The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  Ringo sniffs back the insults, but says no more, leaving Danny to go on. “We have an hour tops turn around. Get the consignment off, in the containers, checked, and we’re out of there. Then we wait for the—” Black’s head snaps up, finding me at the door, and I don’t mistake the flash in his eyes for anything less than fury. His fists ball on the desk. His men all turn and look at me.

  I back up, not saying a word, and make a hasty retreat, heading back the way I came. I’ve seen his eyes in various states of fury, but never have I seen them burning that hard. I’m just about to hotfoot it up the stairs when I hear my name being called. But not by him. I turn toward the woman’s voice, finding Esther, the dark-haired lady who showed me to my suite last night.

  “You must be hungry,” she says, indicating to her right. “I was just about to bring breakfast to your room, but since you’re here . . .”

  It’s the first time she’s spoken to me. She’s English? She’s a very attractive lady, maybe late forties, with a slim body and clear complexion. She’s wearing the same as last night—a gray maid’s uniform. It’s plain. Boring. I look back toward Danny’s office, torn.

  “He wants you to eat,” she says, winning back my attention. “The kitchen is this way.” Turning, Esther wanders away, and I resolve myself to follow, perhaps because she’s the only other woman I’ve seen since I arrived. It’s someone to talk to.

  Entering the kitchen, an enormous space with more glass doors leading to the garden, I take a seat at the island. Esther doesn’t speak as she putters around, wiping the sides, emptying the dishwasher, putting a fresh pot of coffee on. The silence is awkward.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask, trying to make idle conversation.

  “Long enough,” she says over her shoulder, swirling the coffee pot as the machine drips fat drops of caffeine into it. Long enough. That sounds like too long.

  “You run the house?”

  “I do as I’m asked to do.” She pours the coffee into a cup and passes it over, and I accept on a small smile. “You’ll do well to do the same.”

  I say nothing but think plenty. Everyone does what Danny Black asks them to do. I should heed her advice.

  “Bagel? Toast?” she asks, reaching into a cupboard.

  “Toast, please.”

  She loads the toaster with two slices of bread and presses the lever, sinking them. Then she goes about her chores again, as if I’m not here. I spin my coffee cup, wondering if she’s even curious about me and how I’ve come to be in her boss’s mansion. “I hope you don’t mind me ask—”

  “You can leave, Esther.” Danny’s voice hits my back with force, sounding as angry as his eyes looked when I fled his office. I don’t turn around, and instead watch Esther scuttle off without another word. Dropping my eyes to the speckled gray and black marble counter, I start studying the various patterns, trying to make shapes and pictures out of them. I know he’s getting close. Every hair on my nape is standing to attention. I shudder, tense. And then his hand rests on my neck. But rather than tense more, I relax.

  “Never listen in on my work conversations again.”

  “Okay.” I don’t apologize, and I don’t try to explain myself either. It would be a waste of my energy.

  His grip tightens. “You’re hungry.” I nod. “Thirsty?” I simply raise my coffee cup, and his grip tightens a little more. You would think with my compliance he would be softening. But his hold of me is getting harder. And I know why. He’s looking for a yelp, anything to show my discomfort. He won’t get it.

  “Harder,” I spit without thought, setting my coffee cup on the counter and placing a hand over his on the back of my neck. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly.” I push down, egging him on, and he moves in, his groin pressing into my back.

  Dipping, he bites my lobe, grazing it harshly through his teeth. I close my eyes and force myself not to allow our contact to dent my resolve.

  “Coffee?” I ask, completely out of the blue. It’s stupid, but there’s a method in my madness. Get him off me before I do something I regret. Like swivel and unzip his fly.

  He chuckles in my ear, the sound soft and light.

  Just like that.

  From growling, angry bear, to cute little cub.

  “Please.” He releases me, and I jump off the stool like a rubber ball, taking myself to the safe side of the island as I shake myself back to life. He takes my stool, cocking one foot on the rest and leaning his elbows on the counter, watching me as I find my way around. I prepare his coffee, at the same time talking myself down from the edge of a deadly cliff. I also try to think of something else to say that doesn’t include anything I may or may not have heard while hovering on the threshold of his office. Unwanted Coast Guards. Consignments. Distractions.

