by I. T. Lucas
Not that there was even a sliver of a chance that Alex would have deigned to grace Geneva’s spartan cabin, but neither had any other male.
Just to make sure, Amanda gave the bedding a thorough sniffing.
There was nothing besides the lavender soap scent, Geneva, and a laundry detergent. So unless the bedding was brand new, the woman had been sleeping alone.
Bummer. Yet another dead end.
Oh, well, she must’ve been wrong, inventing a whole bogus scenario built on nothing more than suspicions and conjunctures.
Trouble was, she knew she wasn’t. For Alex to make the kind of money needed to buy and run this yacht, he must’ve been doing a lot more than running a club and selling some drugs.
But if indeed that was all, then he must have been a major distributor.
Whatever.
She was too tired to think straight. Her investigation would have to wait for another day, or better yet, the proper authorities.
CHAPTER 6: SYSSI
“Last night, before I got distracted by your sexy body and impressive size”—Syssi leaned against the bathroom’s doorframe and ogled Kian as he brushed his teeth—naked—”I wanted to ask you how your meeting with Dalhu went.”
Even though they’d just made love, watching the interplay of muscles on his sculpted back, she felt her nipples pebble.
Down, girls. She crossed her arms over her chest. But as he dipped his head to spit out the toothpaste, his strong thigh muscles flexing, she dropped her arms in surrender and let out a soft sigh. “You’re doing it again…”
“What?”
“Distracting me.”
“It’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“I’m not going back to bed to satisfy your insatiable appetite. I have work to do, woman.” Kian was trying for a severe tone but was losing the battle to the twitch in his lip and the smile that was threatening to foil his show.
“What? Is there anything more important than taking care of your fiancée’s needs?” Syssi taunted.
Kian was on her between one heartbeat and another. “Absolutely nothing…” he whispered in her ear, then caught the soft flesh of her earlobe between his teeth and pressed.
She shivered, and he picked her up then carried her back to their bed.
“How about you take this off?” He tugged at the hem of her nightshirt.
“Seriously? Even my new and improved physique is not up to a third time. It’s just that you’re so sexy I can’t take my eyes off you, you big, arrogant oaf.”
“Is that so?” He kissed her nose.
“It is. You know you’re gorgeous.”
“As long as you think so, I’m good.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead and pushed off the bed. “Regretfully, I need to get going. But you’re welcome to join me in the closet. You can admire my body to your heart’s content while I’m getting dressed.”
Following after him, she did just that.
“So? How did it go?” Inside the walk-in closet, Syssi pulled out a footstool and sat down, straddling it.
“The Doomer didn’t lie, but he didn’t know much either. Apparently, he was just a lowly commander of a small unit. Leave it to Amanda to aim lower than low, falling for a Doomer that isn’t even an important one. The girl needs to work on her self-esteem.”
Curiously, Syssi didn’t detect much bite in Kian’s tone. He sounded almost conversational. Was he losing some of his animosity toward Dalhu? Or was it just the effect of post-coital bliss?
“Did you learn anything new, though?” she probed, not sure which direction her questions should take.
“A little.” Kian shrugged as he buttoned his shirt.
Now, she knew for sure that there was something he wasn’t telling her. “Come on, do I have to beg for crumbs?”
Kian paused with his fingers hovering over the top button of his shirt. “Wait here,” he said and walked out of the closet in a pair of gray socks, a pale blue dress shirt, and no pants—no doubt the only man on the planet who could pull off that look with such tremendous success.
After a quick visit to the bathroom, he came back with a folded piece of green paper in his hand. “Take a look.” He handed it to her.
Curious, she unfolded what looked like a flyer for a rock band concert and arched a brow.
“Turn it over.”
She did and gasped. “Oh my God, this is amazing. Who drew it?”
“Dalhu.”
Her eyes shot up to Kian’s. “He is good, very good.”
“I know. Not that I’m an expert on art, or even know what to look for, but it’s quite evident. And it took him no more than a minute or two.”
“How did it come about? I don’t suppose that just out of the blue he decided to draw Amanda’s picture for you?”
“The Doomer was trying to prove he can sketch. Andrew suggested that we compile files on the top players in Navuh’s camp. Dalhu offered to supply the information and even to draw their portraits for us. When we sneered at him, with Andrew saying that this was a job for a forensic artist, Dalhu drew the picture to show off his skill.”
Kian walked over to the suit section of his closet and removed a pair of slacks off a hanger.
A suit, right. She’d almost forgotten. “Are your suits custom made?”
“Yes, why?”
“You need a nice one for the wedding, maybe a tuxedo?”
“Not a chance.”
Syssi let out a soft chuckle. “Why am I not surprised… but anyway, do you go to a tailor or does he comes to you? I want to arrange a fitting. We don’t have much time.” Now was not the time to argue about the tux, she’d approach the subject again later.
