by Alexa Wilder
I’d set out to use sex to bind her to me, but it had worked out the other way around. Every time she shared her body with me, I wanted her more. I’d said Emma was mine, and she was. But with the lies swept away from our relationship, I was learning all the ways that I was Emma’s, whether she wanted me or not. I belonged to her, and she to me. I just had to keep her safe long enough to prove it.
18
Emma
I was still reeling from two intense orgasms in a row when Axel kissed me on the temple and slipped from the bed, saying, "I'll go get breakfast started. You can put that T-shirt back on, and there's a pair of sweatpants in the dresser if you don't want to put on your jeans from last night."
Before I could respond, he was gone. Sneaky jerk. I was still buzzing from the way he’d made me come so hard. Twice. The night before, I would have sworn a blood oath I would never, ever let him touch me again. Not in a million years.
I'd love to say I didn't know who he was this morning, that I'd been half-asleep and it hadn't really been consensual. But that would be a big, fat lie. I knew his touch. Adam, Axel, whatever name he was using—I knew him. I knew the feel of his hands on my skin. I knew his scent, woodsy, masculine, and only him. I knew exactly whose hands were touching me when I woke up, and they’d felt so good I couldn’t bring myself to argue.
I wasn't sorry. I'd be nuts to be sorry about what had happened in that bed. If Axel had proven anything, it was that he knew my body as well as I knew his. Good sex was the best antidote to stress, and I’d needed the release. Two in a row had been even better. Instead of strung tight, anxious, and angry, I was relaxed with a dopey, happy smile on my lips.
Should I give him points for that? For making me come so hard my brain felt like it had exploded and every muscle in my body was jelly? It wasn't enough for me to forgive him. Not nearly enough. But maybe I was willing to give him just a little bit of credit for taking care of me. Even if I hadn’t asked him to.
I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The mirror told me I looked like a creature from a horror movie, with rat’s nest hair, bruises on my face, and nose still swollen. Not my best look. Resigned, I turned on the shower.
I didn’t have a change of clothes or any makeup—not that my stash of makeup included anything that would cover my bruises. A little concealer and powder wouldn’t come close. My chest was tight at the idea of facing the world with messy hair and a bruised face in yesterday’s bloody clothes.
Usually, I’m not too vain. I like to look good, but I don’t spend hours on my hair and make-up. Like any woman, I had lines I wouldn’t cross. I didn’t always fix my hair. Sometimes I left it loose, and it got a little out of hand. At times, I was happy to hang out in old leggings and a t-shirt, though I usually tried to coordinate my clothes so they showed some style. But I never, ever left the house without makeup.
I didn’t wear a ton—a little concealer if I needed it, blush, some eyebrow grooming, eyeliner, and shadow. If I were going out, maybe I’d do more with my eyes. There were times I used a little powder if my skin was having a bad day. At the idea of going out with a naked face, especially with these bruises, I wanted to climb back into bed and hide. Sadly, that wasn’t an option.
I would just have to brazen it out and try to forget that I'd be facing the day without my usual armor. No hair tools, no makeup, and dirty clothes. I wasn't sure I had it in me to deal with what was coming when I was such a mess, but I guessed I'd find out. At least the shower was nice, with plenty of hot water, dual shower heads and a shelf stocked with shampoo, conditioner and bath gel. I could tell from the lack of clutter on the counters and in the cabinet that this was a guest bath, not one regularly used, but it was set up to make guests comfortable. By the time I was done, I felt much steadier. Being clean worked wonders. It wasn’t clothes and makeup, but it was a start.
I pulled on the T-shirt and sweatpants after salvaging my somewhat clean underwear off the floor. A fresh pair would've been ideal, but I wasn't going commando in front of Axel. Not anytime soon. I wasn't sure who it was I didn't trust—him or me. Maybe neither of us. The scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon hit my nose as I entered the hallway to the rest of the house.
