by Shandi Boyes
Any chance of calming the wild beat of my heart flies out the window when he says, “Undo the buttons on your blouse, Kitten.”
I bounce my massively dilated eyes between his. “What?”
He runs his hand up my back, only stopping when he reaches the nape of my neck. His touch forces a breathless moan to ashamedly spill from my lips. From a man who is a stranger, he seems to know all the erogenous zones of my body. The most obvious: the portion of skin between my collarbone and neck.
“Do you want to know how my sister left my family?” Rico drags his thumb along my collarbone.
I nod. . . a little overeagerly. I can't help it. Just the warmth of his hand on the nape of my neck has my usually noble persona weakening. When he's close to me, it's like I'm in a trance, stuck captive by his intoxicating eyes and alluring aura.
“Open your blouse, Kitten,” he repeats, his words less demanding than earlier.
Ludicrously, I do as instructed without another protest spilling from my lips.
With teeth-shattering shakes impeding my hands, it takes a little longer to undo the five buttons of my blouse than normal. I'm wearing a fitted white cami beneath my shirt, but I feel naked when it drapes open at the front. My unease has nothing to do with Rico’s absorbing eyes drinking in every inch of my skin, and everything to do with the driver’s imprudent gaze scorching a hole in the back of my head. The only way he could be more involved in our intimate gathering is if he placed himself in the small section of air left between Rico and me. That’s how enthusiastic his spying is.
Keeping his captivating eyes planted on my flushed face, Rico cups one of my breasts in his hand, while his other hand on the nape of my neck draws me in close to him.
“Kiss me, Kitten,” he murmurs against my lips. “I need your lips on mine.”
I stare into his eyes, trying to force my mouth to cite a complaint to his request. Nothing comes out. So, operating purely on the desires of my heart, I cup the edge of his jaw and seal my mouth over his. His lips move sweetly under mine, the strokes of his tongue controlled and gentle. His fingers send a jolt of pleasure down my spine when he firms his grip on my neck and strengthens our kiss. I part my lips more, fully surrendering my mouth to his mind-hazing talent. His kiss is sweet and tender, while also dominating and controlled. He really is the equivalent of night and day, blackness and light. . . enemy and lover.
The roughness of his five o’clock shadow scratches the skin below my ear when he drags his lips down the side of my neck. “You can’t trust anyone, Kitten. Even when they don’t appear to be watching you, they are.” I can only just hear his faint whisper over the mad beat of my heart when he adds on, “Especially me.”
Suddenly, the reasoning behind his brash approach smashes into me. Because of our closeness, the driver can’t hear a word spilling from Rico’s lips. And since we look like every other newlywed couple who can’t keep their hands off each other, he’ll be none the wiser to the private conversation we are undertaking right under his snitching nose.
My heart rate climbs into coronary failure territory. I don't know if it's from Rico's admission that I can’t trust anyone—not even him—or from the way his fingers have tweaked my nipple into a firm bud in mere seconds. For a man who at times can appear cold and heartless, his touch causes a burning heat to scorch every inch of my body.
I'm panting, wet, and waging one of the hardest battles I've ever fought not to rub myself against him like a crazed woman who can't control her libido. The only thing stopping me from carrying out my desire is when Rico continues talking. With how quiet he is, all my energy must be reserved for listening only.
As Rico nips, licks, and kisses my neckline, he tells me the story of how his oldest sister Isabelle was sold after the death of their mother. My heart clutches in my chest when he informs me his sister was only six years old when she was placed on the black market. That's the age of half the students in my class.
When Rico finishes his story, I take a second to gather my bases. It's no easy feat with every nerve in my body solely dedicated to Rico’s lips still attached to my neck. But even with my brain muddled with both fear and excitement, my conclusion about the information handed to me never alters. If the only way a blood descendant can leave Rico’s family is being sold, what happens to someone who doesn’t have a drop of Popov blood running through their veins? What happens to people like me?
