The Chase (5 page)

My heartbeat stops, stutters before it’s able to start back up.

The grin on his face
as he draws the flat of the blade over my cheek, his absolute glee at what he’s doing to me, snap something deep inside of me. I’ve been there, done that, with every drunken asshole who stumbled through Green Acres and thought that a fresh teen girl was ripe for the picking. I’ve left that behind, and I won’t go back again.

Hell no.
No amount of money is worth it.

I move on instinct rather than with conscious thought, letting him slide his hand up my leg
. Terror grips me in icy tentacles when he follows his hand with the knife. I don’t want to be cut,
please God don’t let me get cut...

But even if he slices through me like a Christmas ham, cut up is better than dead. So I force myself to hold still, let him explore the delicate skin of my inner thigh with the cold steel. He’s not using the tip, or the edge... this is important.

It tells me he wants my fear more than he wants to actually hurt me.

This means I might have a chance.

While he gives himself over to his knife play, his focus on touching me roughly, cruelly, I use my newly freed hands to yank at my bracelet. The delicate gold chain breaks, and I pinch for the stone with fingers made clumsy by adrenaline.

“I don’t think so, whore.” Henry catches the bracelet and tugs. The chain snaps yet again, and the piece with the stone—the piece I desperately need—goes flying.

A sound I can’t even put a name to emanates from the depths of my throat—fear, rage, everything all pressed into one sound.

And the fucking maniac laughs. He
laughs
. Because to him I’m just a hooker. I’m nothing. Just like I’ve always been.

I won’t be that person anymore.

My nails are short, but strong and sharp. I rake them over his eyes, as hard as I can. He shouts, and I smell the warm copper of blood. His hands are clapped to his eyes, and though he’s trying to press me in, to pin me against the wall, his attention is diverted.

I stomp on his instep with the wickedly sharp stiletto heels of my shoes, savoring his howl. For good measure, I aim a kick at his privates with that same weapon. I miss, but manage to tear a good size rent in the expensive trouser fabric, and break the skin too, I think.

And then I run. I can’t get back to the door we came through—a quick glance behind me tells me that he’s blocking it. But there’s another unmarked door at the other end of the hall, if I can just get there...

I don’t know what it leads to, but the important thing is that it will put a barrier between us.

I half run, half stumble, my ankle twisting painfully as I land wrong on the wobbly shoes. Henry’s shouts, his panting breath, the scent of blood draw closer, and I know he’s following me.

Please God, don’t let this be a storage closet.

I reach the door, relief a massive rush that makes me high as the knob turns in my hand. I start to push through, shrieking when I feel that hand tangle in my hair again, pinning me in place.

Shoving back with my elbows, my feet, everything I’ve got, I make it through the door, right into the front lobby. People look at me, startled—some even disapproving, when they take in my outfit—and I look around wildly, wondering if I’m safe now.

The piano is still being played. People are still sipping at their drinks while they enjoy the music. The apple trees still gleam, beckoning like the dark promise of the Garden of Eden.

It’s like what happened in the service hallway occurred in a parallel dimension, and for a moment I wonder if the prospect of this job has made me hallucinate.

And then Henry is at my side, for all appearances calm, though he’s breathing hard. His hand clamps around my upper arm, and though I immediately try to jerk away, he holds tight.

The blade is gone, probably tucked away in the pocket that’s above the big rip in his pants—the rip that I put there when I defended myself.

Yes, this is real. And I’m not safe yet.

“We’re going to my room, right now. We’re going to finish this.”
Henry bites out the words, pinching his fingers into my arm with a cruel touch.

“Fuck you.” I jerk away, my skin burning where his fingers rip over my flesh.

“What the fuck is going on?” The voice booms out across the lobby, a shot of whiskey to numb the pain. I turn instinctively toward the sound without knowing why, seeking safety.

And I see Adam Kincaid, six feet three inches of rock god in
torn denim, striding across the lobby towards us—toward me. His expression starts as only vaguely concerned, but once his eyes scrape over my torn dress, the blood on Henry’s face, I can see a rage that’s terrifying because it’s so icy cold, building across that dangerous face.

