Redemption: Triple R Security, Book 3

by Imogen Wells

  I didn’t miss the bruises across her chest and shoulder caused by the seat belt when she crashed the other day. But they do tell me it wasn’t a small little accident as she implied. I’m surprised by the sharp stabbing pain at the thought of her hurt, and against my better judgment, I grab two beers from the fridge before following her up the ladder. I don’t think about the consequences or what it means that I didn’t just leave like she expected me to.

  Reaching the top of the ladder, I don’t see Jess but hear water running from behind the screen. As I step up onto the floor, I take in my surroundings. The large bed that fills the space is dressed in rich, deep red silk sheets, and the clothes she was wearing are thrown haphazardly over it. There’s a laptop with a folder on the top, a small diary or journal on the bedside table along with a book, some romantic shit no doubt, and a simple lamp, which is on and casts a dim, shadowy light around the room.

  I’ve just sat down on the bed when Jess steps out from behind the screen still naked. She lets out a quaint gasp at seeing me there. Her face is still flushed, a hint of pink lighting her cheeks, and her lips are plump and swollen. My cock stirs in my pants as my eyes rove over her full breasts, flared hips and slim waist.

  Still not meeting her eyes because I can’t seem to take my eyes from her body, I watch as her long, tanned, shapely legs carry her towards me.

  Stopping in front of me, I finally lift my eyes to hers, and I see the uncertainty in them. But above everything else that her face and eyes tell me, her body tells a different story as it hums with desire, arousal and want.

  Keeping my eyes on hers, I reach out my hands, fingertips glancing over her hips to her toned abdomen.

  “You seem to be wearing entirely too many clothes, Mr…” she pauses, not knowing my surname.

  I lean forward at the same time as I grip her hips and pull her to me. “Sullivan,” I whisper against her stomach, burying my nose into her flesh and getting high off the sweet, tropical scent of coconut on her skin mixed with the erotic scent of sex.

  I feel her tense, but whatever caused it is forgotten when I surge to my feet, taking her with me as I twist us and land on the bed with Jess beneath me and take her mouth like a dying man.

  * * *

  I watch between the curtain of blood running down my face as the man steps forward, taking Kuffs’ limp arm, lifting it then letting it go. It drops back to his side as the man screams at him to hold it out. Kuffs can barely lift his own head, let alone hold his limbs out. Blood flows down his torso, and mine, like a rich river of crimson, and I gag at the sight and smell.

  I thrash at my restraints as a second man steps forward, a machete swinging loosely in his hand.

  “Leave him alone. He’s had enough,” I cry out, but it’s weak and barely audible.

  * * *

  I must have passed out, and as consciousness works its way back in, I peel my eyes open and scan the darkness, seeking out Kuffs.

  I don’t know how long I was out for, but as I raise my head, my back screams out in pain as red-hot fire races down it. As my eyes slowly adjust to the dark, I see a form just out of reach on the ground.

  A pool of blood glistens in the moonlight around the form. My mind already knows who it is. It remembers the screams, the blood, the pain and pleading as they slashed at his skin. The acrid, metallic smell of burning flesh as they branded him over and over again.

  A scream of anguish rips from my lungs…

  “Aaargh!” I scream over and over until hands grip my face, holding me still. I fight to get away, but then a soft, soothing voice hushes me and sweet lips touching mine and the smell of coconut break through my fractured senses.

  “Sssshhh, it’s okay. Rick, it’s me, Jess. I’m here, ssshhh.” I feel the weight of a warm body on mine.

  My breathing begins to slow as sweat rolls off my forehead, and Jess continues to whisper to me, holding me tight.

  As I gradually calm and my mind returns to now, a new fear unleashes inside of me. Fear that I could have hurt her. My dream flashes through my mind again, and I remember what came next that day. How I fought with everything I had to escape at the first opportunity, almost losing the battle as my body began to shut down on me. How I squeezed the life from the man who had tortured us both with a brutal savagery that was unrivalled.