Like he can hear my private thoughts, Rico mutters, “No one will ever hurt you, Kitten. Not while you’re with me.”
Before I have the chance to ask if his statement includes himself, the Escalade pulls into a private air strip on the outskirts of Ravenshoe. After speaking to Rico in a foreign language, the driver climbs out of the car and stands guard at the side. The stern mask Rico wears in front of his crew slowly slides down his face as he adjusts my disheveled blouse back onto my shoulders. Remaining quiet, he fastens the buttons into place.
Once I'm semi-respectable—my outfit, not my mind—Rico locks his dark gaze with mine. “Is Colt going to be a problem?”
My tongue grows thicker from the blackness forming in Rico’s eyes. “No.” I shake my head. “Colt has only ever been a friend.” Not through any choice of my own, but I’ll keep that snippet of information to myself.
His Adam's apple bobs up and down. ”Okay. Good. Because I don't share."
“Duly noted,” I reply, my voice disgustingly chipper.
What the hell is wrong with me? I'm being forced to leave my hometown against my will, yet I'm happy my husband is refusing to share me with another man. Screw my mind, a lifetime of morals was lost the instant I stepped off the plane in Vegas.
I’m not the only one stunned by my reply. Rico stares at me, his face a cross between shocked and delighted.
With a predatory smirk etched on his mouth, he curls out of the Escalade. Since I'm still sitting in his lap, he takes me right along with him. The vileness of my predicament smacks back into me when Rico places me onto my feet and walks into a heavily manned airport hangar. When I'm with Rico one-on-one, I forget he’s shrouded by an impenetrable cloud of darkness. It's just me and him—the stranger I married.
Keeping my nosy glare hidden, I scan my eyes around the premises. At a quick guess, I’d say there are at least a dozen men with weapons strapped to their chests, and another half a dozen dressed similarly to Rico. For a man who looks like he can easily protect himself, it’s a little dramatic for Rico to have so much protection.
Rico stops at the end of a set of stairs that climb up to a private jet. “They’re not for me, Kitten. They are for you.”
Ignoring my gaped mouth at the fact he read my mind twice in under a minute, he places his hand on the curve of my back and guides me onto the plane. My eyes shoot in all directions, unsure which fine feature to absorb first: the rich, opulent seating area that looks like it belongs in the middle of a mansion, not a plane, or the crystal and dark wood bar that’s stocked with every bottle of alcohol you could imagine. For a group of men who live in the cloak of darkness, they have world class standards.
Noticing the direction of my gaze, Rico asks, “Would you like a drink?”
My lips tug into a lewd smirk. “Why ask me what I want when you can just read my mind?”
Smirking a grin that sets my pulse racing, Rico gestures for me to sit in one of the two white leather chairs in the central area of the plane. Not trusting my thrumming-with-excitement legs, I plop into the closest leather seat.
Rico removes his suit jacket and throws it over the chair beside me before shifting on his feet to face the pretty brunette flight attendant. I’m not at all surprised that her cheeks turn a vibrant hue of red when she's awarded with the full power of Rico’s alluringly dark eyes.
“I’ll have a double shot of whiskey. Blaire will have a sparkling apple cider.”
Huffing, I cross my arms over my chest. “Not even close.”
Smiling, Rico takes the spare seat next to me. "I know it isn
't what you wanted, Kitten. But considering what happened the last time you had a wine spritzer, I altered your request. Your drink will still have the apple flavor you're after, but without the alcohol content."
I stare at him with shock and disbelief tainting my face.
He leans back in his chair and rests his ankle onto his opposite knee. “You did want an apple martini, didn’t you?”
From the smugness lining his face, he’s already aware of my reply. He’s one hundred percent correct. I pinch myself—hard. I must be dreaming. Otherwise, how would he have known that? There are millions of drinks in the world. There's no way he could have known I was going to order that particular drink.
He accepts his double whiskey from the flight attendant before placing it on the table between us. I mutter a quick "Thank you" when she hands me my apple cider. After putting it on the table next to Rico's glass, I turn my eyes back to him. My hand shoots up to clutch my chest when I discover he’s watching me with a poignant stare.
