Sparrow (7 page)

“You’re wasting your time.” I covered my lower body with my hands, feeling my ears pinking before I even whispered the words. “I’m a virgin.”

“I had a feeling you would be.” Amusement danced in his eyes as he rolled closer and reached out to draw circles on my pubic bone. “That can be rectified.”

“I don’t want it to be,” I fired back, feeling all kinds of ashamed, annoyed and…Hell, who was I kidding? Troy Brennan really wasn’t that bad to look at. If you were willing to ignore the monstrousness lurking behind those ice-blue eyes, he might not be the worst candidate as a lover.

Of course, that was the last thing I was going to admit to him or anyone else in this lifetime.

“This period of yours…” He licked his lips, keeping his voice businesslike and ignoring my last comment altogether. “When is it going to end?”

“Four, five…
years
,” I answered, my lips twitching, but I thought about how it’d feel to have him, even five years from now. “What can I say, Mother Nature can be a bitch.”

“And she’s not the only one.” He flattened his hand on my stomach, and I let his heat seep through the fabric of my cotton shirt.

His master bedroom was magnificent, with marble flooring, a huge black-leather headboard, gray and white satin throws, rich beige rugs and custom lighting. It looked like something out of a catalogue. Breathtakingly impersonal and too sterile to feel at home in.

Just like its owner. But just like its owner, it was unbelievably striking.

It was different.

It was insane.

It was…something I didn’t hate, even though I desperately wanted to.

“Something tells me that if Mother Nature was in charge right now, you’d be riding me like a jockey.” He sat up and hauled me back toward his body, his breath caressing my skin.

I let out a soft moan and fought the urge to lean into him.

His lips traveled oh-so-briefly over my wrist, his words sharp as a razor but his voice surprisingly sweet. “Why don’t you show me this spine of yours, Sparrow? Why don’t you take a look at what you did?” he urged, looking down at his underwear.

My pulse hitched, my eyes slowly traveling down to his groin. A faint trail of pink blood stained his white boxers, watered down by my wetness against his bulge.

I hated him for showing this to me. I hated myself for doing this to him.

“I’m nowhere near ready to have sex with you, Brennan. Not now. Probably not ever.” But even as I said the words, I knew they were a lie. Hell, he probably knew that, too.

At the same time, I hated him so much it burned through my skin, made my bones ache with rage.

“Sparrow Brennan…” He tasted the name on his tongue, clucking it in approval. “One day I’m going to fuck your brains out, until you won’t be able to walk the next day.”

One day
, my brain processed.
But not tonight, asshole.

“You know that. And I know that,” he continued, “so if you want to lie to yourself, by all means, be my fucking guest. But we both know you’re already mine. Mind…” He reached up and stroked my temple softly.

A shiver ran down my spine.

“Body...” His hand traveled down to my chest, groping my right breast suddenly and circling my erect nipple with his thumb.

I dropped my head back, letting him touch me.

“Soul…” He continued down to my stomach, underneath my shirt, his fingers brushing every inch of my flesh.

Oh, hell.

“
Heart
…” His hand glided back up to my left breast where he paused for a second, snorting a sarcastic laugh. “Well, the heart you can keep yourself.”

Then, without a warning, he flipped us both in one fast movement. He was now on top, with me writhing underneath him, stomach to stomach. His weight pressed on my pelvis, and before I could muster the courage and brain cells to give him another mouthful, he ground his bulge against me, nothing separating us other than the stupid fabric of his underwear.

Heat swelled inside me. I sucked in a breath, biting my lip furiously to suppress a moan.

“Should I stop?” he asked, his arms boxing me in as he continued grinding.

“Y-yes,” my weak voice stuttered. I did want him to stop…
didn’t I
?

He paused, but his smile grew bigger and more shark-like. He dipped his head, his mouth finding mine as he rolled off of me. He spoke into my mouth, his lips hovering over mine, but not kissing me. “Someday, I’m going to get us kicked out of this place, when you scream my name so loud in this bedroom that everyone can hear.”

I frowned at him. “I doubt anyone would kick you out of the building, considering your reputation.”

Troy threw his head back and laughed a wholehearted, joyful laugh. He loved my last statement.
Loved being feared
.

“That much is true.” His hand moved to my throat, his finger tracing an invisible line. “You know, Sparrow? Maybe we could play together after all. There’s some fun hiding underneath your layers of goodness.”

I had a feeling there was nothing fun hiding underneath his layers of darkness, but I didn’t say a thing.

SPARROW

Five Days Later

ONE DAY SWALLOWED
the next one, time sticking together like pages in a new, unopened book. And me? I was running out of options to entertain myself between the thick, suffocating walls of Troy Brennan’s penthouse.

When he’d imprisoned me for ten days before our wedding, he only visited his tastefully furnished, clinical-looking apartment once, and that was to tell me I was going to be his wife. Back then, I’d wondered if he wanted to scare me or give me time to come to terms with the new arrangement. Now, I knew for certain that his absence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his job.

These days, he came home every night long after I pretended to be asleep, reeking of stout beer, other women’s perfume and the sour-sweet scent of a man’s sweat. He left for work early, so when I woke up, his side of the mattress was always cold and empty.

He didn’t try to touch me again. Hell, he didn’t even try to strike up a conversation the few times I saw his face. And for the most part, I was content with this arrangement.

I left the penthouse for my morning runs and for my evening culinary classes. I visited Pops twice, cooking and cleaning for him out of habit, with Connor shadowing my every move, following my every step like an eager Pit Bull puppy. I wouldn’t let him inside my father’s apartment, so he sat outside the door, in the kitchen chair I dragged into the hallway, patiently waiting, chewing tobacco tucked in his jaw and, undoubtedly hating every second of me being out of his sight.

