Thieving Hearts

by Nikita Slater

  A muscle twitched in his jaw as his eyes darkened with something she couldn’t define. “And I’m telling you, little Jaya. I will be keeping you… until I get what I want.”

  As his eyes roved over her prone body, she suddenly didn’t think Ivan wanted her hacking services at all anymore. She rolled onto her side and pulled a pillow against her stomach, giving him her back. He clearly didn’t intend to let her go and she didn’t have anything else to discuss with him.

  She waited until he walked away and closed the door to her dungeon before she allowed the tears to fall.

  Look for Capturing Victory coming out Winter 2018!

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  Bonus: Excerpt from Driven by Desire

  “Fuck,” Riley grumbled, twisting to make sure she was correct. Nope, she didn't have the right tool.

  It was late at night and all the guys had gone home so she couldn’t call out to one of the other mechanics and ask them to hand it to her. Damn. With an aggrieved sigh, she pushed herself out from under the car. Shoving her long ponytail out of the way, she crawled toward the toolbox and rifled through until she found what she was looking for. Loud, thumping music filled the garage from where her iPhone was plugged into its port on top of one of the tool benches.

  Turning back toward the ‘69 Camaro, Riley adjusted her lamp and prepared to slide back under. This baby was a thing of beauty. It called to her from the moment it entered her shop, which is why she was still working on it at 2:00am. If she did it up right she’d be able to turn a pretty profit on this little sweetheart and take Cilia on vacation. They desperately needed some bonding time.

  The music switched off and a deep voice reverberated through the darkness of the garage. “I’m looking for Mr. Bancroft.”

  Riley froze for a few precious seconds before her head snapped up, judging the distance between a shadowed man and the gun in her toolbox. He stepped forward into the circle of her light, closing the distance between them. Riley’s heart slammed against her ribs as his face became visible and she recognized the most ruthless man in the city. Soloman Hart, mafia kingpin, was standing in her garage, staring down at her with cold intent. He now stood directly between her and her gun. Not that she thought it would do any good against a man like him.

  Riley felt incredibly small and grimy next to his large, well-dressed frame. She sat crouched on the concrete beneath him, wearing her usual tank top and grimy, oil-stained overalls with the top left to hang down. Her shiny, dark brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she wore no make-up.

  He seemed to be looking her over, taking in every inch of her with interest. Her eyes narrowed in return. She was used to guys staring. She was a thirty-year-old female mechanic, working in a garage full of men. She looked younger than she was and knew she was attractive. Definitely fantasy material for some guys. Which is why she tended to work in the office and on cars in the back, well away from the clients. Very few people knew who actually owned the garage.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded, pushing herself up and standing to her full height, which was still several inches shorter than him. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. She had a damn good security system or she wouldn’t have been alone in the shop blaring music in the middle of the night.

  He ignored her question and raised a dark, thick brow. “Mr. Bancroft?” The single question sent a chill down her spine, letting her know that the next words out of her mouth better be an answer, because Soloman Hart was not a man known for patience.

  Riley pressed her lips together for a moment and wondered how best to answer him. The truth of ‘Mr. Bancroft’ was complicated. And Riley was starting to suspect she may be in some danger. The likelihood of a man of this caliber showing up in her garage for any reason was slim. Which meant something not good was going down. Soloman had men to deal with his car issues, he didn’t deal with things like this himself.

  She moistened her lips and then stopped when his sharp eyes followed the movement. Taking a breath, she said, “Mr. Bancroft is dead. He died two years ago.”

  His brows drew together in a frown that made Riley shiver from head to toe. Yeah, he didn’t want to play games with her. His next words confirmed this thought.

  “Don’t fuck with me, little girl,” he growled. “Everyone knows Alan Bancroft is dead. I’m looking for the owner of this garage. Alan’s son, Riley Bancroft.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Why are you looking for Riley?”

  Holy shit, she was going to die! The look on his face suggested that the last person that questioned him instead of instantly giving him the answers he was searching for had died a really extra terrible death.

  Surprisingly, he answered, his deep voice clipped as he spoke. “Someone stole one of my vehicles yesterday. It was my favourite and I want it back. Thought it might show up here.”

  Shock flickered across her face. Who would be stupid enough to steal one of Soloman Hart’s cars? Well, that explained why he would show up on her doorstep himself at 2:00am looking for answers. She ran the biggest chop shop in the city. Only very few people knew she ran the garage. She had a very good team of mechanics, mostly inherited from her father, that helped keep her safe behind the scenes. Few people even knew the name Riley Bancroft. Except, somehow Soloman did.

  “Wh-what kind of car?” She asked hesitantly, hoping like hell it hadn’t gone through her shop. She usually did her homework and found out where the vehicles came from so this kind of shitstorm didn’t come down on her head, but that didn’t mean things didn’t get under her radar once in a while.

  “Koenigsegg Regera.” His voice held no inflection as he named one of the most expensive vehicles in the world. A car that would be one of a kind in the United States.

