Wasn’t the purpose of tonight to avoid that?
33
JAMES
I’m trying to figure out why the fuck I’m so bothered, and why she is now mute. The car feels like it could explode, the tension is so powerful. I need to clear my head. Get in the right frame of mind. Going in for a kill with anything less than composure isn’t wise.
I look across the car to her. She’s here but not here. And I think about the look on her aunt’s face. And her partner’s? His was equally disgusted. Shocked. Disapproving. They don’t like me. It was as plain as Beau’s withdrawal now. If they knew me, I’d understand. But they don’t know me, and they won’t know me.
“Why do you live with your uncles?” I ask, digging for information I already know.
“Because my mother is dead, my father is an asshole, and I left my ex at the altar on our wedding day.”
And she doesn’t want to be alone.
“You were going to get married,” I muse quietly, as if it’s news to me.
“It’s historic.”
“To the man outside the store?”
She turns her eyes onto me. They’re cold and empty. She doesn’t need to tell me to back off. Every fiber of her being is yelling at me to.
And I should.
34
BEAU
When we arrive at Ziff Ballet Opera House, the unbearable atmosphere between us hasn’t shifted. He asked some questions, I answered. That’s all he’s getting, and I know he must sense that because he’s been silent since. Silent and thoughtful. Angry.
He pulls the door to the lobby open for me, and I stand stock-still on the threshold, taking in the bustling space. My feet feel like they’re blocks of concrete, my pulse booming. James’s black mood isn’t helping. I’ll never get through this without him helping, and he looks in no mood to help.
Which means I can’t do this.
I pick up the bottom of my dress and turn, walking away, calm finding me the farther away I get from the building.
Or is it because I’m getting away from James?
I hate my final thought. Hate it.
“Beau,” he calls, but I keep on walking, unable to shake the awkward vibes or the displeasure on Zinnea’s face. I could endure it, maybe even disregard it, if I had any kind of reward. But her revulsion, James’s mood, and now this shitty atmosphere, has me wanting to do what I’ve become a master at.
Hiding.
My pace increases as a result, and I see the road approaching, the bus stop within reach.
“Beau!”
I step into the road.
“Beau!”
Look right.
“Beau, stop!”
But I don’t look left.
“Beau!”
I whirl around, seeing a car coasting toward me, and I freeze, paralyzed by shock. I’m grabbed and hauled back onto the sidewalk as the car zooms past, and I look up at James, startled. His face. It’s grave. “God damn it, Beau, what the fuck are you playing at?”
I blink, swallowing.
“Why are you running away from me?”
My eyes drop like stones to his chest. “Why are you angry?” I ask quietly.
“I’m not angry. I’m . . .” He breathes out heavily, as if trying to expel that anger. “I’m tangled.”
“Tangled?”
“Inside,” he goes on. “I’m in fucking knots, Beau.”
I look up at him. “Why?”
He closes his eyes briefly, as if gathering patience, like he doesn’t understand why I don’t get it. His hand slips onto my neck, his thumb circling my cheek, his spare hand on my hip, encouraging me closer to him. He dips and places his lips over mine, and the storm inside settles. Soft James. “I want to get to know you, Beau Hayley. And that’s come as a massive fucking surprise.”
I jolt in his hold, shocked. “What?” It’s all I can say. Being curious about me is one thing. But getting to know me?
Pulling back, he makes sure he has my eyes, and he stares so deeply into them, I fear all my secrets can be seen. It makes me look away, makes me feel vulnerable. This wasn’t part of the plan. I’ve fought my curiosity, so he needs to too. I feel like I’ve been derailed. He wants to get to know me. Does that mean he expects me to spill my dirt? Offload my demons and . . . and then what? We live happily ever after? And all of this is before putting mind to the fact that the first time I saw James, he was stark naked fucking a woman while a man watched.
“Why are you pulling away?” he asks.
I step back, and his hands fall to his sides. “This won’t work,” I murmur to my feet, feeling like I’m dying on the inside. “You, me, it can’t work.” A veil of bricks falls around me, protecting me. “You’ve fucked me. You know everything I want you to know.”
He lets out a puff of laughter. It’s a laughter of disbelief. And it’s as condescending as could be. The hollows of his cheeks start pulsing, his stare hard and unforgiving. I wonder what comes next, but before I can start hedging my bets, he seizes my hand and starts pulling me toward the opera house.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to pry my hand from his vise grip. “James!” He continues to ignore me, pulling me, my feet moving fast to keep up with him. “James, let go of me.”
He yanks the door open and pulls me through. The foyer is quieter now, only a few people milling around, everyone having taken their seats. I’m more than happy about that, but not so much about being manhandled into the building.
“Sir,” an usher says, approaching, his eyes flicking to me. “Can I help?” I can hear the sounds of a tenor in the distance.
James goes to his inside pocket and pulls out some papers, virtually slapping them in the man’s hand. “Which way?”
The usher looks down at the tickets. “A box?”
“Yes, a box. Which way?”
He points to the elevators on the other side of the foyer. “Top level. Farthest on the left.” His eyes fall onto me again, and then to my hand being squeezed by James’s. “Are you okay, ma’am?” he asks, flicking a nervous look to my rattled companion.
