Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Stop manhandling me,” I hiss, shoving at his chest, immensely disturbed by how much my hands want to linger there.

  “Stop trying to call for help.”

  “That’s what people who need help do.” When they’re in so deep that they’re in trouble.

  “You don’t need help.”

  The very fact that I’m noticing the green of his eyes and the wicked curve of his mouth says he’s wrong. “I disagree. You could murder me right now and I’d have no way to stop you.”

  “Molly would be pissed, and I don’t get the impression I want her pissed at me. And do you make a habit of arguing with people you fear are about to do you bodily harm?”

  This hits a nerve. A really deep, raw nerve I try to retract, but it’s there, bleeding into my mind, and I roughly shove it aside. “No,” I whisper. “No. I don’t.”

  His eyes narrow and I see the awareness in them. I’ve shown my hand, a hand I show no one. “Sex and money are my vices, sweetheart,” he admits almost proudly. “Not violence.” His fingers tangle in my hair, and he lowers his mouth close to mine. Too close, yet not close enough. “I’d kiss you long before I’d hurt you.”

  My stomach does a somersault and I tell myself it’s panic, not excitement. “No.” I try to sound authoritative. “You will not kiss me.”

  “No,” he agrees. “Not unless you ask me to.”

  I blanch. Is he serious? “Ask you? I’m not one of your groupies, like Molly.” I shove at his chest, and this time it’s forceful.

  He dares to laugh, a rich, deeply amused, masculine rumble. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He sets me away from him and I tumble backward onto the mattress, grabbing the blanket to keep from landing flat on my back, which I am certain is not a position a woman can win in—not with this man.

  Grabbing the phone, he tosses it behind him. It hits the floor with a thud.

  I growl low in my throat. “If you broke my phone, I’m going to be furious. I’m on a budget, and I’m a hardworking girl. Not some rich, spoiled playboy poker player.”

  He looks as amused as his laughter had sounded moments before. “Rich and spoiled,” he repeats. “Hmmm. Considering I grew up in the slums of New York, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I worked damn hard to get where I am today.”

  I all but flinch. Somehow, some way, this stranger has hit another nerve. Or maybe he’s hit a craving, my desire to pull myself out of the eternal struggle to survive. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and judging by his expression I’ve surprised both of us with my spontaneous apology.

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes. And I don’t know why I’m apologizing when you bulldozed your way into my home, but I am. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you didn’t work hard to get there. And if you got rich after being poor, from your own work, then, well, that’s admirable.”

  He looks baffled. I feel baffled. I’m attracted to, and now feeling admiration for, a complete stranger who’s accosted me in my own house. But the truth is, I don’t feel like I’m in danger from Trouble. He didn’t touch me inappropriately when he’s had the opportunity to do so, nor has he hurt me. And after seeing how fan-struck she was, I think Molly has most likely called everyone she knows to tell them he’s here, so Trouble knows she could be trouble.

  Jason scrubs a hand over his jaw, giving the ceiling the kind of inspection that has me looking to see what he sees that I don’t, and then he squats down in front of me, his hands on the mattress at my hips. “Tell me you aren’t involved,” he demands.

  “Why would you believe me if I did?”

  “I read people, sweetheart. How do you think I win at poker?”

  Like a good attorney does in a courtroom, I think. And I am going to be a good attorney. “I’m not involved,” I assure him.

  Seconds tick by, and his stare is intense—eternal it seems—before he finally says, “Stephanie, the woman who owned the unit.” He hesitates, then adds, “She’s going to make it look like I cheated in a very high profile cash game, which would be career-ending for me. And aside from the fact that it’s regulated by the gaming commission, this is a card room in California, my home state.”

  “What is a card room?”

  “They can’t operate as full casinos. They offer card play only. Some are large operations that operate like a casino and even call themselves casinos when they are not. Others are anything from a couple of tables to a private country club environment. All of the well-established rooms host tournaments, many televised.”

  “You said the event she is setting you up for is high profile?”

  “A tournament and televised, but among the reasons she picked this event are the location and the owner of club. He’s not a man you want to cross.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Or you’re killed?” I ask, shocked at the intimate details of the blackmail he’s shared with me.

  “He’s rumored to have mob ties. Now if that’s true or not, I can’t say, but my gut instinct, says he does.”

  “And you want to live in this world?”

  “I don’t live in a world ruled by the mob. I play poker. I collect my winnings. I go home, which is not in Vegas. No one bothers me and I don’t bother them.”

  “Until this,” I supply.

  “Until this,” he agrees.

  “I assume she wants money?”

  “Of course she does. But not until she’s done taunting me. She just tells me to be ready to give her what she wants. It’s been going on for months. I’m losing my mind every time I go into a game. And she’s enjoying the game she’s playing with me.”

  “It could be just talk.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You have to go to the police.”

  “I told you, she’ll move forward with her threats if I do, and I’ve told you what that means for me.”

  I hope for his sake that I have the only chip, but … where is Stephanie? “When was the last time you heard from her?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “But why let her unit go, when she could have demanded money from you?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  “How did you know about the unit?”