“You really don’t remember anything about the night we got married, do you, Kitten?”
A range of emotions flares in his eyes when I shake my head. Relief. Confusion. Anger. It's all pumped through his dark gaze.
“I feel like I know you, I just. . . don’t.”
With knitted brows, Rico nods and adjusts his position so he can look out the arched window at his side.
My confession ends our conversation on a somber note.
Chapter 9
As soon as the plane is thirty-five thousand feet in the air, Rico unlatches his seatbelt and stalks towards a highly varnished door at the back of the plane. He still walks with commanding power, but his shoulders are hanging a little lower. Once he passes through the door, I lower my gaze to my lap. I've never been on a private jet before, but I'm fairly sure that's the bedroom. Considering I don't want a rerun of my shameful response to his touch in the Escalade, I keep my backside planted in my seat, flicking through a wide variety of magazines the flight attendant keeps handing me.
Two hours later, when my bladder’s protests become too great for me to ignore, I dump a gossip magazine onto the table in front of me and pace to the flight attendant who served me my drink earlier.
"Excuse me, where's the bathroom located?"
She extends her index finger and points to the door Rico entered hours ago.
“Are you serious?” I gasp in surprise.
Smiling, she nods. “The only bathroom in this jet is in the main bedroom, Mrs. Popov.”
“Then where do you pee?” I blurt out before my brain has the chance to stop me or fathom that she just called me Mrs. Popov.
She stares me straight in the eyes before mumbling, "I hold."
If her eyes weren't relaying the truth of her statement, I might have laughed. The flight is five hours long. No one can hold it that long. Can they?
When my bladder kicks up a stink about the delay, I smile a thanks before sauntering to the back of the plane, my steps hurried. I knock three times before opening the door. Rico is sitting behind a chunky wooden desk with a cell phone attached to his ear speaking in a foreign language. Noticing my presence, his head lifts, and his dark eyes connect with mine.
I hook my thumb to the frosted glass door on my right, advising I need to use the restroom. Rico’s flow of conversation continues without pause as he nods, soundlessly granting my request. Slipping into the space, I gently close the door behind me, then dash into the bathroom.
"Oh, Lord," I mumble under my breath when I enter the extravagant washroom. Such opulent surroundings shouldn’t be reserved for peeing.
After doing my business, I wash my hands and exit the restroom. I stop halfway out the door when I notice Rico is no longer sitting behind the chunky desk. He’s standing near the edge of the bed. His suit jacket has been removed, and the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt have been undone, exposing inches of his smooth, tanned torso. Unlike when I entered the bathroom, his gloriously thick hair is rustled, like he has been running his fingers through it, and his composure is a stark contrast to the man who was seated behind the desk minutes ago. I'd be lying if I said the fierceness of his gaze isn't scaring me.
“Come here, Kitten,” he demands, his voice gritty.
My feet stay planted where they are as my eyes shift between Rico and the satin-covered bed on his right.
Rico releases a deep exhalation, infusing the space with his whiskey-scented breath. “I'll never touch you against your will.”
Even frightened, just like last week, my intuition is telling me I can trust him. Although our time together has been an awkward dance routine—two steps forward, one step back—I’ve always been a willing participant.
After unclenching my fists, I slowly pace towards him. He shifts his head to the side and watches me in silence, categorizing every movement my body makes as I glide across the room. The fear clutching my heart intensifies when I see nothing but anger clouding his beautiful irises, then I remember the words I spoke to him last week. You will not spend one more day in darkness. Not while I’m by your side.
Wanting to keep my promise, I increase my speed. When I hit the edge of the bed, Rico lifts a single piece of A4 glossy paper I didn’t notice he was holding until now. I was too focused on working out a way to lighten the darkness swamping his eyes to notice anything else.
“Do you know this man?” He hands the paper to me.
My eyes widen when I take in the image. “That’s Timothy Jamison. He’s a teacher at my school.”