  I’m not surprised by my newfound knowledge. I’m curious, and curiosity in this world gets you killed. Luckily for me, I have a desire to breathe, even if I’m not technically living. “Sugar?” I ask, turning to face him.

  “Obviously, I’m sweet enough.”

  I scoff, and I don’t apologize for it. Danny Black is about as sweet as hell is cold. “Here.” I slide the cup across the island, and he takes it before I have a chance to remove my hand, pressing my palm into the hot ceramic, keeping it there while holding my eyes. His are blazing. Fire and ice swirl in their depths. I let my stare fall to his neck, where a dusting of hair pokes out the top of his open-collared shirt. And then they drop farther south to our hands on the cup. The heat sinking into my flesh is there, but it’s not there. Nothing is really there when I’m touching him. Close to him.

  “Thank you.” He releases his palm and watches me as he takes the cup to his mouth. “I think something’s burning.”

  My senses are hyper-alert, but my sense of smell is too busy appreciating his cologne to notice the other potent scent in the room until he pointed it out.

  Then I see smoke.

  “Shit.” I dart across to the toaster and press every lever on it, trying to eject the smoking bread. No luck. My breakfast continues to burn, the smell intensifying. I glance around the area, searching for anything to dig it out. There’s nothing. “Damn it.” In desperation, I shove my hand in and flick it out, worried I might set all the fire alarms off.

  I throw the burnt toast on the plate and stare at the pile of charcoal. “I hope you didn’t kidnap me for my culinary skills.” I look up and find Black with his coffee resting to his lips, still and quiet, watching me. His face is impassive. No amusement whatsoever. We stare. It’s silent. My eyes begin to roam every inch of his face, and his roam over mine. His breathing deepens. Mine becomes strained. I see a million sins in his eyes. And I wonder if he sees the dirt of my life in mine.

  The lever on the toaster pops up. It makes me jump, and my eyes snap away from his. I realign my thoughts quickly and take the plate, ready to dump my breakfast in the bin.

  “Put the plate down.”

  I freeze. Look up at him. “What?”

  He slowly places the cup on the island and rounds it, taking the plate from my hand and setting it aside. Then he presses the lever down on the toaster again. “I haven’t put any more bread in it,” I tell him, reaching for the loaf that Esther left. My hand doesn’t make it. He seizes my wrist firmly, stilling me.

  Then he guides my hand toward the toaster. The heat on my flesh is instant. So is my confusion. His eyes drill holes into me while he slowly takes my hand down until my palm meets the red-hot heat of the metal. I feel nothing. Am I hardened? Stupid? I don’t know, but I don’t feel what I’m supposed to feel. Pain.

  “If you pull away, I won’t stop you.” His statement must trigger something inside of me. Alertness. My nerves spring to life, and suddenly the pain is there. But I don’t pull away, my teeth gritting instead as I endure his torture. It’s nothing in comparison to other cruelties I’ve faced. Nothing compared to other punishments I’ve suffered.

  But he’s not punishing me. He’s trying to
figure me out.

  And me him.

  I engage my spare hand and reach blindly for his, our eyes glued. Danny makes it easy for me to find, actually placing his big hand in mine. I bring it over the toaster too. He doesn’t stop me. I press his palm down on top of the metal, right next to mine.

  His face doesn’t crack, but his eyes go from simmering heat to a full-blown inferno, his jaw now as tight as mine as we stand there torturing each other.

  He won’t pull away. I won’t pull away. What point are we trying to prove to each other?

  Then the toaster suddenly decides enough is enough and the lever springs up. The heat dies. And Danny suddenly jerks us both away, both of us gasping. Turning our hands palm up, he looks down, studying the matching welts. “We’re the same,” he whispers, bringing my hand to his mouth and kissing the burn.

  Soft Danny.

