The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  “Nath,” she says quietly, looking out of the window. Which means she doesn’t see my unstoppable widening eyes. “A friend.”

  Fuck me, she was with that corrupt shit? When? I’ve got eyes on him.

  “And my ex.” Now, she does look at me. For a reaction? I know my tight jaw is giving her one. When was the last time she slept with her ex? “They’re both FBI,” she adds.

  “And they’ve looked me up,” I say, feeling the tightening of my grip on the wheel.

  “They didn’t find a thing past five years.”

  “That’s because I didn’t exist, Beau.”

  She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

  I return my eyes to the road. “But I exist to you.” I take her hand from her lap and squeeze. “To everyone else, I’m illusive.” Such a statement should earn a gasp. A cry of realization. The retraction of her hand from mine.

  Not Beau. She slowly looks away and gazes out of the window, processing what she’s learned about me.

  She doesn’t look like she wants to bolt. But there is one thing that’ll have her walking away from me, so I have to ensure she doesn’t find out. Beau’s mom was relentless. Frustrating as fuck. Always there in the background ready to fuck everything up. One way or another, I knew she would end up dead. She pissed off too many people with her hunger and persistence, started to uncover too many truths. I don’t want Beau to follow the same path.

  I pull to a stop at the junction, and a fleeting look at my rearview mirror has me stalling from indicating. A BMW in the distance, the nose of the car just jutting out of a dirt track we passed. I flick my eyes to Beau. She’s oblivious, still gazing out of the window. I slowly return my eyes to the mirror, pushing down the lever for my indicator as I do, edging forward a few feet, waiting. The car appears.

  I pull away, smooth and calm, glancing at my mirror constantly. I’m at least three hundred yards down the road before it gets to the junction, keeping a safe distance. Not safe enough. And way too close for comfort. My fingers start drumming the wheel, my mind strategizing. God damn state laws in Florida. No fucking front license plate. But it’s a BMW. Butler drives a BMW. I look across to Beau, finding her still gazing out of the window. Still oblivious. I pull my phone out and text Otto.

  Butler?

  His reply is instant.

  Can’t find the fucker anywhere.

  Motherfucker. My teeth grate as I keep eyes on three things. Beau, the road, and my mobile.

  He’s tailing me. I’ve got Beau. He was following her.

  A bend in the road ahead gives me the opportunity I need, I just hope there’s a turning off the main road soon after. Another look at the mirror. I need more distance, so I discreetly build up speed as we approach the curve ahead, just enough to gain more space, but not enough to rouse suspicion in Beau. The moment I take the bend, I look up, seeing the BMW out of sight. And ahead, the turn I need. I indicate, all rather considerately, considering the circumstances, and take the turn onto a small dirt track, stopping a few yards down. I look up at the rearview mirror.

  “What are we doing here?” Beau asks, knocked from her quiet daydreaming.

  My eyes remain on the mirror, and the second I see the BMW fly past, I turn into her and take her cheeks, kissing her hard, deep, and long. Her tongue surrenders to mine in an instant, swirling and rolling, her good hand in my hair. Thank God for her inability to resist me. I’m banking on it going forward. “Just in case you forgot what it feels like,” I say, my throat hoarse, slowing our kiss until our lips are merely touching and our breaths clashing. Her eyes are glassy. Her expression blank. “Don’t look at me like that, Beau. Don’t look at me like you can’t decide whether I’m worth staying for.”

  She inhales, and thoughts run amok in my brain. What she’s been thinking. How she’s feeling. The pregnancy test. She seemed so accepting back at the graveyard, and now that look? It says too much. I need to get her home.

  I slam the car into gear and reverse out of the track, pulling off fast.

  If I was in the right mood, I’d be forced to hold back a smile when Otto’s face wrinkles in annoyance as we enter the lobby. Naturally, he was mortified he was given the slip. Naturally, he was worried I would turn psycho on him.

  Naturally, I very nearly did.