We’d never been together for breakfast, but I knew Axel could cook. My stomach growled, not caring that he was a betraying asshole, more interested in what he might be up to in the kitchen. I wanted some of that coffee. I decided to play nice, at least until he fed me.
My stomach flipped over at the sight of him in the kitchen wearing gray dress pants, a black belt, and a dark eggplant button-down that brought out the warmth in his brown eyes.
No, I told my traitorous body. We don't trust him. I’m not sure that we even like him. Just because he’s super-hot while holding a spatula and making us French toast, it doesn't mean that we’re going to go soft.
My brain cheered at my resolve, but my stomach and other base impulses disagreed. All they saw was super-hot guy cooking breakfast. My libido and my stomach were easy. I clamped my mouth shut in case I said anything nice when I wasn't sure how I wanted to handle him yet, and I headed straight for the coffee.
Correctly sensing my mood, Axel didn't try to force me into a conversation. His eyes stroked me from head to toe, slowly, as if he liked what he saw. I told myself he could have half a point for that, but it still wasn't enough for me to forgive him. Besides, I knew better than anyone that Axel was an excellent liar. Just because he was being nice and acting like he didn't mind that I was wearing baggy sweatpants and had no makeup, it didn’t mean I could trust him. The memory of him leaving me to William Harper was too fresh. Just the thought of him walking away brought back the hollow, desolate feeling at the realization I’d been betrayed. French toast was nice, and so were the orgasms, but they didn’t erase what he’d done.
“You can sit at the bar,” he said. “This will be ready in a minute."
Coffee in hand, I took a look around and saw the bar. The kitchen was a large rectangle, with the stove on one side, an island in the middle, and on the other side, open to the living room, was a raised bar with three stools. I sat on one and spun it around to check out the rest of the house.
It was an open plan, the kitchen flowing into the living room, then to a dining area on the other side of the house. A long, floor to ceiling plate-glass window connected all three rooms. The night before it had been too dark to see anything, but in the light of morning, the windows gave a breathtaking panoramic view of Lake Mead. The lot had to be huge. I saw other homes in the distance, but Axel didn’t appear to have any close neighbors.
The Adam I had known was successful, with a luxury car and expensive clothes, not to mention the restaurants he took me to. But this house was another level entirely. A successful, well-off man did not own a house like this. I could tell that the furnishings in the home were all custom and high-end. The stove was professional grade, and the rustic style woodwork in the main area of the house was handcrafted. Not to mention what the lot itself must have cost. I wasn’t into real estate, but I knew the view of the lake didn’t come cheap.
If this was his place, he wasn’t just doing well—he was very wealthy. I wanted to ask if he owned the house, but that would have violated my policy of not talking to him. I kept my mouth shut and continued to study my surroundings. The design was interesting, with lots of wood and black iron and a feel that was both rustic and modern. It was masculine, but not so much so that a woman would feel uncomfortable. I liked that. It was elegant and still comfortable. It suited him.
Axel laid a plate in front of me filled with generous triangles of French toast, sprinkled liberally with powdered sugar, each with its own pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup, plus three strips of bacon. I didn't care how mad I was at Axel—it looked amazing. Continuing to ignore him, I picked up the knife and fork he’d placed on the bar and dug in.
Considering Axel’s talents, I wouldn't go so far as to say the French toast was better than sex, but
it was pretty freaking good: crispy on the edges, tender but not raw in the middle, with just the right amount of cinnamon and sugar. Yum. If he was trying to soften me up with good food, it might work.
He took his own plate and walked around to my side of the bar, sitting on the stool next to me. He didn't attempt to talk, just focused on his food. Good. If he’d interrupted me while I was eating that breakfast, he would've lost all the points he’d gained by making it. Well, not all of them, but a good chunk.
When I was finished, he looked over and asked, “More?"
I shook my head. I was stuffed and feeling much better than I had been earlier. I still could've used a visit to my own closet, or maybe a do-over of the last few months of my life, but some sleep, a shower, and a delicious breakfast were a good start.