  It’s then realization slams into me, so hard, he must feel my body jolt. He returns his fiery eyes to mine, as if he’s heard the bombshell drop into my brain.

  I remind him of someone.

  Him?

  It doesn’t add up. He’s the son of Carlo Black. Rich, powerful, feared. My eyes fall to the scar on his cheek. It seems to be glowing at me now, highlighting its presence and stirring the pot of questions in my tangled mind.

  “Let’s fix you up.” He breaks into my thoughts, cutting off the questions before I can ask, and something tells me it’s tactical. I’m in a trance, unmoving, paralyzed by curiosity. I snap out of it the second my feet aren’t keeping me anchored to the ground anymore. He picks me up and sits me on the countertop next to the sink, flipping the faucet on. Then he takes both our burned hands under the cold stream together, turning them over in the water. I stare down at them, his skin next to my skin, the same tanned tone. His manly hand and my dainty one. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, not looking up at me.

  I hum my response, unable to kick the questions back. I should, since his actions now are warning me in every way not to ask. Then why spike my intrigue with moments like that?

  Turning off the water, Danny grabs a towel and pats at my skin, inspecting the damage. The center of my palm is red raw. He looks up at me, the front of his jeans brushing my knees.

  “I’ll dress it for you.”

  “There’s no need.” I pull my hand from his and try to slip down, but I’m blocked, my hand reclaimed.

  “I will dress it for you,” he repeats, this time sterner.

  I press my lips lightly together to stop another refusal flowing as he places my hand gently on my lap and moves across the kitchen, pulling something down from a cupboard. I see it’s a small first aid kit when he makes it back to me. He takes my wrist and pulls me down, walking me to the island. “Sit.” Brusque Danny is back.

  I perch on the stool and watch as he goes about dressing my hand, but first he rubs some cream into the sore, spending an age making sure every bit of the white lotion is absorbed before he meticulously wraps my hand in a white length of material. He does a very neat job, leaving me with a perfectly bandaged hand.

  I flex it a little. “Thank you,” I say, as he starts putting the things back in the box, ignoring me. “What about your hand?” Something deep and misplaced inside of me wants to take care of his wound too.

  He shoves the box back in the cupboard. “My skin is thicker than yours,” he grunts, striding to the door.

  “What now?” I call, making him stop a few feet from the exit. Is it me, or is he in a rush all of a sudden?

  He doesn’t look back. “What now what?”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

  “You wait until I tell you what to do. In the meantime, show yourself around. Use the amenities. Whatever.” He takes two more steps and stops again, still not looking back. “But if you try to escape, I won’t think twice about killing you.” And with that final warning, he disappears.

  Chapter 11

  DANNY

  * * *

  “The men had nothing on them. No ID, nothing,” Brad says as we walk the maze of paths on the grounds of the mansion the next evening. I’ve been holed up in that office all day, finalizing plans for the delivery. My head’s ringing with logistics. I needed to escape. Some days, I just need to walk. To feel my feet. To breathe in air and look at the color blanketing the beds of the garden. To remind myself there is something other than blackness in my world.

  Sometimes, I just want the pressure to fuck off from my shoulders so I don’t feel so heavy anymore. Then I remember who I am. What I do.

  “Ringo took these photos.” Brad hands me a phone, and I look down at the faces of the dead men. I recognize none. “I had Spittle run the faces through his system—”

  “Nothing,” I finish for Brad, handing back the phone.

  “Nothing,” he confirms. “And Spittle was seriously pissed off.”

  I bet he was. A bloodbath in the middle of Vegas will be a headache and a half. My relationship with Spittle is frosty to say the least. But the bent FBI agent owes me, and he couldn’t pay me back in three lifetimes. “Fuck Spittle.” I slip my hand into my pocket and frown, pulling it back out and looking at the blister.

  “What the fuck did you do to your hand?” Brad asks.

  “Argument with the toaster,” I grunt as we reach the rockery, where water tumbles down the ragged stone into the stream that leads to the pool. I watch the water for a time, thinking. It’s no good asking who wants me dead—the list is too long. But there’s someone who specifically stated that I was a dead man. Adams is in bed with someone else, and I won’t let him get out of my bed. Desperate men do desperate things, but would he ambush me like that to save himself? And with what cash?