  I get Beau into the elevator, smacking the code in with a heavy touch. The doors close. She looks at me in the reflection of the mirror, so impassive. It’s killing me. She’s shutting down. Thinking too much. I shake my head mildly, silently warning her away from where her mind is going. She looks away. It’s not what I need right now.

  The doors open, and I pull her out, leading her upstairs with a firm hold. I get her in my bedroom, place her before the frame, and start stripping her out of her clothes. She doesn’t stop me. But she also doesn’t help. Neither does she show any signs of being turned on. What the fuck has happened? Has her conscience found her? Her morals? I look down at her arm. I can’t restrain her. Hold her in place. Fuck.

  I remove the sling and ease her shirt off before pulling her jeans down and casting them aside with her shoes. “Kneel,” I order, desperation getting the better of me. Docile and subservient, she lowers to her knees before me and looks up with vacant eyes, waiting for her next order. Shutting down.

  I want escape, and I don’t want to be forced to explain why.

  Fuck, no.

  I could still restrain her. I could deprive her of release, make her beg and cry. I could shove endless objects in her arse and fuck her black and blue. But . . .

  Not today.

  I pull my T-shirt up over my head as she watches, unbutton my jeans and kick them off, and then fall to my knees in front of her. I’m surrendering. Giving in to this crazy. And by the fleeting look of surprise that passes across her expressionless, hauntingly beautiful face, she sees that. I take her hand and place it on my scarred shoulder.

  She’s toxic. But to me, she’s a balm.

  And I’m fatal. But to her, I’m life.

  She takes in the damage under her fingers, flexing them into the shiny, pitted flesh. My skin sizzles. “You think you can fix me,” she says to her hand, her head tilting in thought, like she’s pondering that notion.

  “I don’t want to fix you. I just want to love you.”

  Her eyes turn to mine quickly, her fingers stilling.

  “I’ve fought for power, Beau,” I whisper. “I’ve fought for freedom. For revenge. For hatred. But I’ve never fought for love.” And it’s the toughest fucking battle yet. “Can I win?” I ask, and she slowly lowers her arse to her heels, silent. Stunned. “Answer me,” I grate. “Because everything is fucking irrelevant otherwise.” I join her, settling my arse on my heels too. “So, can I win?”

  “Can I?” she counters quietly.

  “Yes.” It’s an easy answer. I will make her a conqueror. “No more losses, Beau. Not for either of us. Tell me you understand. Tell me you agree.” I take her cheeks harshly. “Do it.”

  Her eyes dart across my face, her swallows hard and constant. Then she slowly reaches for my boxers, encouraging me to lift, and she draws them down my thighs. My cock twitches, coming to life, and she circles it gently at the base and watches herself draw a long stroke down the shaft. I close my eyes, reaching for her shoulders for an anchor. I’m weeping. On the inside and out. “Beau,” I whisper.

  “I understand.” She calmly pushes me to my back and rids my legs of the material before straddling me, one hand sunk into my chest, the other resting lightly on her stomach. I look at her with all the respect I feel. Respect that’s undoubtedly misplaced until she knows every dirty detail. Until she knows how guilty I really am.

  I calmly slip a thumb into each side of her knickers and yank, ripping them down each seam. She lifts and I pull them out of my way before taking hold of myself, my eyes glued there, watching as she lazily lowers onto me. Every inch I sink into her, I lose a little more breath until my lungs are ballooned and I’m submerged balls deep, ever
y throbbing piece of me surrounded by the hot, pulsing walls of her pussy.

  “Breathe, James,” she whispers, rolling her hips. My fingers claw into her flesh, my growl carnal, and she inhales sharply, her jaw tight. She brings her legs out from under her, placing a foot by each side of my head, and my palms wrap around her ankles, my knees coming up so she can rest back on them. The vision of her sitting on me, riding me, of her rolling in circles, grinding down. It will never leave me. Of her breasts bobbing lightly, her lip being bitten harshly, her eyes alive with fortitude. She doesn’t think she’s strong. But there is nothing but strength staring back at me. Strength and mercy. I can’t take my eyes off her. I just hope she holds on to both. I need her strength. But more, I need her mercy.