It’s a grainy surveillance camera image, but there's no mistaking Timothy's thick-rimmed glasses and wonky smile. I've also worked with him the past two years, so I'm confident with my assessment.
“Was this taken in Las Vegas?” I ask when I see a large bank of poker machines in the background of the highly pixelated photo.
Rico nods. I gasp in a quick breath when it dawns on me that I’m snitching on an acquaintance of mine to a man who governs Las Vegas.
Raising my eyes from the photo clutched in my hand, I ask, "Why do you want to know who Timothy is? He's a good person. He wouldn't have done anything illegal. He is a teacher at my school. He's a father. A well-respected—“
My blubbering stops when Rico says, “He’s the reason you can’t remember your trip to Vegas.”
I glare at him in shocked silence for a moment.
“What? How?” I blurt out when my shock subsides.
"He drugged you," he replies like it's everyday news.
I take a step back, dazed and confused. “Why would he do that? He wouldn’t do that. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Rico paces to a laptop sitting in the middle of the desk. After hitting the space bar, a heavy flow of chatter booms through the speakers of the laptop. I move closer to the desk when the video displayed on his monitor zooms in on a round table with a dozen people seated around it. Even having no recollection of my time in Vegas, I can tell this image is from the Teacher of the Year awards luncheon as I recognize a few faces sitting around the table, drinking wine and laughing. The most familiar face belongs to Timothy. He’s seated next to me.
Blood roars to the surface of my skin, illuminating it with a pink hue when Timothy drops a small pill into my drink as I stand from my seat to say goodbye to a lady I met at a joint school camp last year. After stirring my half-consumed wine spritzer with a butter knife from the table, Timothy slouches into his chair and joins a conversation with two gentlemen sitting on his left.
I remain completely motionless as the unethical scene unfolds before my very eyes. After bidding farewell to Darlene, I sit down next to Timothy. He smiles while gesturing his head to the half a glass of spritzer in front of me, encouraging me to finish it.
Within five minutes of consuming the laced drink, I excuse myself from the table. Even watching the video from a bird’s eye view, I can see my eyes have a little more sheen than normal and my mood is surprisingly chipper.
The camera angle shi
fts multiple times as it follows me through the facility the event was held at, but no matter which direction I take, Timothy is a few steps behind me in every frame. The image freezes when I exit a set of double doors.
I dart my eyes to Rico. “What happened? Did he. . .” I can’t force the words out my mouth.
“No, Kitten. He never got the chance,” he replies, staring at me with a set of angry eyes.
“How do you know that? How can you be so sure?” I rub my chest, trying to erase the pain stabbing the middle of it.
“Because this happened.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, seizes my wrist, and pulls me onto his lap. Before I have the chance to react, a hidden memory rushes to the surface of my muddled brain. . .
“Oh, I’m so sorry. The heel of my shoe caught the carpet pile,” I apologize to the gentleman whose lap I just stumbled into.
Dark, beautiful eyes stare down at me, holding me captive by their unique beauty. The sable-haired stranger doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His eyes share a lifetime of stories without a word spilling from his lips. After giving myself a few moments to register every unique speckle in his mesmerizing eyes, I snap back to reality. I'm sitting in a stranger’s lap after tumbling into his arms. Can anyone say, “Cliché?!”
“Sorry about the intrusion.”
Cringing at the weakness of my words, I continue with my endeavor of locating a bathroom. Ever since I finished my wine spritzer ten minutes ago, my tummy has been unsettled and my mind woozy. I'd also like to say it's the cause of my inflamed cheeks, but, unfortunately, that isn't the case. The blame for my blemished appearance solely belongs to the handsome stranger eyeballing me as I pace away from him.
My pulse quickens when in the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the dark-haired stranger throwing a casino chip into the middle of a poker table. After gesturing his head to a group of men dressed in black suits lounging at the side of the poker table, he races to catch up with me. His long, efficient strides have him reaching me in three captivating heartbeats.