“You have enough on your plate. I’ll have Shai do it. He is the one who decides when I need new clothes and either buys them himself or invites Mr. Fentony to measure me for suits and dress shirts.” Kian grimaced at a blemish he noticed on the pair of slacks he was holding and cast them aside, then reached for a different pair. “Though I have no idea why he needs to come, it’s not as if my measurements change from one fitting to another. He probably does it just to justify his inflated prices.” Kian chuckled.
Syssi felt her cheeks heat up though this time the cause wasn’t embarrassment. Shai would not fight Kian over the tux. He would just do whatever Kian told him to. But there was more to it than that.
She was angry.
Why had such a trivial thing upset her so? Was it because Kian should’ve realized it was no longer his secretary’s job to take care of him?
Don’t be an idiot. The man had been on his own for literally forever, and you want him to adapt just like that? “I’ll get Mr. Fentony’s number from Shai and call him myself.”
“Why?” Kian cast her a quizzical look.
“Because I want to.” Let him figure out the why himself.
“Okay.” He shrugged as if it was a none-issue.
Not that he was wrong, necessarily. It was just that she wanted to take care of him in any way she could, needed to, and there was so little she could do for him.
Someone else made sure Kian had new clothes and kept him company in the office, another cooked his meals and did his laundry. Not that she wasn’t grateful for Okidu, but she was so busy with the wedding plans that preparing a meal or stuffing the washer would’ve been all she could’ve managed.
And as for joining Kian in the office and learning about the conglomerate he was running—so she could eventually be of some help—it would have to wait until after the party.
Trouble was, Amanda wanted her back in the lab. But even though Syssi enjoyed the research, she hated the idea of being away from Kian for so many hours a day. Neuroscience was more exciting than administrative work, but sharing Kian’s office and easing some of his load was more appealing to her.
Why?
Because she loved him, and people who loved each other wanted to be together and take care of each other.
It
was as simple as that.
Syssi looked down at the crumpled piece of green paper she was still holding. Smoothing out the creases, she ran her fingers over the outline of Amanda’s face. There was so much feeling in the eyes staring at her from the picture, and she wondered if Amanda had truly gazed at Dalhu like this, or had he drawn what he was yearning for.
But one thing was certain, only a man in love could’ve captured the beauty of Amanda’s spirit, shining through the breathtaking perfection of her face, the way Dalhu had done in his sketch.
“He loves her… you realize that, don’t you?” she murmured.
“Yeah, so what?”
“And she loves him back…”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“How could you say it? You haven’t talked to her even once since the rescue. How would you know if she does or does not?”
“Because it’s Amanda.” Kian pulled on the pair of dark gray slacks and tucked the shirt inside. “She is frivolous, and like succubus for drama, she feeds on it—the more, the better—but even she must realize that the Doomer is beneath her.” He zipped up his pants, then moved over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer—the one with his favorite ties. There were many more, taking up that whole bank of drawers. And yet, looking at his many options, Kian’s brows dipped. He couldn’t decide, or perhaps for some reason, none of them met with his approval this morning.
“Here, let me.” Syssi shooed him over, looking through the tie selection for the one that would match the colors of what he was wearing. “I don’t think social status has anything to do with love. Why is he beneath her? Is he stupid? Uneducated? Uncouth?” She held up a gray and blue striped tie to Kian’s pale blue shirt.
“I don’t think he is educated, Doomers typically aren’t, but it’s not about that. I’m not educated either. But even though he seems intelligent and is well spoken, he is tainted by his past, and there is nothing he or she can do about it.”
“Not a great believer in redemption, are you?” Syssi looped the tie around Kian’s neck.
“Nope.”
“You realize that it’s not really up to you. You could huff, and you could puff, and still, when all is said and done, Amanda will do as she pleases.” Syssi finished the knot and smoothed the tie over Kian’s shirt, then placed her palms over his hard pecs.
He covered her hands with his and held them against his chest. “It is true that I have little control over Amanda, but I have complete control over the Doomer. And I’m not letting him out of that cell.”
CHAPTER 7: ANDREW
“I’ll have a double espresso and these.” Andrew handed the tuna sandwich and the cup of fruit to the Starbucks barista.
Since he’d started the new desk job, he’d been having his breakfast at this same Starbucks every morning on his way to work. He knew everyone there by name, but this one was new. Brea—it said on her name tag—a slightly chubby girl with a pretty face and lots of makeup.
“Sure, would there be anything else, sir?” She smiled, revealing a set of small white teeth covered with shiny metal braces.
Damn, they were getting younger and younger, while he was getting older and older. And this morning in particular, his body felt like a used and abused forty-year-old truck. “No, thank you, Brea.” Like some old fart, he’d been tempted to substitute honey for her name.
Not yet, buddy. He managed a tight smile as she swiped his credit card.
The place was packed with the morning crowd, but as most of the patrons were either standing in line to order their coffee or hovering around the other side to collect it once it was ready, he found an empty stool at the counter facing the window—his favorite spot. Unwrapping his sandwich, he listened for his name to be called out.
Hell, after last night, that double shot of espresso should be classified as medicinal. Andrew needed the stimulant to get his tired old ass in gear.