"How do you want to do this?" Axel asked, his dark eyes gentle on my face.
"Do what?"
"We have two issues here. First, we need to deal with the fact that I've spent most, almost all, of our relationship lying to you about who I am, and you’re justifiably angry about that. You also have good cause to be angry about what happened last night. I should've listened to you, and I know we have to talk about that."
"I'm not sure what there is to talk about," I said, aggravated that while he recognized we needed to talk, he also assumed that the talk was going to fix everything he'd mentioned. My fear, the bruises on my face, and what had almost happened to me last night with Harper were all too fresh to consider that a simple conversation about what he'd done wrong and another apology were going to erase it all.
I wasn't ready to go there yet. I also wasn't ready to start the conversation, and I sensed any protest about it would just get it rolling. Instead, I said, “What's the other thing we have to talk about?"
“Your cover is blown at Harper Shipping,” he said, letting me switch gears without a protest. “You can't go back. And not only does Harper want you, it's likely that Tsepov does as well. You aren't safe on your own. I can protect you, but you're going to have to trust me, which I understand isn't going to be easy."
“I’ll just go with Agent Tierney, then," I said. Axel shook his head.
"Not a viable option. Agent Tierney wants you in protective custody. FBI protective custody is good for the average person. The average person doesn’t have access to Sinclair Security. I can guarantee that I have no leaks. No one in my office is working for Tsepov or Harper. Tierney can't promise you that. There are too many ways Tsepov could find out where the FBI has you stashed. We know he’s got moles inside already; we just don’t know who they are. Are you willing to take that risk with your life? Because I'm not."
“How do I know you can keep me safe?" I asked. I wasn't going to argue with him about the FBI's security. I didn't know what I was talking about, and it sounded like he did. It would be stupid for me to insist that the FBI was safe when he seemed so sure they wouldn't be. Even if he was wrong, my protests weren’t going to change his mind.
"I can keep you safe," Axel promised. “Finish breakfast, and I'll take you downtown to my office. You can see where I work, and I'll tell you more about what I do. Then you can make up your mind. Does that sound fair?"
I nodded. Part of me was still so angry. I wanted nothing more than to run away and hole up in my bedroom with weepy chick-flicks and a tub of ice cream. I couldn’t forget how easily he’d pinned and cuffed me the night before. If I trusted him and he turned on me, I’d be helpless. On the other hand, if Axel was planning to turn on me, he’d never let me leave, so I might as well play along for now and let him have his say. If he really was going to betray me again, I couldn’t think of a reason he’d put all this effort into winning me back. Why not just handcuff me again and get it over with?
Comparing Axel to Agent Tierney, there was no question who could keep me alive. Agent Tierney’s goal was the case. Axel claimed his goal was to keep me safe. I had to face reality. Axel had been an asshole. He’d been the King of Assholes. He’d also apologized. I could choose not to trust him and take off on my own, or I could take my chances with the FBI.
Axel wasn’t perfect, but he claimed to want to help me. I was in trouble, and it was the kind of trouble I couldn't fix on my own. No matter how angry I was with Axel, if he could keep me alive and away from Harper and Tsepov, I wasn't going to fight him, even if I wanted to.
19
Emma
I changed back into my jeans before we left, unable to bear the idea of going into Axel's offices wearing a pair of sweatpants. I would've put my sweater back on, but it had blood on it. I was pretty sure I never wanted to touch it again. I did salvage my T-shirt, so at least I was wearing my own clothes, even if they weren't clothes I would've chosen.
I still wasn't exactly sure what Axel did for a living. Both Griffen and Axel had mentioned Sinclair Security. I knew Axel’s last name—his real last name—was Sinclair, so I was assuming that he was in charge. Griffen had said he worked for Axel's brothers, but Axel had implied that meant he also worked for Axel, which further implied that Axel didn't work for anyone.
