The Vigilante's Lover: A Romantic Suspense Thriller (The Vigilantes Book 1)

by Annie Winters

  “Thanks,” I say. Colette does always remember every last detail.

  “We’re approaching our rendezvous with our clones.” Colette touches a yellow button on the screen in the dash. “You can play the letters back here. Perhaps get more ideas.”

  I doubt I will learn much more than I did in prison, with nothing else to do but study the strange rearrangement of my code in handwriting that does not match any of the styles Klaus adopted.

  “I know what a risk you two took to get me out,” I say to Colette. “I won’t forget it.”

  “We won’t let you forget it,” Sam says with a laugh.

  Colette exits the freeway and approaches a small gas station. This Lexus is electric, but as we approach, a hybrid Mustang wheels out from behind the pumps.

  “That’s our ride,” Sam says. “You’re letting me drive this one.”

  Colette rolls her eyes. “I’ll try not to get bored.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “Be safe, Jax. We’ll catch up with you again in three days.”

  “Be careful out there,” Sam says. “There’s a blackout phone in the bag. It’s a rare bird. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

  I nod. Colette and Sam walk away toward the Mustang. Two other people get out of the car and head into the station.

  I open the passenger door slowly, breathing in the smell of gasoline and autumn. Leaves skitter across the broken pavement.

  I walk around to the front of the car, fingers lightly grazing the smooth glossy surface of the hood. It is an excellent vehicle and well equipped. I am out of prison, and on my way to clearing up this little matter that made the Vigilantes overreact so abominably. Time to head to the Tennessee safe house and see who is impersonating Klaus, or holding him as some sort of hostage.

  Whoever it is, they’d better be ready for me.

  6: Mia

  Another long empty night has arrived. I feel disjointed and unsettled. Maybe it’s the letters. Maybe it’s the change of seasons.

  I wonder how Aunt Bea ended up here all her life, never married, alone in this rambling old house.

  I have to be careful or it could happen to me.

  I check both doors. Locked tight. Not that it matters. This small town has all the danger of a potted plant.

  But for some reason Aunt Bea has enough deadbolts for Fort Knox. I run my fingers over the cold steel. It takes six different keys to open them all. Maybe the first thing to do now that she’s gone is to have all but one of them removed. I will be fearless, like my mother. I won’t stay locked away.

  I head back to my small bedroom. There’s nothing to stop me from taking over my aunt’s larger one, but it doesn’t feel quite right. Not yet.

  I flip on the light. My room is tidy with its smooth crocheted bedspread, small dresser, and wicker nightstand. A bit of high school memorabilia still hangs on a bulletin board. I was president of the chess club.

  Yes, the dullest life ever.

  Except…the letters. I have placed the older ones in a wooden box on my nightstand. I run my finger over the carvings on the lid of the box, wondering if I should read through them again. So unusual, talking about all that bondage and using nautical terms. So intriguing and sexy and strange.

  I lay back on the bed, imagining in my mind the person who writes them. Jax De Luca.

  Does he hunch over a metal desk scattered with paper and pens? I wonder if he has a book of knots that he refers to as he writes, or if, like me, he has knowledge of them from years of study.

  The letters are always addressed to “Klaus” on the envelope. Inside, each begins with a broad-stroked “K.” Whoever K. Klaus is, this Jax guy is really into her. Kate? Kathryn? Karen?

  When I found the first one in my aunt’s unsorted mail, I set it aside, planning to return it. But weeks passed, and one day in a flurry of going through letters to find a missing bill, I accidentally opened the envelope.

  By the time I read the first line, I was hooked. I searched through a newer stack, and sure enough, a second one was buried in the pile.

  I read them, again and again. The knots made them so personal, like they were meant for me.

  And they were so sexy. I’d never read anything like it. It’s as though they unlocked some secret part of me. Forbidden. Hot. Exciting.