  Riley took a few seconds out from her terror to be impressed. Damn. Soloman must like him some nice luxury racing automobiles. Too bad the man was such a cold-hearted, ruthless bastard. Under different circumstances she wouldn’t mind getting under the hoods of his fleet, see what he had going on up in there.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Nope, I definitely would’ve noticed one of those. Never even seen one in person, let alone had one in here.”

  He nodded, still studying her carefully as though taking in every minuscule expression that crossed her face. Finally, he said, “I’d still like to have a conversation with Mr. Bancroft.”

  Fuck. That was going to be a problem since there was no Mr. Bancroft. Instead, she nodded her head.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll have him call you tomorrow.” She’d get one of the other mechanics to call and reassure him that his car was never there and if it showed up he would be the first person they called.

  He reached out and took her hand before she realized what he was about to do. He held her fingers in a grip that told her she shouldn’t pull away from him. He had tattoos over his hand and knuckles. He looked down at the black, chipped nail polish and rubbed his broad thumb over the tops of her much smaller nails. She shivered at his touch. Based on his reputation and the few glimpses she’d had of him she’d always considered Soloman Hart cold, but his hand was surprisingly warm.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded, his voice deep and compelling.

  Riley tried to pull her hand away, but he continued to hold her. She turned her body away and said in a haughty voice, “None of your business.”

  He stiffened next to her and she bit her lip, worried that she was about to find out what made this powerful man so feared among their underworld set. He chuckled lightly, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I think you’ll find I can make it my business.”

  She shivered and dropped her eyes, still refusing to answer. She did not want this man finding out who she was. For more reasons that the obvious. When he was alive, Alan Bancroft had taught Riley everything he knew, but he’d kept her existence on the down low in case they ever needed to pack up shop and run. There was also the complication
of her mother. Cilia Bancroft, shady accountant to the super rich, was a handful and best kept out of the notice of men like Soloman Hart.

  “You can fly, little bird,” he said quietly. He looked down at her, capturing her brown eyes with his bottomless dark eyes. “I will let you go for now.”

  “F-for now?” Riley asked hesitantly.

  He released her hand and stepped closer, towering over her, his chest nearly brushing hers. Riley gasped at his unexpected movement and tried to move back. Her leg bumped against the car she’d been working on and she was forced to stand still next to him. Her head swam as his subtle, masculine scent enveloped her. It made alarm bells go off in her head. He didn’t immediately move away from her.

  “For now,” he confirmed. “I think the day will come that we will see… a lot more of each other.”

  Her mouth opened and she stared at him. Was that a threat? He was looking down at her with something she couldn’t entirely define. Speculation? Possessiveness? But how was that possible? He didn’t even know her. Though she’d seen him before, they were just meeting officially for the first time.

  His eyes brushed over her one last time and she had a keen awareness that she was being granted some kind of reprieve. But it came with a time limit. One that would eventually run out. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  She blinked and then nodded slowly.

  “Say my name,” he demanded.

  Riley gaped up at him for a moment and then, desperately wanting the dark man to leave, she gave him what he wanted. She licked her lips and whispered, “Soloman.”

  He turned and strode away from her, resetting the alarm before leaving the garage.

  ***

  Soloman slid into the passenger side of his second favourite vehicle. Turning to his friend and bodyguard, he said, “Did you catch that?”

  Roman nodded. He had been standing in the shadows near the door where he’d disabled the alarm and unbolted the lock to allow his boss entry to the garage. Though Soloman didn’t need back up, the two rarely worked separately, especially since Soloman’s climb to the top had earned many enemies. Both knew it was better to have a loyal man guarding each other’s backs than to go it alone.

  “I want her,” Soloman said quietly, not taking his eyes off the passing street lights.

  Roman grunted, but didn’t say anything. He already knew. The boss rarely pursued women, beyond having them brought in for a quick fuck. That he even asked for this one’s name was surprising. “I’ll find out who she is.”

  Soloman nodded. “I want to know everything. There’s something about her… I think I might keep her for a while.”

  Roman grunted. He’d get their information guy out of bed and working on the problem of the chick immediately. Find out who she was so the boss could get laid. Soloman Hart wasn’t used to being denied. No one needed to be around the man when he wasn’t happy. Much better to just bring him the woman’s information and then the woman herself all wrapped up and tied in a bow. Fewer people would die that way.

  “And find out where the fuck Riley Bancroft is,” he snapped, drumming his fingers restlessly on his leg. “I want my goddamned car back.”

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  Sneak peek: excerpt from The Assassin’s Wife – Book 1 of Angels & Assassins

  Tasha dimmed all of the lights except for one, a spotlight. She smiled, pleased, and glided to the center of the floor. She crouched into a bow and held her hand out to an imaginary partner. Her eyes glowed in excitement and, in one lithe, graceful movement, she began to dance.

  The world ceased to exist.

  She was alone with her imaginary audience, captivating and seducing them with her flawless movements. She used the entire floor space, running and leaping into the air – stretching out her arms and landing gracefully. She twirled and spun, kicked and chased. She danced as though it were her last dance, enjoying every second of it. If she could bottle freedom, this is what it would feel like.