What the fuck is Adam Kincaid doing here?
Two sightings in one day—what are the chances?

A brief memory of him noting Henry’s name on the sheet of paper that I dropped... of offering me money so I didn’t have to follow through my first job...

I get it. He’s here for me, because underneath that asshole exterior is a good soul and a soft heart.

But I don’t need a Prince Charming to save me. I learned that early on, that no one was going to look out for me but me.

So while Henry shouts at Adam to mind his own business, I slam my elbow into his ribcage, following it with a swift uppercut to his jaw. He grunts, grabs for me, knocks me off balance on my ridiculous shoes.

I see Adam lunge to catch me as I fall, but Henry throws a punch
at the rocker. I see something dark pass through Adam’s eyes, those eyes that are not quite green and not quite brown, as I fall.

And then
my temple connects with something hard, pain shoots through my skull, and my entire world goes black and soft.

Chapter Three

The music is what wakes me. Soft, aching chords of an acoustic guitar, they melt effortlessly into my dream, and when I open my eyes into the dark, it takes a minute to get my bearings, to understand what is the dream and what is reality.

My fingers clutch involuntarily, reaching for something, anything to anchor me as echoes of terror slam through me. I’m in a strange bed, in the dark. But when my hands slide down my body, I discover that I’m
still fully clothed, in my fancy but cheap underwear and tattered dress. I feel a little pang over that... finding a real silk dress that actually fit at a thrift store for cheap is not something I’m going to be able to pull off again. Though I suppose it doesn’t matter, because right now, as I absorb the little aches and pains from my encounter with Henry Thomas, I can’t imagine going back to this job.

A
s I try to sort through my senses and clear the fog in my head, I blink and focus above me. The ceiling is picked out in hundreds, thousands of little glow in the dark stars... something entirely too whimsical and wonderful for a monster like Henry Thomas.

The music, the stars... I’ve got a pretty good idea of where I am. Or who I’m with, at any rate. But
I have no idea why.

Scrubbing my hands over my eyes as I slide from the
tempting softness of the bed, I lick my dry lips and tiptoe toward the sound of the music, desperate for a drink of water.

The door of
the bedroom leads to a small, galley style kitchen done up in glossy black wood and marble. There’s an artsy ceramic bowl on the counter, filled with fat red grapes. My mouth waters—I get a lot of my necessary vitamins in pill form because healthy food is so damn expensive. I waver, knowing that surely no one will miss a handful of grapes. But they’re not mine, so in the end I leave them there.

T
hrough the kitchen is a large living room, decorated in a very Zen kind of style... low leather couches, natural wood, framed prints of nature. And there, sitting cross legged on one of those low couches, is Adam Kincaid.

Some
how I’m not surprised, but still, this makes no sense at all. I close my eyes, then open them again, suddenly certain that this entire day has been something conjured up in my stressed-out brain. Adam Kincaid is famous. Hugely famous. Like, got his start on a popular reality show, toured with an iconic band who had lost their lead singer a decade ago, effectively breathing new life into their music... then released three number one solo albums back to back famous.

And yet there he is, sitting on a couch in front of me, wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. Pajama bottoms with Wonder Woman flying all over them, I realize with an inward
quirk of my lips.

At least he has good taste in superheroes. A small sound escapes my throat at the absurdity of that
, and it cuts through the sounds that Adam is seductively coaxing from the guitar. He looks up, pinning me with the intensity of those eyes, and a jolt passes through me.

Down girl. He doesn’t do women.
And he’s kind of an asshole. Plus you were just assaulted. Oh yeah, and you have no idea where you are.

A sobering
reality, but it does nothing to dissipate the slow burn that only gets warmer as I slowly, cautiously edge into the room and sit down on a chair facing the rock star.

I don’t want to be the Disney princess who falls in love because her hero has saved her.

But the warmth buzzing through me tells me that I’m not entirely immune to the glass slipper complex.