Any attempt by me to leave the penthouse late at night (and there were attempts to do so, especially the first couple of days) was blocked by my sturdy, bulky bodyguard, who looked like the human equivalent of an industrial fridge. Connor would wordlessly fold his arms over his gorilla-like torso, marching in my direction as I stumbled back into the apartment, my head hanging low.

For the first time since I was fifteen, I had a curfew. I hated Brennan for imposing restrictions on me, interfering with my life even without taking part in it.

But at least I had other company.

Troy had a housekeeper named Maria, a small, cranky, sixty-something woman with white hair and brown skin, who came in every other day, working for both Troy and for his mother, Andrea, as the family help since Brennan was a kid.

Maria didn’t speak good English, so we communicated in the most universal way humanly possible—with food.

I spent hours practicing and cooking for no one in particular. I prepared delicious dishes only to admire them silently, tuck them into disposable Tupperware and hand them to the closest homeless shelter. But first, Maria would help herself to a serving or two and offer great input about the spices, tastes and flavors (mostly in Spanish.) Her suggestions and compliments made me happy, her presence a drop of solace in the sea of desperation I was drowning in.

Almost a week into our fake marriage, I got back to Brennan’s penthouse after my morning run and walked straight to the first floor bathroom. His apartment was a modern two-story affair, with the master suite and study upstairs. I always used the bathroom near the guest room on the first floor, because it felt less his. It wasn’t personalized with his products, towels, razor and singularly manly scent. With
him
.

Ever since our wedding night, I’d tried to keep my exposure to Brennan to an absolute minimum and treated him with a suspicion usually saved for convicted terrorists.

I kept a small knife under my pillow, the one I used in cooking class for removing meat from the bone. I added 911 to the speed-dial on my phone. Like a good Girl Scout, I was always prepared.

Today, I kneeled down in the bathroom and ran myself a bath, throwing salts and other luxuries I wasn’t even aware were on the market in the tub. I toed off my running shoes and threw my yoga pants and soaked shirt into a sweaty pile in the corner next to the sink.

Then I heard the front door slam, and my heart gave a leap.

Maria was already in the apartment.

Connor was peacefully (albeit unprofessionally) napping on a sofa in Brennan’s study upstairs after trying to keep up with me on my run.

Troy never came home this early, and he wasn’t the kind of man that you dropped in on for a friendly visit.

This meant alarm bells. Aware this might be someone not so friendly, I jumped into a bathrobe and searched the bathroom cabinets and drawers. Nail scissors weren’t much of a weapon, but they were small and sharp, and capable of taking out an eye. Truthfully, arming myself with scissors in a mobster’s apartment was about as practical as learning how to swim in the kitchen sink, but I wanted to be on the safe side.

Heart hammering in my chest, I cautiously stepped into the gigantic foyer. The whole first floor—kitchen, dining and living rooms— functioned together as an open space, and I took comfort in the fact there were no hidden corners or dark curves a potential attacker could hide behind. Once I heard a soft laugh coming from the direction of the kitchen, my shoulders eased.

The voice was male and vaguely familiar, but it was different than Troy’s. It wasn’t so cold.

“Were you going to attack me with a pair of scissors?” he inquired in a smooth voice.

I stopped in front of him and narrowed my eyes.
Brock.
He was sitting on an elegant white leather barstool at the stainless kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee Maria must have just poured for him. Our maid gazed at him with adoring eyes, beaming like he had just found the cure for cancer and stupidity all at once.

I released my grip on the scissors, placing them on the counter and breathing deeply to try and ease the unexpected increase in my heartbeat.

“Well,” Brock said, saluting me with the mug he was holding, “you came prepared.”

“I’m sure you’re more prepared than I am.” I shot him an accusing glare. If he was anything like his law-bending friend, Brock would come armed with enough ammunition to conquer a medium-sized dictatorship.

He stood up, lifting his arms in mock-surrender, and pivoted slowly to show me that he didn't have a gun. His beauty lit up the room, and I hated myself for noticing this. He was clean-shaven, his brown hair a disheveled mess. He wore slim dark denim, a gray crewneck that complimented his eyes, and a white cotton shirt underneath. He looked like the dreams they try to sell you in
Cosmo
and
Marie Claire
, like a gift wrapped in sophisticated clothing.

And he’s married, I reminded myself. So was I.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, short of breath.

“I came here to give Maria a few things she needed.” He plopped back down on the stool and took a sip of his coffee. “Then she offered me the good stuff. Can’t say no to caffeine. It’s like middle-class crack.
Gracias
, Maria.” He tipped his mug at her, winking playfully at the older woman.

“
De nada.
I go back to work now,
mijo.
” She planted a peck on his cheek.

I almost stumbled back in shock. Maria was about as motherly as a scouring pad. Kissing and fussing were not in her nature. She might have taken a shine to me because of my cooking, but she scowled at the very mention of Troy and Connor. Both men had a shady job and at least some history with pissing off the law. I didn’t know what Brock did for a living, but if he was granted access to this penthouse, I was guessing he wasn’t a respectable police officer or justice-seeking prosecutor. No, he had to be another bad guy.

But in his case, Maria didn’t mind. I watched her climb up the curved staircase to the second floor, disappearing into the master bedroom, probably to change the sheets, like she did on every visit so far. Not that Troy and I were leaving anything on the sheets that made washing them necessary.

“Did you drug her or something?” I jerked my thumb in Maria’s general direction.

“I only drug people when I really have to.” Brock laughed over the rim of his coffee mug. “Normally, I’m more of a live and let live type of guy.”