I was a little intimidated. I had a feeling, based on Harper’s comment about Axel’s fees, and the big house overlooking Lake Mead, that Axel’s business was pretty high-profile. On top of all my other misgivings about any relationship with Axel, I felt a niggle of insecurity. I wasn't the kind of girl who dated fabulously wealthy men with lake houses.
The ride back into town was quiet. I didn't remember how long it had taken to get there the night before. I knew it would take about an hour to get back to Las Vegas, assuming that’s where Axel's office was. We rode in silence the entire way, and I grew more curious as we entered the city. When we headed downtown and Axel abruptly pulled the SUV into an underground parking garage, I was surprised. I don't know what I had expected, but the building above looked just like any other. Had I thought it would look like James Bond worked there?
The SUV wound its way deeper underground in the parking garage until we turned into a brightly lit alcove beside an elevator. As Axel opened the driver's side door to the SUV, the elevator doors slid open. At this point in our relationship, I knew better than to get out of the car by myself. If Axel hadn’t liked me to do that before my life was in danger, I figured he probably wouldn't want me to do it now. He was at my door a moment later, taking my arm to help me out and lead me to the elevator, the door still open, as if it were waiting for us. Maybe it was.
“What’s up with the elevator?" I asked.
“When my SUV entered the garage, it signaled the control room upstairs. Whoever is on duty would've seen me, known where I was going to park, and sent the elevator."
“Nice," I said, impressed. That was pretty cool. The elevator itself was slick, a generously sized box of brushed steel, the buttons flush with the panel and nearly invisible, with no numbers.
"How do people know which button to push?" I asked. There were more than twenty buttons on the panel. It must be annoying to have to find the right one every time you used the elevator.
Axel grinned and said, “Mostly we don't have to bother. This elevator is for company use only. You can reach all of the floors on it if you need the buttons, but if you're going to our offices and you have your ID on you—which you need to get in through the door anyway—the elevator reads it and knows where you're going."
I realized I hadn't seen him push any of the buttons when we got in. Very slick. The elevator carried us smoothly upward, and with every flight, my curiosity grew. Finally, the doors slid open. If I'd been looking for James Bond, here he was. The foyer of Sinclair Security was elegant and expensive, every surface black, gray, or brushed steel.
The room was small. Surprisingly small. Then I realized it wasn't so much a foyer as it was a containment room. We left the elevator and entered from the side. Two solid brushed steel doors were to my right, and opposite them, a second set of elevator doors. Beside the steel doors, an oversized flat screen monitor was built in flush to the wall
with a keypad underneath. On the other side of the doors was a smaller flat screen, also set flush to the wall. It didn't look big enough to be a monitor. There was nothing else in the small room aside from a sign on the wall with the words Sinclair Security in a bold script, with a double S logo beneath it. I expected the doors to click open at Axel's approach as the elevator had.
They remained solidly shut. He reached over and placed his palm on the smaller of the monitors. Not a monitor then, but a hand scanner. The screen briefly glowed an alien green and went dark. A second later, I heard a lock click.
"What if you don't have the right handprint?" I asked. Axel tipped his head toward the large monitor on the other side of the door.
“You can dial the front desk from there.”
He led me through the first set of doors, and I found myself in a reception area not unlike one you might find in any upscale office, with black leather couches, light gray walls, darker gray carpet, and brushed steel accents everywhere. The office screamed power.
Adding further to this impression, the man sitting behind the shiny black and steel desk did not look like any receptionist I'd ever seen before. Bald, with graying stubble and keen brown eyes, he wore a button-down shirt that did little to disguise his bulky shoulders and muscled arms. A scar bisected his nose, and another ran down his cheek. With his eyes on his computer, his face was hard-angled and forbidding. At our entry, he looked up and grinned at Axel.
“Got your orders this morning. Everything's in your office. Lola works fast," he said.
Axel nodded. “She does. Would you bring in some coffee?”
The man nodded and looked at me, raising his eyebrows. Axel, remembering his manners, said, "Billy, this is Emma Wright. Emma, this is Billy. He manages the office. He's my equivalent of you."