Kidnapped by the Billionaire (10 page)

She took another bite of egg, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed, her gaze still on his. “You're really pissed at me, aren't you? So why aren't I all locked up in the basement yet?”

He was silent, the look on his face impenetrable. Then after another moment, he turned around abruptly and stalked back into the kitchen.

Okay then. So he wasn't going to answer her. Well, since she wasn't locked up in his basement, it probably meant he either didn't want to or wasn't going to do it any time soon.

Finding that vaguely reassuring, Violet continued to eat the rest of the food while she turned over in her head what her next move was. Her wrist was beginning to throb, but the food made her stomach feel less unsettled, so that was something. She was still a prisoner though, and obviously that wasn't going be changing any time soon, not unless she could think of another way to get out. Tricky when she considered her limited options.

Then again, what else was she going to do? Just sit here and wait to be given to Jericho? Wait for someone to rescue her?

You'll be waiting forever. Mom isn't coming for you.

Violet put down her fork, trying to ignore the small, sharp pain that slid through her. She'd been trying to tell herself that her mother would come, but the reality was that Violet wasn't certain. Hilary Fitzgerald had her own agenda that she didn't share with anyone close to her—if there was anyone who was actually close to her—and Violet was pretty sure her own daughter didn't rate on that agenda. Or if she did, it wasn't high up.

The pain tightened, but she fought it down. No use getting emotional—that wouldn't help. She had to think clearly here, and it was better not to count on her mother. But Honor she could count on, couldn't she? Her friend would want to find her. The only problem with that was waiting until Honor realized she was missing, and who knew how long that would take? Her father's death had to have made the news by now though, so surely Honor would be trying to get in touch with her.

That didn't help her right at this moment of course. And there was still the info she had about Theo.

The sound of heavy footsteps came again, a mug of coffee appearing beside her empty plate.

“Coffee,” Violet said, blinking at the mug. “You bought me coffee. What the hell kind of hostage taker are you?”

“I told you I wasn't interested in hurting you.”

“Yeah, but making me breakfast and bringing me caffeine?” She picked up her coffee and sat back on the couch, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug. “That's above and beyond, Eli.”

The expression on his face didn't even flicker. “You need clothing and since I'm not leaving you here by yourself anymore, you're going to have to come with me.”

Hope flickered inside her. So maybe yesterday hadn't been such a total loss after all. It was true, she did need clothes since she'd conveniently gotten blood all over the ones she had, and since those were the
only
ones she had, it was either she get more or walk around naked.

That's one way of managing the situation.

She stared at him, the thought sitting in her head. What would he do if she just threw off the blanket? She affected him, she knew that now, and as her brain so helpfully supplied, using her female charms would be one way to get what she wanted. It wouldn't be the first time she'd used a bit of flirtation on a man—she might be a virgin but she wasn't innocent, that was for sure.

Only, she wasn't sure if a “bit of flirtation” would have any effect whatsoever on Elijah.

Sex would though. Definitely.

“A shopping trip?” She took a sip of her coffee, watching him from over the rim of her mug as she let her blanket slip a little. “How exciting.”

And Elijah's gaze slipped with it, the darkness in his eyes deepening.

Her heartbeat sped up, the flicker of hope becoming a steady flame. He wanted her, which was excellent, because once you knew what someone else wanted, you could use that to get what
you
wanted. Hadn't her father told her that?

Your father. The monster.

Violet pushed the snide voice in her head away. Yes, her father
had
been a monster, but shit, did that make every lesson he'd ever taught her a lie? And what else was she supposed to do? Sit there helplessly and wait for rescue?

No freaking way.

Ostentatiously she hiked up the blanket, taking a silent breath as Elijah lifted his gaze back to hers. There were flames in his eyes and they burned.

Her heart beat faster and she became very, very aware of her nakedness, her skin going all tight and sensitive beneath the blanket.

This is
not
a good idea.

She ignored that thought too. “Or”—her voice sounded a little husky, which didn't hurt—“I guess the alternative being I could just walk around naked.”

The rough lines of his face hardened, the scar twisting his mouth whitening. The bruises he'd been sporting the previous day had deepened, and now he didn't look just dangerous. He looked lethal. Not an elegant blade but a club. Heavy and brutal, ready to smash anything he didn't like right out of existence.

He moved in that sudden way he had, the way that took her by surprise since a man that big shouldn't be able to move that quickly, coming toward her, inexorable as the tide. And a wild kind of panic wrapped long fingers around her throat, her earlier confidence crumbling utterly.

But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her fear, so she remained where she was, clutching her pathetic blanket around her as he came right up to the couch and stood in front of her, bending down and putting his hands on the couch back, one on either side of her head.

There was nothing hot about him now as he leaned over her. He was black ice. “You think you can play me, princess?” he demanded, his voice a low, rough growl. “You think I'm going to follow you around like a puppy dog with my tongue hanging out? I'm not one of those little rich boys you can manipulate and toy with just by flashing your tits.”

Oh no, she'd never make that mistake. She had an idea about what he was, about what kind of man she was dealing with. But she wasn't going to let him intimidate her, no matter what he threatened her with.

So she didn't look away, letting him see her own determination as he bent over her. “You didn't seem to mind those tits yesterday, as I recall. In fact, you seemed to quite like them.” And he had. Right up until the moment he'd suddenly pushed her off him as though she'd burned him, oh yes, not forgetting that. “In fact”—she lifted her chin—“maybe you even took advantage of them later? After I passed out?”

Something changed in his eyes, she didn't know quite what, but suddenly the space between them was full of pressure, like a storm front approaching. A dark, leashed violence that made her breathing shorten and her heart race wildly. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

This man was a force of nature and a deep, secret part of her wanted to throw herself into the hurricane.