  After an hour, the demands of her body began to make themselves known. She was beyond thirsty! She landed a perfect pirouette within the spotlight and swept into a low bow. Coming back to reality, she laughed out loud in sheer delight.

  It was heaven to dance again!

  Tasha turned to the wall of mirrors and studied herself critically, something all dancers did. She saw a small body, curved a little more than a ballet dancer should be, but she was no longer a professional. She didn’t have to starve herself for the perfect physique. Her back and shoulders were straight, breasts high and pointed, fuller than they used to be. Her legs were long, the calves and thighs strong.

  Humming to herself she tip-toed over to her things, flinching. Now that she wasn’t dancing, her poor feet were feeling the punishment of ballet shoes. She picked up her water bottle and took a long drink of the cold, soothing water. In a graceful move, she sat in the shadowy corner next to her belongings by the mats and began some stretches to stop muscle fatigue. She wanted to dance for another hour or so, but her body needed a ten-minute break.

  The darkened room in a gym, located in one of the rougher neighborhoods in the city, should have felt creepy, but Tasha never found it so. She had been borrowing it for months now, having negotiated a trifling payment with Jordan, the owner, and secured the key and alarm code. She thought maybe he had a thing for her. Though she didn’t return his affections, she did feel safe in his gym, hidden from the world.

  Tasha sat up straight and brought her arms over her head in a long body stretch. She twisted her legs in an ‘S’ sit and felt something bump her shoe. Curiously, she glanced over her shoulder. She had tapped the white box with her foot. It was the unopened delivery that’d been sent to the travel agency earlier in the day.

  Deciding now was as good a time as any to go over the promotional material, she reached for the box. She moved her legs into a wide ‘vee’ sit and untied the ribbon holding the box closed. It was fancier than the boxes the usual posters came in. She pushed herself forward, forcing her legs further apart in the stretch.

  She flipped the lid off the box and looked down.

  “No!” she gasped and pulled her legs in, recoiling.

  A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. She brought her hands up to her eyes and bowed her head. “No, no, no, no,” she repeated in a horrified moan.

  This wasn’t happening!

  Maybe she imagined it.

  Tasha dropped her hands and reached forward, desperate to prove she was wrong. Shaking fingers lifted a single white lily from the box. Only one man had ever given her flowers. And it had always been white lilies. He’d insisted they had reminded him of his prima ballerina, his little Russian dancer. Graceful, lovely and pure.

  Tasha felt suddenly cold in the overheated room.

  Then she felt him.

  Watching.

  Stalking.

  She felt like throwing up and actually brought a hand up to cover her throat.

  “David,” she whispered brokenly, tears splashing onto her cheeks.

  Every instinct in Tasha screamed at her to drop the flower and run from the gym. To flee the danger that had found her, but she knew it was too late. David had finally come for her.

  As if to prove her correct, footsteps, so quiet they were almost inaudible approached her from a darkened corner of the gym. She stared in horror as the specter of a man stopped several feet from her crouched form. He wore expensive black pants with a white collared shirt, buttoned most of the way, but stopping just below his throat. Casual but well dressed.

  He was not a massive man in proportions, but his presence was so overwhelming he always seemed bigger. He was much taller than Natasha’s 5’1”. His body was solid with muscles corded beneath his skin, making his lithe strength subtle but deadly. He looked like a killer. He was a killer.

  “Natasha.”

  She closed her eyes against the deep, accented tones. She hadn’
t heard that name since she’d started running. Her name on his lips was chilling and seductive at the same time. He had never been as accomplished at hiding his accent as her.

  “Natasha,” he demanded again, much closer this time.

  Her eyes flew open and she realized he was standing over her now. She moved to back away from him, away from the deadly intent now clearly visible in the lines bracketing his mouth and the dull acceptance of his eyes. He reached for her, gripping her by the back of the head, catching the strands of hair that had escaped her knot and tugging sharply.

  Natasha gasped.

  “Stand up,” he said in his quiet, deadly voice.

  She allowed him to drag her to her feet by the hair. She used the pain to remind herself of why he’d come. She was so close to him she was able to take in his scent, masculine and seductive. His face was several inches above hers, his eyes devouring her features. He continued to hold her loosely by the back of the head, his other hand hung with fist clenched. As though he had to stop himself from grabbing her. Or hitting her.

  His only betrayal of emotion.

  Heat radiated from him, warming her skin where they nearly touched. Fury combined with lust assaulted her senses. His black eyes roved over her, taking in every nuance. He looked like a man who had been starved and she was the meal denied him.

  Her body screamed at her to run, but a small part also responded to the magnetic pull of the man that held her life in his hands. She ached for him to kiss her. She felt like laughing at the bitter humor of the situation. What kind of woman wanted the man that was about to murder her to kiss her senseless?

  The kind of women that knew what it felt like to be made love to by this man.

  “Two years, Natasha.” Anger strained the low tones of his voice.

  She nodded mutely. It had been two years since they had last seen each other. Since the day she had run from him in fear for her life. Since the day she had watched him execute another man as he begged for his life and then walk away as though it meant nothing to him. The day she had discovered that, rather than having an affair, as she had suspected, her husband had been killing people.