  Jess’ hand trails down my chest, and my mind is unable to separate the emotions trampling through me, causing me to tense and every muscle to lock tight.

  Pushing up to look at me, Jess says, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.” Her words are soft and strong, but the barest inflection bleeds through, and I know she’s afraid.

  Scrambling to get out from under her, away from the suffocating feeling that my mind has left me with, I tumble from the bed and stand.

  The click of a switch echoes in the room as the lamp comes on, flooding the room with light.

  I hear the gasp from behind me, and I know what caused it.

  “Rick?”

  “Don’t.” One word. Short, definitely not sweet, and said in a tone hard and gritted out between clenched teeth to cut her questions off instantly. My gut lurches at my harshness, but it’s for the best. I gather my clothes, throwing them on as quick as possible, avoiding her burning gaze the whole time.

  The tightness in my body eases up once I have my t-shirt on, knowing she can no longer see the evidence of my failures.

  “Hey, what the fuck is going on?” Jess demands, as she rises from the bed, coming toward me.

  I try to step past her, but she moves in front of me again, stopping my escape.

  “Move, Jessica.”

  She shakes her head, and I see the determination in her eyes not to let me leave without giving her some sort of answer. Her hand stretches out to splay across my chest, and I bristle at her touch. Not because I don’t want it. That would be so much fucking easier. I wrap my fingers around her wrist, stopping any further exploration, and I take a deep breath to ease the tension strumming beneath my skin.

  “This was a mistake. Again. It won’t be one I make a third time. Now, move out of my way.” I keep my focus on the wall over her shoulder afraid that if I so much as glance at her, I’ll falter.

  “Liar,” she snaps back. “If you’re going to lie, to walk away, the least you can do is fucking look at me when you do it.”

  I snap my eyes to hers. “This was a mistake,” I say, enunciating each word and keeping my eyes locked on hers so she’s knows I mean it. “I told you once before I’m not a gentleman and I should stay away.”

  She snatches her hand from my grasp, the movement so fast and catching me off guard, that I don’t see the other hand coming up until it’s too late. A loud thwack rings out as her hand connects with my face, throwing my head to the side with the force.

  Damn. My skin prickles from her slap, and I adjust my jaw trying to ease the discomfort. She steps away, and I feel the loss of her so close immediately. I can’t afford to be sentimental. I should never have come here, should never have let my fucking dick rule my head, and I should never have climbed into her bed.

  I step past her, down the ladder and out the door before either of us can say anymore.

  The cold night air stings my heated cheek where Jess slapped me. I swear to god a woman’s slap is like a secret weapon. Small, delicate, feminine hands that when needed can match the force of a fucking wrecking ball.

  I make my way back to the caravan with bitterness biting at my flesh.

  In five years, I’ve never allowed a woman to see my scars, share a bed, touch me the way Jess has, physically or emotionally. With the remnants of my dream swirling inside my head, I feel like an unexploded bomb, and Jess just lit the touch paper to my fuse.

  Nineteen

  Jess

  It’s late Friday afternoon, and the traffic is bumper to fucking bumper. Another horn sounds behind me, and I flip my finger up to my rear-view mirror, cursing the twat who obviously doesn’t understand the concept of a traffic jam.


  Since Tuesday evening, my week has gone from shit to shittier. After Rick up and left in the middle of the night, I’ve not seen or heard from him, not that I really expected to. I’m a big girl and can handle rejection, but what I can’t handle is the deep ache inside that his caustic words left me with.

  Screw him.

  Yeah, I did that and got the fucking t-shirt. And look where it got me? Stuck in a traffic jam on a Friday afternoon with a mood as grim as death himself and a need that can’t be sated no matter how many times I get myself off.