  “Private investigator. I’m hoping there’s a clue to where she is inside the unit.”

  But I have the chip. This makes no sense and the cautious person in me, the one who has lived with lies and deceit most of my life, is in full-blown alert mode. “You say you’re good at reading people, but your winning record also says you have a good poker face. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  He stares at me for another few eternal seconds, and then suddenly he is standing, crossing the room. I twist around to find him snatching my cell phone. “It’s not broken,” he announces, already returning to me and pulling me to my feet.

  “What are you doing now?” I demand.

  His reply is to snatch my purse from the bed, stuff my cell inside, and place the strap over my shoulder, before demanding, “Come with me.”

  There’s no chance for me to respond. He’s already tugging me along and down the stairs.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, an unspoken demand in my question. “Stop. Wait.”

  He surprises me by doing both, then launches into an explanation. “I told you: I have proof of the blackmail. You said you needed your purse. You have it. Now you’re coming with me.”

  “Yes, but—” I blink and we’re moving again, and this time he keeps going. Jason is Trouble as surely as he’s a bull charging forward, and in seconds we’re out my front door.

  “Do you have your keys?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He reaches inside and locks the door before yanking it shut, then reaches for my hand, and already he’s back in a full charge, headed toward the porch steps, when I shout, “Trouble—I mean Red Bull, or Jason—damn it, whoever you are, just stop!”

  He turns and faces me. “The press and the fans call me Red Bull. You can call me Jason.�
� His lips quirk. “Or Trouble will do just fine.”

  And before I can insist that I lock my dead bolt with me inside, he’s moving again, charging forward again, and I have two options. Scream for help, or go along for the ride.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BLACKMAIL. A HOT POKER PLAYER. And me. How did this become my world? But sure enough, it is, and said poker player, also known as Trouble in my mind, Red Bull in his professional life, is dragging me toward his car—and then to who-knows-where. And I’m letting him because I hope he has the proof he claims to have that he’s being blackmailed. Okay, I have proof of that. I just want to know I have the entire story before I decide if I should hand over the storage unit to him or go to the police instead, which he swears will cause a backlash from his blackmailer.

  Jason stops at the side of his car, a black, low-to-the-ground, sporty thing that stirs old memories I prefer to leave forgotten and stabs at my gut. He yanks the door open. I don’t move.

  “Flashy much?” I challenge, and unbidden disapproval laces the words.

  “I have sponsors,” he says, with the cool confidence I’m coming to expect from him. “Lamborghini happens to be one of them. And yeah. Flashy, baby. Remember? I work hard for it.”

  I soften instantly, unsure why this car and this man have set the blades of the past cutting through me. I’m responding to skeletons in my closet that have everything to do with abusing money and power, but nothing to do with this man I think of as Trouble. He isn’t the trouble of my past. He’s Jason. And Jason deserves to be judged by his own actions, not those of others who once were in my life and never will be again.

  “You getting in or am I putting you in?” Jason challenges when I don’t move.

  My brows dip. “Oh, good grief. Put your caveman hat back in the closet, because it doesn’t fit. If I didn’t want to go with you, the entire neighborhood would know by now and we’d be on the news tonight.”

  “So you’re saying you want to go with me?”

  I walked right into that one and I quickly sidestep. “I’m willing to go with you.”

  His eyes narrow, holding mine, and something in the air shifts, crackles, and I feel the connection sizzle through my body. I feel him in a way that lands a girl in bed with a man—and I know from my mother’s experience with my father that when said man is rich and famous, that doesn’t mean much. Which, aside from the whole blackmail thing, might just make Jason the perfect kind of trouble for me at this point in my life.

  “Get in the car, Skye,” he commands softly, the rich, velvety quality of his voice spreading through my body far too easily, and I melt like honey in the sun.

  “Because I choose to,” I say, not about to be the victim with any man ever again in my life, “I will.” And on that note, I cut my gaze and slide into the low-slung seat of the fancy car.

  The door doesn’t immediately shut, and I can feel the warmth of Jason staring at me, willing me to look at him, but I do not. Finally he shuts me inside, and moments later he slides into the driver’s seat. The scent of him, tart spice and wicked masculinity, tingles in my nostrils, and in turn, I tingle all over. Without looking at me or saying a word, he puts the car into gear, almost as if he fears I’ll dart away before he can. And perhaps I should. Most likely, this is a mistake. Even if he’s an honest guy—and my gut says he is—if what he says is true, I’m allowing myself to become immersed in a crime in progress. But that also means he’s the victim—and protecting victims is exactly what I want to do with my life.

  Every victim needs a good bull in their corner, and while I somehow think the word victim would infuriate Jason, I decide I’ll be his bull, at least for now. What I won’t be is another notch on his belt, no matter how sexy that belt might be, or how hot he looks behind the wheel of the car he’s now pulling away from the curb. I mean, good Lord, the man and car combined are one heck of a beast I might—or might not—be smart to reckon with, and I’m suddenly aware of how out of control I’ve allowed myself to become.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “My place is about ten minutes away.”