“I’m fi—”
“She’s fine,” James grunts, snatching the tickets back and pulling me on. When we reach the elevator, we’re escorted to the top level, and then to the very end. “Thank you,” James says, sending the usher on his way as he opens the door to the box. “Inside, Beau,” he orders, releasing my hand. I flex my wrist, pushing back the emotion clogging my throat.
And I step inside.
35
JAMES
My phone vibrates, and the timing is fucking shit. I take a quick look. I don’t need to open the message. What I can see of the preview tells me everything.
I found a record from 2 yrs ago at the Mid Bank for a safety deposit box under the name Dolly Daydream.
I stuff my phone in my pocket; this news is a bombshell to be dealt with another time. There’s a safety deposit box. Does Beau know about it? And what the fuck is in it?
Fucking hell.
I don’t give her a chance to appreciate the unrivaled view of the stage. No chance to absorb the exquisite sound of the orchestra. I push her into a chair and fall to my knees in front of her. I need her back with me. In every sense. Especially after that fucking shock of a message.
My palms land on her knees, and I stare at her as I slide her dress up until its gathered around her thighs.
“What are you doing?” she whispers hoarsely, despite there being no chance of being heard over the overture—a dramatic instrumental of the theme from Phantom of the Opera. Her fingers claw into the plush velvet arms of the chair, her body pushing back. No escape. She doesn’t really want to escape. She stepped into this box of her own freewill.
She glares at me, and if I didn’t know better, I would say she hated me. She should. And I hate myself for not wanting her to. “James.”
“Shut up, Beau.” I take her knickers and start dragging them down her thighs. “We’ve done enough talking tonig
ht.” Way too much talking, and it’s my fucking fault.
She reaches for my hands to push me off, and I instinctively flick her away with ease. She grits her teeth, anger rampant on her face. And she tries again to push me off. She’s just being stubborn. Trying to gain some control. I rise to my knees, pushing my front forward, bringing my face close to hers. The smell of her, the sweet, fruity gorgeous, uncontaminated smell of her hits me like a ton of bricks. “Stop it.”
“You stop it,” she breathes.
“Why?”
Her nostrils flare. She can’t claim our location is making her uneasy. It’s simply my earlier statement making her question everything now. But she was a total fool assuming she could maintain immunity. And I was a fool for ever thinking I could. I feel like I want her to know everything there is to know about me. Every dirty, disgusting, illegal, immoral detail.
I lift each of her feet in turn and slip her knickers off, holding them in the air before her. Then I flick my wrist, and her underwear disappears over the side of the balcony. Beau’s mouth falls open. I remain impassive.
Don’t underestimate me, Beau. Never do that.
I pull a pair of cuffs out of my pocket and get to my feet, wandering casually and slowly around the back of her chair.
I take her arms.
Pull them behind the chair.
Snap the cuffs over her wrists.
And she lets me.
The music suddenly seems to intensify, and it is one hundred percent apt. The sexual chemistry in this small balcony is charged. I round her again, satisfied to see her panting, struggling, unable to yank her eyes away from me. I slowly lower to my knees and place my hands on her thighs.
Spread them.
My first kiss on the inside of her knee sends her eyes rolling to the back of her head, her moan long and deep. “More,” she breathes, the word coming naturally. The second kiss on her other knee brings on the shakes. The third, slightly higher, instigates a gentle, consistent, visible throb in her clit. The fourth, a fraction higher than that, makes her arms jerk, the metal clanging. The fifth on her inside thigh makes her head limp. The sixth just shy of her entrance makes her stiffen. And when I cover her completely with my mouth and suck, her body jacks, and she lets out a suppressed cry. I forget where I am. What I’m doing. Why I’m doing it. Her pussy throbbing against my tongue is absorbing. Mind-numbing.
“More,” she pants, rigid in the chair, her thighs tensing around my head. I suck harder, my fingers digging into her flesh. “Oh God.” She starts to pant, and fire races through my veins, my skin prickling. “James.” I kiss, suck, bite, swirl. “James!”
I hum, gorging on her sweet pussy, relishing her squirming, loving her constant cries of my name. I could stay here all fucking night. But I can’t.
I increase my pace, change my rhythm, and introduce my fingers, pushing them deep and high, feeling her walls grip and hold.
She comes as the music hits the crescendo, and she screams her way through it, staring at my face buried between her legs, feasting on her flesh, her body trembling around me. I sweep my fingers through her slickness and feel her internal walls roll as I slow my attack and lick her softly through the aftermath.
Calm. It’s mine again.
After a delicate kiss on the very tip of her clit, which makes her spasm, I reach for her dress and work it down her thighs. She looks at me, dazed, drowsy, as I anchor my hands into the arms of the chair and push my way to my feet. I lean into her. Close. Kiss her delicately, sharing her release. If I could, I’d unzip myself and shove my hard, throbbing cock into her willing, gorgeous mouth. But if I do that, I won’t leave this box all night. “That is why we won’t stop,” I whisper, and she closes her eyes, swallowing. She gets it. “I’ll be back.” I lay a palm over her cheek, and she nuzzles into it. She really gets it.
