KNOCKED UP BY THE REBEL: The Shadow Hunters MC

by Nicole Fox

  He had me there.

  “Still,” I said. “A shopping spree’s a shopping spree.”

  A little smirk formed on his lips.

  “How about this,” he said. “You can give me one last, big, extravagant thank you, and that’ll cover you for everything. Go.”

  “Wow, now I’m on the spot,” I said with a smile.

  “Big thank you,” he said. “Make it count; it’s the last one you’re gonna say.”

  I took a deep breath, rocked my head back and forth, and stretched out my limbs. I wanted to give the best damn thank you I could.

  “Here we go,” I said, a little bit of a smart-alecky tone to my voice. “Thank you. Thank-you-thank-you-thaaank-you. You’re the best, Russell. Just swell. Tops.”

  “You happy now?” he asked, the corner of his mouth pulling up just a bit.

  “Yes,” I said. “I feel a lot better now.”

  As we drove, I noticed that Russell wasn’t taking the route back that we’d used to arrive in Midtown. Instead of heading south towards the Brooklyn Bridge, we were going north, towards Central Park.

  “We taking another stop before we go back or something?” I asked, my eyes on the towers that loomed ahead in front of Central Park.

  “Figured we could drop off your haul somewhere a little more convenient.”

  Now I was confused. Did Russell have a storage unit uptown or something? I sat quietly as we drove through Times Square, then towards the Upper East Side. The park on our left, we drove down the quiet streets of the wealthier parts of the neighborhood, stately townhomes on both sides of us. Eventually, we arrived in front of a townhome of red brick with French-style roofing and a tall stone set of stairs that led up to a set of ornate double doors. It was an incredible home, and I didn’t even want to think about how many millions of dollars it was worth.

  “We’re here,” said Russell.

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

  “What?” I asked, totally taken by surprise. “Is this where the party’s happening?”

  “Nope,” said Russell, his voice cool. “This is my place uptown.”

  “Wait, what about the place in Brooklyn?” I asked, incredulous.

  “That’s just where I keep the goods and crash when I’m in the neighborhood. This place is where I actually live.”

  I was shocked. I’d definitely gotten the impression that Russell was making good money, but I’d had no idea it was “townhome-uptown” kind of money. But I wasn’t going to question things.

  Russell pressed a button on his visor and a squat silver door at the end of a short driveway next to the townhome opened up. We drove into the small one-car garage. In a city like New York, where space was at a premium, something like a garage door was an unthinkable luxury. Hell, most people here dreamed of one day, maybe, having an eight-by-ten backyard.

  The garage door shut behind us and Russell killed the engine. Stepping out, he opened the backdoor and grabbed my bags, slipping the handles onto his arms with ease.

  “Tha—“” I started, but caught myself.

  Russell looked at me knowingly, his blue eyes narrowed over a tight grin.

  “Good save,” he said.

  He opened the door leading from the garage and held it for me. When I stepped in, I had to do all I could not to gasp. We walked into a beautiful, well-appointed living room with tall, vaulted ceilings. Modern furniture filled the space, the sleek angles and solid colors forming an interesting contrast to the Renaissance-style art on the walls. A gorgeous fireplace was the centerpiece of the living room. I couldn’t believe how stunning the home was.

  “This is … a really nice place you have here,” I said, my eyes wide as I looked around.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I wish I could take credit for the décor; I had someone do that for me.”

  Russell led me up a flight of stairs leading to the second floor, then down a long hallway. We stopped at an ornate door at the end of the hallway.

  “This can be your room,” said Russell, placing his hand on the knob and giving it a turn. “I think you’ll like it a little better than the futon.”

  He wasn’t kidding. He opened the door to reveal a spacious but cozy bedroom. A four-point bed was against the north wall, and an elegant dresser set lined the space. There was even a small fireplace.

  “And here’s where you can put your clothes,” he said, starting towards a door in the room.

  I saw that the door opened into a walk-in closet, and my jaw nearly hit the floor. My place with Logan had been nice, but not even close to being walk-in-closet-nice. I stepped inside the empty closet, already fantasizing about filling the racks with even more goodies from Fifth Avenue.

  Calm down, Alyssa, I told myself. Remember that you’re more or less trapped here.

  It took all the restraint I had to keep my giddiness 1ohnson1 down, however.

  Russell set my bags down on the bed and headed towards the door.

  “Go on and get ready,” he said. “We’re leaving in forty minutes, and I want to go over some ground rules before we leave.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  With that, he left and shut the door behind him. I walked backward to the bed and fell down on top of it, letting myself stretch out and enjoy the cushiness of the mattress and the softness of the sheets. After spending nearly a week in my car and last night on a futon, this bed was like heaven. Part of me wanted to curl up and drift off into a deep, half-day sleep.