  It probably didn’t help that Gaz, the mechanic working on my car, called yesterday with good and bad news. The good news was that the parts were in early, and my car would be ready Monday. The bad news, my brakes failed, and although he can’t be certain, it looks like someone tampered with them. I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I know that having to pump your damn brakes is usually a big sign they don’t fucking work. What I can’t get my head around is the idea that someone did it on purpose. The whole thing has left me with an uneasy feeling.

  The traffic finally starts to move, and an hour later, I pull up in the only space available down my whole street. I haven’t missed this shit while I’ve been away.

  Thankfully, I don’t have much to carry bar my overnight bag and a couple of bags of food. It’s just as well seeing as my car is almost a mile from my front door. Joys of living in the big city.

  I have my head down as I approach the path to my flat and don’t see the guy leaning against the wall.

  “Ms Fisher, can you tell us how you feel about Miss Harris’ death?” he demands, shoving a microphone in my face. “How do you feel about being sued by her father?”

  Startled by him and his questions, I almost trip on the step as I push past him and reply, “No comment.”

  Not deterred by my refusal to answer, he follows me up the path firing more questions at me. I ignore him as best I can, but as I reach the door, his next question is my breaking point.

  “Is it true that she was raped repeatedly?”

  Spinning on him so fast he almost crashes into me.

  “Get the fuck off my property now before I show you how good I am at my job, arsehole!” He stumbles backwards at my harsh and violent words.

  When he goes to speak again, I drop my bags to the floor and step towards him.

  It’s only now I see the cameraman filming the whole thing, and I curse myself for allowing him and his fucked-up questions to get the better of me.

  Taking another menacing step, because what the hell, I’m already in the shit, he begins to back track as a man’s voice calls from across the road.

  “Hey, lady, you okay?” I look up to see him walking towards us. He strides past the journo and his cameraman to stand beside me, blocking me from view.

  “You heard the lady, leave.” His tone is strong and uncompromising. Realising that he’s not going to get anything further from me, the journo turns and walks away.

  Once they are out of sight, the man begins to walk away.

  “Hey,” I call out, and he pauses, twisting his head. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.

  He nods and then disappears round the corner.

  Picking up my bags, I push the door open on my ground floor apartment and kick the pile of letters and junk mail aside and carry my stuff into the kitchen.

  While I put the shopping away, my mind wanders to the journo outside my fucking flat. It’s bad enough that I had one at the cabins the day I got served papers, taking shots that ended up plastered all over the damn tabloids. Now they are loitering outside a flat I haven’t stepped foot in since Lottie’s death.

  I’ve no idea who the man was, although he seemed familiar, but I’m grateful he was there. It would not have been helpful or pretty had he not turned up and got rid of the journo.

  After putting the shopping away, I collect the mail and drop it on the side table before heading to my room to freshen up.

  Helena, my estate agent, calls to let me know that there’s another viewing for tomorrow. I thank her and let her know I’ll be out for most of the day anyway.

  I have a meeting with my lawyer in the morning before I head into town. Despite a wardrobe full of suitable clothing, most of which I hate with a passion equal to my dislike for my father, I decide to look for something new. Something different, risqué and absolutely guaranteed to piss my father off.

  * * *

  Before I head out the next morning, I flick through the mail. Other than the invitation to the auction tonight the rest is junk. I leave it on the table and throw the rest in the bin as I leave.

  I find Alicia Webster’s house easy enough, but when I knock there’s no answer. Not wanting to give up and go home, I sit in my car across from her apartment and wait.

  After an hour, I’m in desperate need of stretching my legs. This poxy little Corsa isn’t a patch on my A3. Grabbing my bag and keys, I climb out of the car just as a woman exits Alicia’s house. I can’t get a good look to see if it’s her, so I lean back in as though looking for something and wait for her to turn around. When she finally does, I see it is her. I watch as she strolls down the road, and I wait to see if she gets into a car or not. She doesn’t, so I set off after her on foot.

  I follow her for about fifteen minutes before she disappears inside a large building, which appears to be offices. Having stayed on the other side of the road to avoid suspicion or being seen, I cross over as the door closes behind her.