“How are you feeling?” He looks diffe
rent, even more so than when I saw him earlier. Before, it had taken a moment to recognize him because he wasn’t wearing the glitz and leather that is his stage persona. And now he’s different yet again. After puzzling over it for a second, I realize it’s because his face is scrubbed clean of the dark eye makeup he usually wears.

His naked face is heartbreaking. No one should be that good looking. Especially not when I’m sitting here in
a shredded, bloody silk dress, mascara gluing my eyelids together, my normally silky hair a snarl at the back of my head.

Adam clears his throat, and I realize that he asked me a question... and I’ve been staring. Pursing my lips with annoyance, most of it directed at myself, I tear my eyes away from the way his tattoos stretch over his solid biceps as he sets aside his guitar.

“I’m okay. Shaken up.” Now that I’m awake, my body’s aches and pains are clamoring to be heard
, especially the place where I hit my head. “A bit woozy.”

Hitching forward on the couch, Adam braces his elbows on his knees and studies me for a long moment. I squirm a bit under the scrutiny, relaxing only when he reaches for a bottle that’s sitting in a bucket of ice.

He pops the cork with the ease of someone who’s done it a million times before. The low lights in the room gleam on the green glass bottle, on that sexy hoop through his brow, on the windows...

The airplane windows, I realize. When I look around, I take note of the seatbelts that are on every available seat.

Oh, what the...

“Where are we going?” My voice is high, a million thoughts running through my mind.
Have I gotten out of one bad situation just to land in another? Does Miss Black know where I am? I don’t have my bracelet anymore.

He doesn’t answer, instead reaching
for one of the half dozen crystal champagne flutes that sit upside down by the ice bucket. He pours a generous amount of the bubbly golden liquid, then hands it to me.

I shake my head, my fingers digging into the arms of the chair.

“I said, where are we going?”

Adam’s expression is dark and full of all kinds of words that I don’t understand, but still he says nothing—a talker he is not.

I grind my teeth together with agitation as he slowly pours himself a glass of sparkling wine, then sips it, nodding approvingly. Settling back on the couch again, he lays one arm along the back of it, looking so unrealistically sexy that I kind of want to punch him in the chest. But mostly just so I could touch his chest.

“Mr. Kincaid,” I start, and he shakes his head, leaning across the small space that divides us. Taking my hand in his own, he wraps my fingers around the stem of the flute, and my mouth goes dry.

Stupid rock star sex pheromones.
I’m a cynical bitch, and he plays for the other team and I know it, and yet I’m still not immune.

“You’re safe. That’s all you need to know right now
, kitten.” Sitting back down, he scowls in my general direction. “Drink your wine.”

I consider flinging the contents of the flute into his face, just to be contrary, but I’m not sure what will happen if I do, and I’m not up to any more surprises today. Slowly, cautiously, I sip, sighing despite myself when the sweetness spreads out over my tongue.

“Now don’t you feel better, doing what you’ve been told?” Smirking at me, he pats the couch beside him, gesturing for me to come over. “Come here. I want to take a look at your head.”

I instinctively reach for the wound... it feels puffy, swollen, but not scabbed or bleeding. I’m sure I’m fine.
And I’m sure that it’s not smart to get any closer to Adam Kincaid and his sex pheromones.

“I’ll come over there if you tell me what happened.” My fingers tighten on the stem of my wine glass.

“Excuse me?” Adam narrows his eyes, and I get the distinct impression that he’s not used to being questioned. I rub my fingers over my temple to emphasize my point, and he finally nods, conceding the point.

“I’d just gotten to the hotel when I saw you burst through the door.”
I don’t press and ask him why he was there already—I already know. Though why he’s decided to take such a personal interest in me, I have no idea.

Adam takes a deep swallow of his own wine, and I try hard not to stare at the sexy way his Adam’s apple bobs
. He huffs out a deep breath before continuing. “You clearly didn’t want to go with him. When you fell and hit your head, trying to get away from him, you passed out. He tried to pick you up and carry you off.”

“He could try.” Despite the cockiness that I’m pulling around myself like a warm hug, I feel a
tendril of terror, twining around the base of my spine.