  But I had business to attend to. After another minute of comfort, I went through my bags and removed the dress that I’d picked out for tonight, along with a black lace underwear set. The goods in hand, I headed to the walk-in and stripped down. Stepping into my panties, I looked at my body in the five-panel mirror, a soft, flattering light glowing from above. Was I really good enough to be a temptress to these men who I was going to meet tonight? I’d never thought of myself as anything special, but according to Russell, I was primo arm candy. I hoped he was right.

  I put on my bra and stepped into the dress, taking care not to disturb my hair. Once I was dressed, I slipped on my heels and took one last look at myself. It was strange to see the woman staring back at me in the mirror; I usually wasn’t much for dressing up to show off the goods, both because I was typically the modest type, and because Logan had had a tendency to show his jealous side whenever I’d put too much time into my appearance.

  When I stepped out of the dressing room, the room was slightly darker than it had been. I walked over to the window and saw that the sun was sinking low into the sky, the night beginning to show. Taking my new clutch out of one of the bags, I took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

  Russell was sitting at the long, dark brown dining room table, a cocktail in front of him and a cigar in his hand, the smoke curling in the air above his head. His eye snapped to me as I walked into the room, and though I might have been imagining it, I was pretty sure his eyebrows rose a little.

  “Very nice,” he said, looking me up and down. “Everything’s on display, but you’re not being too obvious about it.”

  “Glad it works,” I said, giving him a little turn.

  “So am I,” he said, his voice low.

  When I finished turning I saw that his eyes were still locked onto my body. I wondered what was going on behind those icy eyes of his. But before I could think about it for too long, Russell gestured to one of the open chairs.

  “Take a seat,” he said. “We’ve got some business to discuss.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alyssa

  I settled into my seat, and Russell’s gaze turned hard.

  “You’re going to be meeting with some serious men tonight, the types that, one way or another, have more blood on their hands than most military units.”

  I gulped.

  “But you don’t need to worry about any of that.”

  Russell took a sip of his drink, followed by a puff of his cigar. His eyes flicked to the table in front of m
e, and, apparently noticing that he hadn’t offered me a drink, he got up and walked to the bar at the far end of the room.

  “Most of these guys are gentlemen, not really the type to do any harm to women. The hair-trigger assholes tend to get weeded out before they make it up to this level.”

  “Like Cory?” I asked, immediately regretted what I’d said.

  Russell said nothing, instead dragging his finger along a series of wine bottles, eventually settling on one. With a wine key, he opened the bottle, poured me a glass, and set it down in front of me. Silence hung in the air, and I wondered if he was saying nothing purposefully, in order to make me mull over the faux pas that I’d just said.

  “Cory’s his own thing,” said Russell finally, making it clear that Cory wasn’t to have anything to do with this conversation. “But, yes, generally, hotheads have a short career in this industry. One way or another.”

  I nodded and took a sip of the wine. It was rich and delicious.

  “So your job is to look good. You stay at my side unless I say otherwise. These guys are going to be trying to lure you with all manner of pick-up lines, telling you they’ll fly you to Paris for the week, take you out on their private yacht, tell you they’ll introduce you to the president of fucking Japan, whatever they think it’ll take to get you to give their 1ohnson a little tug. But your job isn’t to do any of that. No, your job is to attend to just about every other need they have aside from those that end with them making sticky little puddles in their shorts.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Talk to them, charm them, maybe even get information out of them, if you can.”

  “How do I get information out of them?” I asked. “I mean, I’m not exactly a CIA agent.”

  “Don’t worry about prying,” he said. “Lots of these guys will just offer up shit in order to impress you. Say, for example, one of these bigwigs mentions he’s going to Moscow next week, says he can get you into some exclusive club or some shit. That’s the kind of thing I might want to know. But don’t go out of your way; I’d rather you just smile and look hot than risk getting found out scoping for info.”

  “Got it,” I said, feeling a little better.

  He took a sip of his drink and considered the matter.

  “You know what a geisha is, right?” Russell asked, tapping his finger on the table.

  “Vaguely,” I said. “They’re the Japanese women, right? They serve tea to people and wear all the makeup.”

  “More or less,” said Russell. “But there’s a little more to it than that. Geishas are essentially professional entertainers. See, back in the day it was common for women to actually be skilled in the arts of entertainment in conversation. Women would take lessons on how to speak with men, how to flatter them, how to make them feel good, and how to put them at ease in a social setting. Sex wasn’t really a part of it, though it could be.”

  He took another sip and leaned forward.