  Her hoarse whimpers become throaty moans, her rolls turning into grinds. Her hand pushes more into my chest, her mouth lax, her eyes glazing. “Feel me, Beau,” I choke, biting down on my back teeth, my dick pounding within her, blood rushing in my veins.

  “I feel you,” she murmurs, her head dropping back, lengthening her throat. “Fuck, I feel you.”

  I ram upwards, and she cries out as I bark my pleasure. “More?” I ask.

  “More,” she whispers, and I flex upward harshly again, the slap of her arse on my flesh deafening. I drop my legs, sending me deeper. And Beau louder. “More!” she screams.

  The sound of her hunger sends me into orbit, and my hips begin to piston out of control as I pound into her repeatedly. She bounces on my lap, her hand in her hair, grabbing, pulling, her face a picture of pained ecstasy, mine cut with ruthless pleasure. Her chest expands, and she drops her eyes to mine. Clear eyes. Eyes so crystal, I can see every word she’s saying to me. Amid the chaotic, loud crashing of our bodies together, there is silence. Her eyes. My eyes. Her thoughts. My thoughts. Her heart. My heart.

  Her darkness. My darkness.

  Her demons diluted by mine.

  And mine by hers.

  Our releases arrive together, and they arrive calmly, slithering through us steadily as our motions slow and our bodies tremble.

  Our eye contact never falters.

  But my heart misses endless beats.

  Beats that are filled by Beau’s.

  Making us one.

  She lowers her front to my chest, her nose touching mine, her uninjured arm framing my head. “You found me.”

  “Always will, Beau.” I couldn’t have waited until she returned this time. Always. Until death.

  “You’re The Enigma,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.

  I circle my arms around her back, carefully holding her to me. Not because I’m afraid she’ll pull away, but because I’m afraid she won’t. I take a breath. “And you’re now the darkness within me.”

  “And you in me.” She puts her face deep into my neck, as if she could crawl inside of me. “I love you,” she whispers, as if it’s forbidden.

  It is.

  55

  BEAU

  I’m more morbid than I ever imagined. But broken? No. Nothing broken could withstand this truth. I know little about The Enigma. I know my mother tracked him for three years. I know he’s killed many people. I know he disappeared off the face of the earth for a time. But now I know he’s back.

  And I know I’m in love with him.

  Is it the connection to my mother? Is it the warped sense of freedom he makes me feel? Or is it simply that he made it impossible not to love him?

  As I lie on top of James, letting my breathing settle, my fingertip circling his nipple slowly, I try with everything I have to make sense of this. Of him, and of me. Of us. There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be here. And just one reason why I should.

  Peace.

  And peace in me trumps all the things. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything other than hate or grief. Years since I’ve recognized myself. “You were top on Mom’s list,” I say, still rising and falling with each expansion of his chest while he works to get his breathing steady.

  “I know,” he says, almost sadly. “She said she’d never stop until she had me behind bars. And I knew she wouldn’t.”

  I turn my face up to his “How did you know?”

  “Because I was looking into her eyes when she said it.”

  I gasp, scrambling up on his chest, wincing when I jar my arm.

  “Be careful,” he warns.

  “She saw you?”

  “She never saw me.” He reaches behind him, stretching to get my sling. “No one ever sees me, Beau.” He loops it over my head and gently lifts my arm, easing it into the material.

  “Not true,” I whisper, my eyes flitting over every inch of his face. I see him. I see him so clearly. “You kill people,” I say, not accusingly. I’m simply saying it out loud. Saying it and wondering if hearing it will make it any more real. Something has to click soon. My ethics have got to appear and ask me what the fuck I’m doing here with him.

  He reaches up and cups my cheek. “I do.”

  “Why?” I ask, and his hold moves back to my waist. It’s firm. “Why are you holding me tightly?” I ask, and he loosens his grip. But only a bit.

  “I kill them because they deserve to die.”

  “According to whom?” I press. “Murder is murder.”