Adam sets his glass down on the table hard enough to shatter it.

“You’re not getting this, sweet thing. He
did
try. He was frothing at the mouth, calling you Avery, saying you belonged to him. If I hadn’t been there, you could be dead. Or wishing you were.”

The accusation in his tone makes me stiffen.
Mostly because what he’s saying is true. “I can take care of myself, thanks ever so much.”

“Cause you were doing such a great job of that when I found you.” He edges forward on the couch, clearly agitated.
“I already told you. You’re not the kind of girl who should be in a job like this.”

“And what
do
I look like I should be doing? Selling cupcakes at a bake sale while letting boys ogle my legs in my cheerleading skirt?” I smirk at him, irritation covering the whisper in my head that tells me he’s right. “No, you said, I don’t
look
like the kind of girl who would be in that job. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know that you’re not as tough as you think you are.” Those amazingly unique eyes of his narrow, and I suddenly feel like I’m being stalked by a big cat.

“And you are?” My reaction is knee jerk, cruel. “Mr. Rock Star, who doesn’t have to do a damn thing by himself? Your security guards probably did all the work.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, either.” Standing—and giving me a mouth-watering view of the body that makes men and women alike lose their minds—he holds out his fist for me to see.

It’s swollen, bruised, cut.

My mouth goes dry.

“My security guards hauled him up to his room so he could sleep it off. But don’t lecture me about judging you when you’re doing the exact same thing to me.”

He rounds the coffee table, coming closer. Standing right in front of me now, he bends over, runs his fingers over my temple, examining my head wound.

I can feel the heat from his skin, smell the soap from his recent shower, and find myself getting light headed. Which is so incredibly stupid.

He has said himself in interviews, ones I’ve read, that he’s only interested in dating men. This is his rock star superpower, this ability to
seduce people. It’s in his freaking job description.

No way am I going to let him see how he’s affecting me.

“What were you doing at the hotel, anyway?” I scowl as he probes at my head, not jerking away from the lure of his touch like I want to. “And you still haven’t told me where we’re going. Miss Black is going to put your testicles in a jar and keep them on her desk.”

I’m not really afraid of him—not entirely. What I don’t like is that all control has been taken away from me.

“I booked a room at that hotel this afternoon.” The hand on my temple trails down my cheek, traces along the line of my jaw. I can’t stop myself from sucking in a deep breath, my head suddenly swimming. “And as far as Miss Black is concerned,
I
am currently your client. I’ve booked you for the rest of the week.”

“What?” I have no idea what I’ve been expecting, but this sure isn’t it. He couldn’t have shocked me more if he’d barked and told me to call him Fido.
“No. Miss Black would never send me off with someone without asking me first.”

At least... I don’t think she would. But truthfully, everything since accepting this job has been a blur. I really don’t know
what
the woman will and won’t do.

I expect him to smirk again, but the way his lips twist tells me he’s sorry for me. This makes me bristle. “Sorry
, kitten, but I have more money than Jesus. And that woman may not whore her body out anymore, but she’s more than happy to whore yours for a big payday.”

I can’t even put a name to half the emotions that start to riot through me.
Betrayal, rage, and plain confusion.

Not to mention the urge to pop him one right on his perfect Roman nose.

“I want to call her. I want to leave.” My fingers dig into the arms of the chair again, and I feel the butter soft leather give way beneath my jagged nails. I don’t care. “She can’t just do that.”

The hand on my jaw tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to get my attention. Those incredible eyes blaze down into my own.

“If you get out of the job with me, she’ll just book you with Thomas again, as soon as he asks. And he’ll ask. You’re a toy to him, Miss Daniels, a thing. A possession that slipped through his fingers.”

He’s...

He’s absolutely right.
I hate it, but he’s right. When I decided to work for Miss Black, all potential clients stopped seeing me as a woman, a person.

I’m just a thing. A thing to be bought and sold.
Not so different, after all, from those boyfriends of mama’s who felt entitled to a taste of both generations.