  “What you’re going to be is like that. You’re going to be an urban geisha, pleasing the men with your looks and charm. You’ll talk with them, laugh at their bad jokes, fetch their drinks, and take it in stride when they’ve had one too many and give your ass a squeeze or two. Moving up in this world and getting information is my goal, and that body of yours is what I’m gonna use as the carrot on the end of this particular stick.”

  “So … they can touch me whenever they want?” I asked.

  “They’ll try for an ass pinch here and there, but these guys know better than to get too handsy. And I’m glad you mentioned that because there’s one rule here that I want you to remember above all others.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he did.

  “Don’t forget even for a second that until I say otherwise, you’re mine. You belong to me. Any of these guys promise you the moon made out of diamonds, you laugh and tell them you’ll think about it. Because you’re as taken as it gets.”

  There wasn’t a hint of levity to what Russell had said. He was serious as a heart attack about me belonging to him.

  “Now,” he said, his eyes moving along my body, “I think you and I are both more than ready to go.”

  I gulped, the anxiety of the evening to come settling in my stomach like hot wax.

  “Sure,” I said. “Ready to do this.”

  A pleased grin spread across Russell’s face.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  A little bit later, we were both dressed and ready to go. Getting back into Russell’s car, we pulled out onto the streets and were soon headed through Central Park.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked, watching the rolling green of the park pass us by, a little envious of the men and women out spending their evening taking a carefree stroll.

  “Upper West Side,” he said.

  Soon, we cut through the park and arrived on one of the streets in the Upper West Side lined with tall towers of stone. Down the road, I spotted a particularly stately building with a gathering of men and women in front, luxury cars pulling up to valets who buzzed around like bees.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Just stay by my side at first—get comfortable.”

  We pulled up in front of the building, where I watched as the wealthy-looking men and women filed into through the tall, ornate front doors. Russell pulled to a stop, and a valet quickly took the car off our hands. Russell stepped out of the car and walked to my side, opening the door and offering me his arm to take, which I did.

  I scanned the crowd, noting that most of the men were a little older and very well-dressed. All seemed to have a vaguely European look to them. And, of course, nearly all of them had a stunning young woman—or two—on his arm.

  “Pretty out in the open for a party of criminals,” I said.

  Russell snorted. “Between everyone here tonight they’ve probably got more than half of the NYPD on their payroll. They could get drunk and fire their guns into the air and likely get away with it.”

  The two of us ascended the grand stairs leading to the front door. There, a pair of burly guards with faces like shaved pit bulls stood on each side of the door, their beady eyes scanning each person who walked in.

  “Penthouse,” said one of the guards after confirming Russell’s identity. “And go straight there.”

  Russell gave a nod, and soon after the two of us were strolling through the impossibly luxurious lobby of the building, a grand space built in the old Gilded Age style.

  “You think this is impressive, just wait until you see the apartment,” said Russell. “But try not to look too impressed; letting your jaw drop onto the floor at the sight of all the money on display is an easy way to look like you’re out of your element.”

  “But I am out of my element,” I said as we stepped through the tall gold doors of the elevator.

  “Sure,” he said. “But you don’t want them to know that.”

  It all seemed like too much. But I resolved to do my best.

  The elevator rose quickly, and after a few moments, it opened to reveal what had to have been the most amazing apartment that I’d ever seen in my life. It was a penthouse with ceilings that seemed to stretch up into infinity, the glass back walls of the place looking out over Central Park and the Upper East Side beyond. Gold and marble dominated the apartment, and classical-style sculptures and paintings comprised most of the décor. It was less like an apartment and more like a gorgeous estate placed on top of a building in the city. At least a hundred men and women were there, black-clad servers darting here and there among them. There was even enough space for a small string group to play music on a stage.

  “Remember what I said about not letting your jaw drop,” Russell said.

  “I know,” I said, “but this apartment is just incredible.”

  Russell nodded. “This is the kind of place the arms trade allows.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  Russell scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face.

  “There he i
s,” he said, gesturing with a subtle nod towards the crowd.

  The man he nodded towards was a trim older man with silver hair and a tight beard to match. He was dressed in a simple but expensive-looking tuxedo and a pair of black dress shoes polished to a mirror sheen. A small half-circle of men and women were gathered around him, and they all seemed to be held in rapt attention as he spoke to them, his hands waving expressively as he spoke. And, of course, two impossibly gorgeous women in glamorous dresses tight enough to show off their youthful bodies were at his side.

  “That’s Sandor Szsavost,” he said. “Hungarian, I believe. “Started out as a gunrunner in Budapest when he was fifteen and, over the decades, rose to become one of the wealthiest dealers in the business.”