  “Your place. As in your house?”

  “Would you rather hear we’re going to a dark alley?”

  “It’s daytime, so that wouldn’t be possible.”

  He gives me an amused look. “A dark closet?”

  “A public park?” I suggest.

  “I don’t like leaving my files in parks,” he says dryly. “In case it actually rains.”

  The city practically sits on top of the ocean but gets hardly any rain—like I’m sitting on top of my dreams and can’t get out of the damn bed. “So you live here in the city?”

  “For many years.” He glances at me. “But you’re new to town.”

  It’s not a question but rather a statement of fact that could be an assessment based on my sparsely decorated town house, but I decide it’s more likely a second option. “Somewhat,” I say. “And I assume Molly told you that, unless you found out who I am by way of some sort of private investigator, not the storage unit attendant.”

  “Molly likes to talk.”

  I purse my lips. “She certainly does.”

  He cuts a quick corner and flies up a hill, sending my stomach to my feet. “You’re scaring the crap out of me,” I complain, grabbing the door handle.

  “Life is short. Live like you’re dying.”

  “Isn’t that a Tim McGraw song?”

  He flicks me an amused look. “You know your country music.”

  Not interested in that comment becoming a question I don’t want to answer, I redirect the topic. “Is that what gambling is to you? Living like you’re dying?”

  “Poker’s a sport at my level. It’s not about gambling; it’s a war of minds. A competition to see who is the best. And yes, there’s cash on the line, but the title of champion is the real prize.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of losing the money you’ve made?”

  “Unlike some of the players, I’ve invested my money smartly, and I don’t play foolishly or desperately.”

  I glance at his profile, noting his fierce two-handed grip on the steering wheel. “Smart,” I say, but my mind has moved elsewhere. “Why didn’t you bid on the unit yourself?”

  “My manager was afraid she’d show up and there’d be an incident. When she didn’t, I decided you were my path to Stephanie.” He pulls up to the front of The Millennium, the tallest residential building in San Francisco. “It was a long shot, but I had to take it.”

  “I don’t know her,” I say as my door is opened by a doorman, as is Jason’s. “I promise.”

  “But you have her unit,” he says. “You’re still the closest path to her I have.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “That’s why we’re here. To make you sure. Let’s go upstairs.”

  I nod and he exits while I do the same, murmuring a greeting to the man at my side and stepping on the curb. Jason, in turn, pauses to speak to his attendant before rounding the car in all his jean-clad sexiness. “Ready?” he asks, joining me.

  “For that proof,” I say honestly, hoping to get past any worries I have about Jason besides him being too sexy for me to handle. “Yes. I am.”

  “Then let’s go get it,” he says, motioning me toward the sliding glass doors.

  We start walking, and he is close, so very close, and when his hand settles intimately, possessively even, on my back, a shiver of anticipation slides down my spine. And he feels it. I know he does, because he leans in close and murmurs, “Cold?”

  “No,” I say. “Just afraid you’re a crazy person, which in turn makes me a crazy person for coming here.”

  “Crazy good,” he promises, “but don’t worry. There are cameras everywhere. If I suddenly go ‘crazy bad,’ the police will find your body.”

  “That’s not funny,” I say, elbowing him and stepping out of his reach, only remotely aware of a fancy lobby with shiny floors, a coffee shop, and too mu
ch bling to be any reality I’d call my own for even a moment.

  He laughs, the sound all low and deep and delicious. “If you could see your expression right now, you might change your mind.”

  “For a man being blackm—” I catch myself and edit my sentence. “For a man who’s in your situation, you sure have a sense of humor.”

  His expression turns somber, his jaw flexing. “Just trying to stay sane. And believe me, that’s not easy right now.”

  The confession, raw and honest, shocks me, and for just a moment, I see a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. It took him off guard, too, just as my apology to him back at my town house had me. “Jason—” I start, but we’re at the elevators. He punches the button, and while I’d like to shift his mood right now, I’m simply thinking about the small metal box I’m about to enter. “How tall is this building?”

  “Fifty-eight floors.”

  Irritatingly, my heart begins to race. “You wouldn’t happen to be on a low floor, would you?”

  “Based on how white you just turned, I think you should just roll the dice and find out once we’re there.” He links his arm around my neck and puts us into motion, his hips aligned with mine.

  “You need to stop manhandling me,” I say, already feeling trapped and damn it, I sound breathless, when I mean to be demanding.

  “Fear gets you nowhere,” he declares.

  “Says the gambler,” I retort, not bothering to deny he’s right. That word I hate is back: I’m afraid. Of heights, not him, though maybe it should be the opposite.

  “What are you thinking about right now?” he demands.

  “How much of an asshole you are.”

  “That isn’t what I was hoping for, but it will do,” he says.

  And it’s in that moment that the stupid elevator opens and he walks right in with me an extension of his movement, my attempt to dig in my heels once again thwarted. “Jason, wait!”

  But he doesn’t stop until I’m pressed against a glass wall that has my heart racing. “Stay.”

  “I’m not a dog,” I snap.