  There are no signs to indicate the type of businesses operating within the building until I reach the intercom on the door.

  I scan the names, and at first nothing jumps out at me. When I read the name of the business on the top floor, I know that’s where she’s headed. Rendezvous

  It’s a name I overheard during a visit to Tobias’ office with Lottie, and from what I can gather, his company designed the website for the dating agency.

  I’m about to push the intercom button when the door opens, and a short woman with dark hair cut into a pixie style steps out. She sidesteps me, and I quickly slip inside before the door can close.

  Not giving much thought to what I’m doing, I climb the stairs to the third floor. At the top, I open a door into a large reception area where a woman in her mid-twenties speaks on a headset behind a black marble desk.

  Looking around while I wait for her to finish her call, I see Alicia sitting on the far side of the room chatting along with several other women. None of them look all that enthusiastic to be here.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?” a tinkling voice asks behind me.

  Spinning on my heels, I face her. “Hi. I’m looking to sign up, please.”

  She narrows her eyes at me as though she’s not entirely convinced. “Okay, Miss…”

  “Miss Daniels,” I tell her without hesitation. It’s not my first time using an alias or being put on the spot.

  “Right. Miss Daniels, you’ll need to complete some paperwork before we consider your application. You’ll also be required to undertake a medical once your paperwork has been completed and as the final step in the process.” Her well-practiced speech rolls off her tongue but with a level of scepticism about my motives, and she’s clearly attempting to put me off with all the talk of paperwork and medicals. What I can’t figure out are her reasons for trying to deter me.

  Handing me a large, weighty envelope, I realise she wasn’t kidding about the paperwork. As she continues to talk, I casually look over to Alicia and the others, noting that they have been joined by a much older woman. The woman is dressed in a black-on-black pinstripe suit jacket and matching flared trousers, paired with fire-engine red stilettos. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but from her wild and animated hand gestures, I’m guessing it’s not a ‘it’s so good to see you’ kind of conversation.

  I turn back to the receptionist just as she finishes talking and placing some other documents on the countertop. I give her a picture-perfect smile and nod my head as though I’ve been l
istening all along.

  Collecting everything else and stuffing it all in my bag, I see Alicia exiting to the stairwell. Saying a quick thanks to the receptionist with a promise to be back, I hurry off after Alicia.

  Damn she’s fast on her feet because as I push through the doors and step outside, Alicia is nowhere to be seen.

  I track back to my car, not seeing her anywhere, and I’m pissed that I lost her. At least I have somewhat of a lead, although I really hadn’t planned on signing myself up to an escort agency when I left the house this morning.

  Having wasted so much time waiting for Alicia, my shopping trip is cut short, but I do manage to find the perfect dress. Feeling like a teen all over again, I smile when I think of my father’s face when he sees me in it.

  You’d think that given the high-profile lawsuit against me, having just threatened a journo, which I’ve no doubt he already knows about, and the fact that I’m the bad apple of the family, my father would want me to stay away from such a prestigious event. No such luck. Archie Collins believes, as Oscar Wilde once said, that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

  So here I am.

  Keeping my head dipped slightly, I step from the car, flashing the photographers the top of my thigh thanks to the slit up the left side of my floor length gown. I lift my head, dropping my keys into the hands of the valet, and as I begin to walk up the steps, I’m met with flash after flash as cameras go off all around me. My name is called several times and questions are thrown at me regarding my ordeal, the court case and Lottie. I ignore them all this time.

  God, I hate this shit.

  Inside, I’m greeted by a waitress holding a tray of champagne. I accept one with a smile and nod of my head and move into the main room.

  As always, my mother has done a fantastic job with the decor. Every year, for the past five years, she and several of her high society cronies organise a charity auction in aid of war veterans. Of course, my father uses it to his full advantage, inviting the cream of the crop, those with the power or position to allow him to make his next political move.