  On one of my quiet days, I drove out to the local library, and hidden behind a fern, opened up that popular bondage book Fifty Shades of Grey to see if maybe the letter writer was just copying passages from it. I had gleaned from bits of news that filtered in from neighbors that this scandalous novel had the same sort of subject matter.

  But no, the words were all his own.

  I would never have written him back, except I kept passing that picture in the hallway. Mother, so beautiful and brave, fearless and full of adventure. How much harm could come from a letter? And wasn’t it a kindness? I would be easing the plight of some poor incarcerated soul.

  Obviously his K. Klaus lied to him about her whereabouts, as this address has been owned by my aunt for decades. She probably distanced herself after his trial.

  I tried looking up the prisoner’s name. I found very little. No arrest. No crime. Just a small notice about his arrival at Ridley Prison. No picture. Just his age, 37, and birth city, Atlanta. Also a Southerner. He would serve fifteen years of a sixty-year sentence. Only a year had passed.

  Surely if he did something truly terrible, there would be news about it. Probably he was some white-collar criminal who evaded taxes or laundered funds, and the company kept it quiet to avoid upsetting the shareholders.

  Or so I told myself.

  My first attempts to write him fell flat. I couldn’t quite bring the sexy into the knots. So I began to copy his letters word for word, then slowly rearrange the sentences and switch out the knots. But the time I managed a draft I was pleased with, my urge to share it was strong.

  So I mailed it.

  Shirley’s dog howls in the night, a long terrible wail. I sit straight up in my bed. Rowdy never makes any noise, not that I can hear down the road. The howl is followed by a series of barks, then he goes quiet. He must have tried to relieve himself in the yard, and it wasn’t pleasant for him after his snipping. Poor dog.

  I relax back against the headboard.

  I turn to the box of letters, wondering if I can handle reading one more before I go to sleep. Maybe my dreams will be full of Jax De Luca and his slipknots. I lift my hand in the air, the long cotton sleeve of the old-fashioned nightgown sliding to my elbow. I giggle, imagining my wrist tethered to the bedpost. I shift my ankles apart beneath the comforter. They don’t quite make the width of the bed to reach the knobs on the corners. The long skirt of the gown keeps me from spreading very wide.

  I’m just not the sort of girl made for BDSM novels.

  But Jax doesn’t know that.

  I pick up a pencil and jot down one new idea that has just come to me with my movements on the bed.

  You jerk my ankles apart with such strength that my gown disintegrates into tattered shreds around my naked hips.

  I shudder at the thought of it. Now it will be hard to go to sleep. I set the pencil and paper back on the nightstand and flip off the light. In the dark, the night is quiet, a silence I am used to. Tomorrow I will try to sort through my life, figure out my next step. Somewhere out there is a future for me. I just never thought to plan for it.

  My eyes are heavy. For a little while, I drift in a twilight sleep. The letters ruffle through my thoughts. The cool silk of a well-made rope sliding around my wrist. The tickle of a sheet as it slips across my body.

  Then I’m awake.

  Wide awake.

  The light on me is harsh.

  My arms are immobile.

  Both wrists are tight against the bedposts.

  My breasts and belly are crisscrossed with red rope over my white gown.

  One ankle is tethered to the knob at the base of the bed.

  My other leg is in the air, lifted by an arm.

&nb
sp; An arm in a slick pale gray suit.

  A suit connected to a man with a scruffy beard and dark, impenetrable eyes.

  “Good evening,” says a deep voice.

  Oh, God. Who is it?

  I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

  My nightgown is riding up, exposing my leg. The man tucks my ankle on his shoulder.

  I begin to hyperventilate, my chest heaving. This isn’t happening. Not in my town. Not to me. It’s a dream. A bad dream.

  I try to look at the man, to see inside those hooded eyes.

  He waits, patiently, for me to come fully awake.

  It’s not a dream. Men in fancy suits don’t wait for you to wake up in dreams.

  “Who…are…you?” I finally ask.

  “I think you know who I am.” He reaches down for the sheaf of letters and flings them across my body.