*   *   *

Little bitch. There she sat, all naked and wrapped only in a blanket. With her goddamn dreadlocks and vivid eyes, thinking she could manipulate him with a glimpse of her body. Thinking she could use sex to play with him. Thinking he was weak enough to fall for it.

Well, aren't you? You were last night.

The thought made him even more furious with her than he was already. And he was pretty fucking furious.

The cold shower he'd had last night had dealt with the hard-on in his jeans, but it hadn't made the slightest bit of difference to the hunger that burned in his blood. He'd had to work himself into exhaustion with the punching bag for hours to stop himself from going over to where she lay on the couch and doing exactly what she'd just accused him of.

Then he'd stormed off to the bedroom to try and get some sleep, but the feel of her skin was on his fingertips and he couldn't get the sound of her sighs out of his head. And it wasn't until he'd taken himself in hand that he'd been able to get a bit of relief.

Even so, he hadn't slept much after that. He could usually operate as normal on little or no sleep, but this morning he'd felt like shit. And when he'd stalked out of the bedroom and into the living room, there she'd been on the couch, still asleep. The blanket had slipped down revealing one smooth shoulder and the curve of her breast, and he'd felt the fucking hunger pour through him like a tide.

It was like she'd flipped a switch on inside him and he had no idea how to turn it off.

But one thing was for sure. For seven years he'd kept himself cold and focused and set on his goal. He wouldn't allow himself to be distracted from it by one little rich girl now, no matter how goddamn sexy she was.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, staring down at her. “I could care less about your fucking tits. Yesterday was an aberration and it won't happen again, no matter how often you keep flashing them around.”

She'd pressed herself back into the couch, a flicker of what looked like fear crossing her face, and that was good. That was how it should be. He needed her afraid and obedient because he was getting pretty damn sick of her fighting him all the time.

“So here's what we're going to do,” he went on, not waiting for a response. “I have a few things I have to do this morning and because of your little performance yesterday, I can't leave you alone. Now, I don't give a shit about whether you wear your filthy, wet clothes or whether you go naked, but unfortunately either of those options will draw attention. And I can't have attention. So we're going to have to get you something else to wear.”

Her jaw had gone tight, and behind the fear in her eyes, a spark of determination glowed. “Fine,” she said. “Then we'll go out. God knows, I could use some fresh air.”

Jesus, even now, the damn woman was refusing to be cowed.

It only added to his fury, though he wasn't even sure why. She was so pretty and delicate, like a china figurine he could crush with one hand. Covered in only a blanket while he was fully clothed. She was vulnerable. She should be trembling with fear. Yet she wasn't.

Why the hell did some part of him, something deep in the recesses of his black heart, like that?

In fact it only made the hunger in him worse. Made him want to rip aside the blanket that covered her so he could see all of her. He was pretty certain she didn't dye her blonde hair, but he very much wanted to see if he was right.

You shouldn't have gotten close to her.

Yeah, that had been a mistake. But backing away now would be to admit that this damn hunger was stronger than he was, and there was fuck-all chance of him doing that.

Driven by some need he didn't really understand, perhaps only the need to test himself, he lifted one hand and took one of her dreadlocks between his fingers. It was much softer than he'd expected, like raw silk. With a certain amount of deliberation, he began to wind it around his hand, staring down at her all the while.

She'd gone completely still, her eyes widening slightly. Watching him like a deer watches a lion stalking toward it. “What are you doing?”

You bastard. What would Marie think of you now?

Marie wouldn't have thought of anything. Marie was dead.

“Like I said, I don't want attention. Which means these”—he tugged on the dreadlocks wrapped around his hand—“are going to have to go.”

Violet blinked. “What do you mean these will have to go?”

He stared back, unyielding. “I mean you're going to have to cut them off.”

“Are you kidding me?” A green spark of anger flared in her eyes.

“Do I look like I'm kidding? Everyone knows what you look like, princess. Especially with those fucking things on your head.”

“So I'll wear a hat!”

“No.” He couldn't leave her here by herself, yet having her with him while those very noticeable and distinctive dreadlocks were on her head was absolutely not happening. “I'm not leaving anything to chance this time.”

Fury burned in Violet's gaze. “You asshole. It took me years to grow—”

“You only grew them to annoy your goddamn mother so don't start pretending they're holy fucking relics.” Slowly he unwound the dread from his hand, ignoring the strange reluctance that went through him as he did so. “You have two choices, princess. Either you cut them yourself or I cut them off for you.”

If looks could kill, he'd be carried home in a bucket. “You're a prick.”

“So I've heard.” He made himself push away from her, and it absolutely wasn't to do with the fact that if he spent another moment bent over her, feeling her warmth and breathing in the very faint scent of sandalwood, he'd rip that blanket away and—

What? Put your hands on her? Fuck her?

Hell no. He wasn't going to end seven years of celibacy with Violet Fitzgerald. He wasn't going to end it at all—at least not until he'd avenged Marie's death. And that wasn't going to happen until Jericho and maybe his whole fucking operation was burned to the ground.

But he wouldn't think beyond that now. Because thinking beyond that opened the door to needs and desires and expectations. And those would kill his determination to do what he had to do stone dead.

Violet sat up, glaring at him. “You can't make me do it.”

“You think?”

“You're not going to shoot me, and if you were going to put me down in that basement, I would be there right now.” Her chin lifted. “So really, what else have you got left to threaten me with?”

Of course. This was Violet. And she never did what she was told.

Reaching down, Elijah took out the knife he kept in his boot and held it loosely in one hand. “Sounds to me like you want me to give you a haircut.”