  “I spoke to Voladya,” Brad continues. “The Mexicans are lying low and the Romanians are still disbursed after Carlo’s last vacation to Romania.”

  I chuckle at his dry wit. “Have a couple of men look deeper. I want answers.”

  “Well, look what we have here,” Brad says, amusement in his tone. I follow his gaze to the garden house across the lawn, finding Rose’s back plastered against the wood. She’s as still as a statue. And before her? Two growling Dobermans.

  My secret smile is wicked. “They just want a kiss,” I call, making Brad chuckle from beside me. “With tongues.”

  “Asshole,” Rose manages to spit, without even moving her mouth, making my two girls snarl more.

  I stroll over casually, my hands deep in my trouser pockets. Her eyes remain on my growling dogs. “Go on. Just a peck,” I tease.

  “I’d take the mutts over you any day of the week.”

  My grin is epic, and Brad snorts from trying to contain his laugh. “Wise. They’re less deadly than I am.” I whistle, the familiar sound gaining their attention. They know better than to take their eyes off a possible threat until they hear my call. “Heel,” I order, and they rush over to me, sitting at my feet. I smile and give them some love, encouraging them to start jumping up to try and lick my face. I laugh on the inside. Yeah, yeah, love you two too. “Away,” I order, gentle but firm, and they dart off toward the back of the grounds, barking as they go. Rose relaxes against the wooden garden house, her hand coming up to her chest, her eyes narrowed on me. My grin doesn’t falter.

  “What happened to your hand?” Brad asks Rose, stepping forward and pointing at the bandage I carefully wrapped her wound in yesterday.

  She looks down at it, stalling. Then she shrugs. “Had an argument with the toaster.”

  I manage to hide my smirk, feeling Brad’s accusing stare rooted on my profile. He sighs. “Sounds like the only deadly thing around here is the fucking toaster,” he mutters, heading back to the house.

  Rose purses her lips. “Did I say something funny?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  I shrug.

  She sighs, exasperated. “I have to go.” She passes me, following behind Brad. “I’m busy being bored in my ivory tower.”


  I say nothing as I watch her stomp off, the bump of her arse quite the view. My lack of a retort must piss her off, because she halts abruptly and swings back to face me. Her expression is beautifully strained. Annoyed.

  “Just how long do you plan on keeping me here?”

  I shrug again, unable to stop my silly need to rile her.

  “Oh my God, you’re infuriating.”

  Another shrug.

  She yells, frustrated, and steams toward me, her hand locking and loading. I catch her wrist as her palm sails toward my face, and she stills, her enraged eyes burning into mine. “If you slap me, I get to slap you back,” I warn.

  She jars her wrist in my hold, her way of telling me it’s not a problem for her. “The person who I remind you of”—she breathes in my face, anger getting the best of her—“who is it?”

  “The person who raped you,” I retort, moving in close, sliding my palm onto her hip. “Who was it?” I saw her face at dinner when it came up, heard her tone. I’m slowly figuring her out, and I know she’s doing the same with me. Should I mention that I want to kill whoever violated her? Should I mention that it would be the most brutal of deaths?

  “You know nothing,” she whispers.

  “I know everything.”

  My reply causes a hitch of her breath. A shudder of her body. Her blue eyes shine, and past their stunned state, I detect . . . hope? She sees my curiosity and snatches her hand away, her jaw tight as she moves back, gaining some personal space.

  “What’s your surname, Rose?” I ask, placing my hands back in my pockets.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Rose fuck you?” I muse, thoughtful. “Has a nice ring to it.” Brushing past her, I make my way to the house. “You need feeding.”

  “I’m not one of your fucking dogs.”

  I smile at my feet, keeping on my way. The woman makes me smile. I can’t help it. “Esther will prepare something for you,” I call, hearing her indignant huff. “And stay away from the toaster.”