  “Jax?”

  “The one and only.”

  “But you’re in prison.” My eyes dart to my body, the rope, the white pages, and his lean body in the silk suit.

  His grin spreads wide.

  “Not anymore.”

  7: Jax

  I hold fast to the woman’s ankle. What sort of spy is this? Vigilante? Counterintelligence? She isn’t trained like any operative I’ve ever seen.

  Except one.

  Jovana.

  My anger burns hot at the thought of it.

  Her honey-brown hair splays across a white pillow. Her terror is palpable. So real. Does she have some sort of mood enhancement capability? Her fright prickles my protective urges, and I have to stuff it down to maintain control.

  Damn this vexation. I was at the highest pinnacle of the syndicate before Jovana. I’m not aware of this level of training. Now I’m out of the loop. Susceptible.

  Her breaths are rapid and short. She seems on the verge of hyperventilating.

  So convincing. Damn it.

  “Tell me who you work for,” I bark at her.

  Her eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t work,” she says, her voice raspy. “I was just watching out for my aunt.”

  “Who is your aunt?”

  Her throat moves as she tries to swallow. She’s good. I pin her ankle against my shoulder. This damn old-fashioned nightgown is in my way.

  I flick my wrist, activating a hidden holster in my sleeve. A slender dagger falls into my hand. I slice the long skirt of her gown to the knee.

  She gives a little yelp. Her face is pink, and her wide green eyes fasten on me. “My aunt is Beatrice Carina,” she says quickly. “She died two weeks ago.”

  “Who killed her?” I ask, none too kindly.

  “N-no one,” the woman says. “She had another stroke.”

  “I assume you won’t identify yourself.” I grip her ankle in a vise that I know will bruise. To her credit, she doesn’t even wince. This element of her training is solid.

  “I’m Mia,” she says. “Mia Morrow.”

  I drop her leg to the bed and tug out the updated Identipad Sam packed in the case. It has been listening to the entire conversation and making cross-references. Paragraphs line up on the screen. I keep an eye on the woman as I scan it. She may be skilled in escaping silk-rope bondage.

  Though it does look good on her. Something about the crimson rope on the lacy cotton gown makes my blood rush. The year of enforced celibacy weighs on me. Despite the information flashing across my Identipad, my eyes casually slide up her ankle, the slim calf, the smooth knee, and the beginnings of a soft thigh. She makes me want to cut more of the gown.

  But for now, I must assess her skills. She isn’t muscular or taut. So, not trained for military combat or fighting. Her talents must lie in her manipulation. Cunning. Mood-enhanced speech.

  I am already distracted by her skin. Damn it to hell. They’ve sent another Jovana, another damsel in distress. False innocence. They think I will be that stupid again.

  Rage blasts through me.

  “You’re a liar,” I growl at the girl. The Identipad lists the owner of the safe house as Georgiana Powers, part of the Mason-Dixon syndicate. She vacated the house only six months ago.

  The woman tries to sit up against the bonds, but fails, falling back. More thigh shows. I’m definitely distracted. They must have sent this one particularly for me. She matches my every preference in women. Honey hair. Petite. Skilled.

  “Look it up in the paper,” she cries. “Her funeral was at the Baptist church. She was my only family.”

  I ignore her prepared story, unmoved by its expert presentation. Mia Morrow comes up next, and this woman’s image. So she isn’t lying about that. But there is no history of her. It’s a blank slate. She’s wiped. No identification beyond her name and gender.

  Just like Jovana.

  I’m livid.

  “You will talk to me,” I say, and slice the dagger through the white gown again. Now it’s slit high on her thigh. “Who are you, really?”

  “Mia!” she cries. She pushes back against her pillow, as if she can escape me.

  “Who wrote the letters?”

  At that, she sags limply, her expression dropping into shame. “I did. I shouldn’t have. I—I led you on. I pretended to be K. Klaus.”