  “But justice isn’t always justice,” he fires back quietly, making me pause for a beat. He’s right. Where is justice for my mom? For me? I would happily kill whoever is responsible for her death. Slowly. And, sickly, I know I would take the greatest of pleasure from it. I know I’d feel like a weight was lifted. I know it would bring me peace. More peace than James could ever give me. “I wasn’t born a killer, Beau.”

  “Then who were you?”

  He looks away, and it’s so painfully obvious how difficult he’s finding this. “I was a son. A brother.” He winces, shying away from the memory. “I had everything until he took it away.”

  He.

  James frowns, and his head shakes mildly, as if he can physically toss those memories away. Which makes me feel plain awful for needing to know more. And I do need. Really need. I’m in love with an assassin. A vigilante. Anything I can find to justify that, I will gladly take. “Who?”

  “The Bear.”

  My mouth falls open. The drug smuggler. Human trafficker. Arms dealer. Bomb supplier to endless terrorist organizations. He moved his men in on London to take out the mob kingpin Spencer James. Blew his estate to smithereens. And as soon as The Brit died, he moved in on Miami. I’ll never forget Mom’s face when The Bear first made his presence known in town.

  Clarity seems to smack me in the face, and I breathe in, my attention falling to James’s scarred shoulder. British. Explosion. He got caught up in an explosion. Oh my God. His entire family wiped out. I stare at him, stunned. “Your dad was Spencer James,” I murmur, everything clicking into place. “You’re Kellen James.” I go to stand, needing to walk and think, but James locks his hold down on my thighs, keeping me close. “That’s your other name.”

  He nods, and the sadness mixed with vengeance is potent. “Everyone’s demons are relative, Beau,” he says, sitting up and circling my waist. “I’m dead.”

  “Does The Bear know it’s you who’s killing all of his men?” Jesus, all these bodies that are cropping up all over town is James’s doing? Fucking hell, what madness am I in?

  “No. No one knows who I am.”

  “Your accent. He’s not connected the dots?”

  “Do you know how many people he wiped out along with my father?” He rubs his nose with mine. “You need a bath.”

  I need many things. A bath isn’t one of those things. For a start, I could do with someone pinching me, because this has to be some kind of twisted nightmare. I also need a drink, because I’m feeling slightly unstable, but before I can voice my needs, I’m lifted to my feet and being led to the bathroom. “James,” I say, staring at his back, his scars suddenly bigger. Redder. Angrier.

  We arrive in the bathroom, and he glances at
me, waiting for what I might say. James, what? What do I want to say? I have no idea, my brain failing me, so I remain mute. Blank. He starts to draw a bath, adding lavender oil, and I stand behind him, motionless, naked, and utterly absorbed by his scarred skin. I’m not aching. I’m not sore. I don’t need to soak myself or soothe my muscles. Perhaps my brain, but not my body. And yet I can’t bring myself to challenge him. Not after he’s spilled his tragic history.

  I was a son. A brother. I had everything until he took it away.

  Utterly alone. An orphan.

  So when the tub is full and he removes my sling, I do as I’m bid and step in, letting him do what he needs to do in this moment. “Here,” he says, collecting something from the side and holding it up. A waterproof arm protector. He’s got me covered. I let him slip it over my cast before I sink into the water as he climbs in the other end and slides down, submerging himself. He cups his hands and collects some water, splashing his face and pushing his hair back. “I need you to make a few promises,” he declares.

  “I need you to make me a few too.”

  His eyebrow quirks in amusement, and it’s so out of place for this moment. And yet completely us. “Is that right?” he asks.

  “It is.”

  “And what might those promises be?” His hands spread around my ankles under the water, and the water ripples with the subtle jerk of my body.

  “You first,” I virtually pant, and he smiles.

  “You be patient with me,” he says quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a lot more men to kill.”

  I swallow, silently alarmed. “Do they all deserve to die?”

  “They’re all in The Bear’s fold.”

  Then they deserve to die. Simple. “Okay,” I say, not quite believing I’m having this conversation. Perhaps I do need to be committed because I seriously can’t be sane. “Anything else?”

  “You stay here.”

  “What?” I reply, quiet and unsure, and his hands clamp down further. “All the time?”