Then I turn and walk out, leaving her cuffed to the chair.
36
BEAU
He’s gone, and I’m left alone, still restrained, in more bedlam than I was before. The sound of the music is almost haunting. So sad. And despite James taking me to paradise, my mood matches the solemn echoes of the soloist who’s currently singing to the heavens.
I zone out, disappear completely from this box, from the opera house, from life itself. And I walk through every minute of my time since I first heard his voice. Then saw him. Has the universe finally delivered my savior? One wrong phone number, and here we are? It feels too convenient.
The song is finished, another has begun, and the stage setting has changed. I look over my shoulder to the door. Where is he? As if forgetting I’m restrained, I shift my hands, wincing when the metal rubs into my sore flesh. I’m going nowhere, unless I want to open the existing wounds on my wrists. Was that his plan?
I return my attention to the stage, my options limited, and I watch, allowing myself to become captivated by the story playing out before me. I’m serenaded by another performance, and with each minute that passes, I become increasingly worried about where the hell James could be.
I’m just considering the merits of calling for an usher when the door opens and James strides in. He doesn’t look like he’s cooled off. In fact, he looks angrier.
“We’re leaving.” He dips behind me, and a few moments later, my hands are free.
“It’s not finished,” I say, looking at the stage, rubbing at my sore flesh.
“Neither am I.”
My hand is taken, and I’m pulled up. He spends a few moments checking my wrists. “You fought the bonds,” he whispers, stroking over my skin, looking into my eyes. “Never fight the bond, Beau.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, turning me and resting his hand on my hip, leading me out.
Bond.
Never fight the bond.
At a loss for words, I let him guide me to the elevator in silence. We travel down in silence. Walk through the lobby in silence. But our bodies are screaming. I look up at him, seeing his focus set firmly forward, his face cut with so many emotions.
Stress. Anger. Craving.
We cross the deserted lobby, and I look over my shoulder, feeling eyes on me. The usher who met us when we arrived is observing us quietly, and what he’s undoubtedly assuming bothers me. So I consciously smile, leaning into James, resting my head on his arm, a silent message to the worried man that I’m fine.
I’m not fine.
I don’t know what happened in that box. I don’t know what James’s point was. That I’m a fool for attempting to walk away? For fighting the bond? He could be right, because now, as he marches us out of the opera house to finish what he started in private, the thought of walking away is inconceivable. I’m alive.
I return my focus forward but quickly shoot my eyes back when something catches my attention, exiting the ladies’.
What?
She looks left and right, pulling in her suit jacket with one hand. Because the other is holding a case. The same case she collected from James’s glass apartment. I frown, just as she spots us by the door, my body slowing automatically. Her face noticeably drops, and then she walks swiftly through a nearby door, and I watch her disappear, coming to a stop, making James halt too.
“Beau?”
The door closes. She’s gone. “Goldie,” I murmur, turning my gaze onto James. “I saw Goldie.”
He looks across the lobby. “Goldie?”
“Yes.” My arm lifts, pointing to the door. “She left through that door.” It’s only now I notice the sign above it saying “Restricted Access.”
“You must be mistaken.” He claims my hand, and I glance up at him, cautious and really fucking suspicious. I’m not mistaken. She looked me right in the eye and made a very speedy exit, but something tells me that information would be wasted on him. He left me alone in that box, handcuffed to a chair, for over twenty minutes. Men don’t take that long in the restroom. What’s going on?
As James leads me away from the opera house, I realize he never said he
was using the restroom, I just assumed. So if he wasn’t, then what was he doing? My mind’s spinning.
Why the fuck was he with Goldie when he asked me to the opera, played me into submission, and then left me? And what the hell was in that briefcase? I’m too fucking curious for my own good.
Who are you, James Kelly?
37
JAMES
I’ve fucked up. Leaving before the opera ended was a monumental fuck-up, and Goldie is about to go psycho on my arse. Beau seems to make me consistently fuck up. Shit.
I played her claims down. Told her she was mistaken about seeing Goldie. She wasn’t buying it. Wouldn’t have even if she wasn’t hailed the most exciting thing to enter the training academy in years. And that’s my problem. I keep neglecting to remember that Beau Hayley was on course to become one of the FBI’s best agents. She’s Jaz Hayley’s daughter after all.
I killed a man tonight. Put a bullet clean through his corrupt skull. I’m not concerned that I might get caught. I’m concerned Beau will figure it out, and that begs the fucking question why I even bought her here.
The answer is hard to admit.
I can’t let her out of my sight, but more than that, I don’t want to. Close. I need her close. I want her close. I want every pain she shoulders, every hate-filled thought she has. And I want to free her from it all. It’s fucked up, considering I’m the reason she’s here in the first place. Totally fucking fucked-up.
I put Beau in the passenger seat and reply to Goldie’s earlier message as I round the back of the car.
Get me all the details. I’ll call you ASAP.
I get in my car and glance across to Beau. She vehemently looks away, staring out of the window. I need to get her talking. Get her comfortable. Make her want to share. So then when I spill my fucked-up truths, maybe she won’t be as shocked.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 20