A sly smirk tugged at his lips as he thought back to his eventful visit to the good doctor. Bridget had introduced him to sex like he had never experienced before—mind-blowing intensity, insatiable, and the endurance to match.
It had been humbling.
While he’d felt like he’d been through a marathon after climaxing for the fourth time—which was quite impressive for any male over twenty thank-you-very-much, though potentially life threatening for someone his age—Bridget had tried to hide her disappointment.
Her apology had made it worse. As if admitting that she hadn’t been with a man for a while and explaining immortal females’ sexual appetite was supposed to make him feel better.
With a smirk, he wondered if by literally sucking the life out of him the doctor had been violating her Hippocratic Oath to do no harm.
But hey, what was he complaining about? As if there was a better way to go than croaking from too much sex—he would have arrived on the other side with a big smile on his face.
Tonight, he was going back for seconds, but not before taking a nap and chugging an energy drink or two. Having a decent bed instead of the hard, narrow exam table would no doubt help matters as well. That bloody table must’ve been the source of most of his aches and pains.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that…
Should he bring flowers?
Bridget had invited him to dinner at her place, and showing up empty-handed seemed rude. On the other hand, neither had any illusions as to what this was all about so flowers might not be appropriate—too romantic. God knew there was no romance involved, and chances were good that they would skip the meal altogether and jump straight into bed.
Wine would be a better choice.
Pulling out his phone, Andrew added it to his shopping list. But then, wine seemed like not enough for a woman that had rocked his world.
He added a box of Godiva chocolates to the list.
Not that this was enough either, but again, anything more would imply feelings that just weren’t there, and might send Bridget running. After all, the woman made it clear she was just after his body.
Which was perfectly fine with him, she was welcome to use him for as long as he wished to be used.
“Double espresso for Andrew,” he heard the barista call out.
On his way to collect his double shot of energy, he passed by several young women—mostly college students—sitting around the small tables with their laptops and their coffees.
They had no idea how lucky they were, and how inconsequential their troubles were compared to those of women their age in other parts of the world.
That thought pulled him away from the pleasant subject of Bridget and flowers to the disturbing one of Passion Island and the women imprisoned there. To do nothing about it went against everything he stood for, but the hard truth was that the idea of invading the island was indeed ludicrous.
Even if he succeeded in convincing someone in the government that something must be done about it, no one in their right mind would consider attacking a foreign country to free a bunch of women. And even if anyone did, there was the issue of an army of immortal warriors to contend with.
The sad reality was that as miserable as the lives of those women were, they were not worth the lost lives of thousands of soldiers or the havoc an international incident like that would cause.
The only thing to do was to make it damn hard for the Doomers to collect new flesh for their bazaar—at least from the States. And he could talk to a buddy of his on the Russian side about doing something about it on their front.
In truth, though, Andrew was well aware that he was indulging in mental masturbation. Nothing could stop the worldwide plague of kidnapping and sexual enslavement of women and girls—not as long as there was demand, and big money could be made from the trade.
Regrettably, he had a hard time envisioning a future in which this age-old, loathsome market had been eradicated.
CHAPTER 8: AMANDA
“Hey, American! You alive in there?”
“Go away!” Amanda barked and covered he
r head with a pillow.
What the hell possessed Lana to bang on her door at this ungodly hour—and as far as she was concerned, it was ungodly even if it was two in the afternoon.
“Geneva said to check on you, so I did.”
“Grrr…” Amanda tightened the pillow over her ears.
Shit.
Now that she had been so rudely awakened, the effects of last night’s binge were making themselves known. Her head felt like it had doubled in size and was filled with sharp needles that were poking at her temples and her eye sockets from the inside.
I’m going to strangle her. Though, which her? Geneva for sending Lana? Or Lana for making a racket?
I’ll strangle them both; problem solved.
With a grunt, Amanda threw the pillow at the door and shoved off the bed. Assessing the damage as she got vertical, she found that the dizziness had passed, and only a faint echo of the nausea remained.
The headache was a bitch, though, and a glance at the time explained why she was still suffering from last night’s drinking fest effects.
Are these fucking Russians insane? Seven-thirty in the morning? Really? She’d just gotten into bed a couple of hours ago for heavens sake.
She’d better take something for that pounding headache before she went postal on the bunch. Maybe Alex kept some painkillers in his bathroom. Though why he would, she couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if immortals needed to have them on hand.
And yet, as she shuffled over to the vanity, she had her hopes up.
Catching her reflection in the mirror, Amanda winced. Since when did she wake up with dark shadows under her eyes? And what was with that hair? Her normally sleek, short hair, looked like a frizzy, messy nest.
She’d need to shower again just so it would dry properly. But first, a comb and a splash of water on her face were in order.
Done taking care of the necessities, she turned to search the drawers for something to relieve her headache. She found several brand new bottles of Tom Ford and Kilian perfumes for men, a few tubes of toothpaste, and several bars of soap, but no painkillers.