  This makes me laugh out loud, ringing through the room with such force that the girl lurches away, banging against the headboard.

  “Do you even know who Klaus is?” I ask.

  She squirms against the wrist binding. “I assumed it was the woman you are in love with.”

  I tuck the dagger back into my wrist holster and lift a polished shoe up on the base of the bed. I lean over, bracing my arm on one knee. I don’t know who this Mia girl is, but she poses no threat to me.

  “Klaus is my partner. He came to this safe house to wait on my instructions. The letters were for him.”

  “You—you like men?” she asks, still not understanding anything.

  I drop my foot and come around to the side of the bed. She wiggles a little so that she can cross her loose leg over the slit in her gown, as if she is trying to preserve her modesty.

  Whatever. I know how girls like her are trained. The innocent victim. They want to ensnare you, like a pool shark pretends to be a beginner.

  But this one wrote me in my own code, which means she knew what she was doing, however pathetically she misinterpreted the knots.

  I will show her I understand her game, and that I am not a Vigilante to be trifled with. We’ll end this little charade here and now.

  I sit next to her. Her breathing speeds up again. The letters are still spread across the bed. I spot one with only a single line. “A new one?” I ask. “For me?”

  She doesn’t answer, just watches with those green eyes. Vixen eyes. Looks like I’ll be ending my dry spell on this one before it’s over. Maybe I’ll let her think she’s seducing me, right till the end.

  I pick up the letter.

  “Let’s see,” I say. “What was on sweet Mia’s mind before she retired this evening?” I hold the paper to the light. “Mmmm. I like this. ‘You jerk my ankles apart with such strength that my gown disintegrates into tattered shreds around my naked hips.’”

  I glance down at her thighs. “I say we give this one a go.”

  Her eyes widen with shock. Such a well-trained little actress. I look forward to assessing her skill. What sort of maneuvers does she take pride in? I can already picture those slender legs wrapped around me.

  I grasp the white cotton and tear it past her waist. Her hips are narrow in simple white panties. I finger the lace edge. Her breathing comes fast again. She’s so good at this. I almost believe it.

  “Such pretty little underwear,” I say.

  Her green eyes glisten with tears. So well done.

  “Are you going to tell me you’re a virgin?” I ask. “I hope you know you can only do the hymen restructure surgery so many times before you lose feeling.”

  Her mouth opens in a feigned oval of shock. As if she didn’t know.

  “Your nightclothes remi
nd me of one of my favorite books. Little Women. Have you read it?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “A pity,” I say. “Such strong women in that book. Do you consider yourself a strong woman?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Too bad. Because we’re about to find out what you’re made of.”

  When I rip another slice through her nightgown, she screams.

  8: Mia

  I am in hell.

  I am in the hell I deserve for lying to this man. For writing him. For leading him on.

  I wish I had never seen the letters. Never thought about them.

  Never written back.

  I can’t watch him cut up my gown. It’s too frightening, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I know he’s looking at me. The air is hitting my thighs and belly. I’m typically shy. No one has ever seen this much of me.

  His slipknots on my wrists are perfectly tied, so that the more I move, the tighter they get.

  I don’t recognize the pattern across my body, however. These aren’t sailing knots. They are something else, meant for other purposes. I don’t have to see them to remember how they look. The blood-red ropes crisscrossing my breasts and ribs aren’t something I’ll easily forget. The image is branded on my brain.

  I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see my shredded nightgown. He used my own words against me, slicing the gown apart like we were lovers on a dare.

  Goosebumps spread across my skin from the chill. I’m embarrassed as much as scared. The bed shifts as he moves. I assume he will take me now, do what he wants to me. He’ll assume my real virginity is — what did he call it? Hymen restructuring?

  Where does this man come from?

  I don’t know if he will kill me. He seems so well dressed for a murderer, so gentlemanly in how he talks, even when he’s accusing me of lying. Jax De Luca. Who is he? How did he get out of jail?

  He assumed my aunt had been murdered. This must be his life.