”

He was a psycho. How could I have so horribly misread him?

All I knew was that if Fernando raped me, he would not get away with it. My parents would nail his ass to the wall, using any means necessary. They were hard asses in the Texas legal world.

“My parents are lawyerrsss…” Damn. All the struggling I’d done had made me so tired. My words were slurring. I felt heavy.

Fernando ran a finger down my cheek.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re feeling good now, eh?”

No. His words. Oh, God. No. The special drink.

In one last hurrah, I fought, bucking and clawing and thrashing with all the energy I had left. Fernando laughed. He fucking laughed. And then he flipped me over onto my stomach and tore my panties down. My tears soaked the leather seat where my face was pressed. A spinning sensation began. Fernando placed gentle kisses all over the side of my face, neck, and ear, while his hand worked to push my thighs apart.

The last thing I felt before my world went black was Fernando forcing himself inside me.

Sixteen-year-old Scottish boy Conall McCray was rudely awoken far too early with a punch to his chest. He came to bleary-eyed with a hangover from alcohol and whatever white stuff he’d inhaled. He stared up into the eyes of his best mate, who was looking quite irate. Perhaps he was mad at Conall for passing out on his bed last night. The thought made Conall want to smile as he ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. He always took what he wanted.

“Of all the lassies at my party you have to shag my own sister?” his friend hollered.

Ah, yes. His sister, home from uni. She’d tried to fuck him. What was he to do? Conall relaxed back onto the bed.

“We didn’t fuck, ya knob,” Conall told him. Actually, she’d given him a head job in the bathroom.

His friend looked prepared to hit him again, but when Conall leveled his eyes at him in warning, the other lad settled a bit.

It was true that Conall could have landed any girl at his friend’s party. He was the oldest son to one of Scotland’s wealthiest families—generations of men who pioneered the country’s finance and banking system. On the outside he was the handsome, well-educated, artistically talented son of a billionaire, while privately he nurtured his rebellious nature by living a double-life.

Conall McCray was never satisfied with the fake kind of respect money could buy. Watching his father kiss corporate arse made him ill. He learned in his hidden life that true power, control, and respect came from being feared. So he watched and learned, hoping that one day when he took his father’s place he’d be as powerful as he was rich. He craved control. Control of his life and circumstances. Control of how people viewed him.

Control to make the people he loved love him back.

An irritating, persistent string of knocking began on his mate’s front door. His friend growled and went to answer, allowing Conall to close his eyes and drift off again. Sure, his friend was angry, but he’d get over it, just like usual. He always let Conall do whatever he wanted.

Loud adult voices sounded from the hall, men, and then the trampling of hard footsteps down the hall into the bedroom. Conall sat up, ready to fight.

Two uniformed officers with pinched faces surveyed him.

“Conall McCray?”

“Aye. What do you want?” he asked. Had someone snitched on him about the drug sales? He’d gladly kick their arses. His father would get him out of any charges, but it was the bitching from his parents he hated. He wanted to punch something. Or someone.

“Lad, have you any clue what’s happened at your estate?”

A bitter heaviness settled itself low in Conall’s abdomen. “What are you on about?”

He stood now, wishing he wore something more than tight boxers. He grabbed for his shirt and pulled it on. The two men looked at him with pity.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” one of them said softly. “But we must work quickly. Your parents have been murdered and your brother’s gone missing. We’re taking you into custody for your own protection. Do you ken what I’m telling you, son?”

Conall’s world tilted off its axis. He had a floating thought that if he could just reach his jeans and put them on, pretending he hadn’t just heard what he’d heard, it would all go away. But when he reached for the jeans he caught the ashen face of his best mate in the doorway, and the words hit home.

Graham, his wee ten-year-old brother, was out there somewhere with psychopaths. Graham, who Conall cannae have been bothered to give an ounce of attention to over the past year because he’d been too damn busy partying. Graham, with his mop of curls, who looked up to Conall like some sort of god.

Conall bent and spewed his sick on the carpets. He puked and gagged and heaved until his head cleared, then he tried to force his way out of the room. He had to find his brother.

Arms grabbed him. He managed a hit to one of their jaws and a kick to the knee. The men were shouting and cursing for him to stay still. Then a sting punctuated his shoulder. Conall felt the effects immediately, his legs going weak, and then blackness.

He came to that afternoon on a couch in a small office. He jolted upright, fighting the urge to be sick again. A man with a badge kneeled in front of him at eye-level. Two men with holstered guns stood behind him.

The man stared into his eyes. “We will find your brother.” He’d said the one thing that could keep Conall from jumping off the couch and fighting to get free. “But we need your cooperation. You are the heir to your father’s estate, but we are sending you into hiding. The estate and lands will be sold and liquidated, and put into a fund for when you become twenty-two. This was your father’s wish, stated in his will as to what should happen if his life was taken by force. Do you understand?”

Conall swallowed bile and nodded. He understood he was homeless. Without a family. Or money.

“I have an aunt,” Conall told him.