Dagger's Edge--A Brute Force Novel

by Lora Leigh

  Ilya rose instead and crossed the office, opening the door, then stepping back and allowing Journey to enter.

  His Syn.

  That skirt was going to get her fucked, sure as hell. It fluttered just below her thighs, caressed them and teased him with the ease with which it would slide to her hips. The top would be easily lifted, her breasts accessible. And he did so enjoy her breasts.

  Her green eyes gleamed with battle; her proud little chin was lifted and her expression determined.

  Hell.

  Everything he knew about women assured him that she was getting ready to make him insane. And not in a sexual way. At least, he amended as he took in the hardened state of her nipples, not yet.

  “I need to make a video call,” she stated, her voice firm as she reached his desk. “Can you secure the call and keep it from being traced?”

  His brow lifted. “I was unaware we were going to hide? Though it makes little difference; we’ll be leaving soon for New York anyway. Who are you calling?”

  “Beauregard Grant.” Her smile was tight and cold and for the briefest moment reminded him of the tough-assed hellion cousin of hers, Tehya. “If we’re going to do this, Ivan, I get to make the first strike. I want to see his face when I ask him if he sent assassins after me. I want to see his eyes.”

  He almost grinned.

  If he believed in love, he would have fallen in love with her at that moment, he knew.

  “Do I get to sit next to you and watch his complete horror when he realizes you belong to me?” he asked her, arching a brow as he watched her closely.

  He’d feared for a while that she wasn’t as tough as he thought she was a month ago, that she didn’t have the pure steel she’d need to go into this game. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  Her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowing on him. He watched her expression and her gaze carefully, seeing the rapid flicker of something akin to hungry hope.

  “Have you ever been in love, Ivan?” She surprised him with the question.

  “I have not. What of you?” he countered.

  “You’re probably the closest I’ve come to being in love with anyone,” she admitted guilelessly, and the sensation he felt in his chest was like a ghostly knife burying in deep. “If you want me to play this game of yours, then you can play mine.” She planted her hands flat on the desk and leaned forward just enough to stare him directly in the eye, her gaze flashing with fiery stubborn determination. “The world will believe you’re in love. Your staff will believe you’re in love. If I don’t survive this, and I’m smart enough to know I may not, then I want to know before I die what being loved should feel like. And before you decide, remember this: Tehya and Jordan could hide me, even from you, if I asked, and I know it. I’m choosing to fight, and I’m choosing to allow you to use me for your vengeance. I’ll be damned if I’ll do that without something just as important from you.”

  She wasn’t angry or confrontational. She was firm, her voice clear, succinct in her demand.

  “You want me to fall in love with you?” he asked carefully, just to be certain he understood her. That there was no mistake.

  “I want you to give me your illusion of love. I want the romance, the commitment, and everyone’s knowledge that I have it, for as long as this lasts. If you can’t give me that, then don’t expect me to give it to you. And trust me, the only way Beau and my family would ever believe I’d sleep with you is if they believed I loved you.”

  He was the closest she’d ever come to love, she’d said. No one besides his daughter had ever claimed to love him. And though the statement wasn’t exactly a claim, he could question her on it later.

  “And if I agree?” he asked, realizing he was actually curious as to her terms.

  “No other women. While we do this, I’ll have all of you,” she added.

  All of him? Oh, she had no idea what she was bargaining for there.

  “No crying foul, later.” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes on her. “No holding back, no tears when we clash. Understood? You’ll get all of me, but by God, you’ll give me all of you as well. Everything, Journey.”

  And she had no idea just how much she had to give. But he did. He knew. And he wanted it all.

  “Deal.” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t balk.

  Damn, he liked that about her. He’d realized that in Colorado though. The fact that she didn’t balk once she’d made up her mind had fascinated him.

  She straightened, her chin lifting once again, and for a second he felt as though he were being stared down at by a queen. Evidently, she’d spent far too much time with England’s Queen Mother.

  But that was okay. His own bloodline carried its own lineage. Perhaps not one as grand, but damned sure one just as royal.

  He pushed his chair back slowly and patted his knee. “Then come, love, let’s call your former fiancé and inform him that promise has been broken.”

  Oh, now he was looking forward to this.

  “She needs another ring.” Ilya spoke, a cool smirk barely hidden as Ivan lifted his gaze to the other man. “He won’t accept it unless he sees a mark of ownership, other than the hickey you left on her neck.”

  He watched as Journey’s face flushed, but she never dropped her gaze.

  “Very well.” He grinned, then lifted the chain he wore from around his neck and pulled it over his head, ignoring the disbelief on Ilya’s face. “Grandmother’s ring will work, don’t you think?” He looked up at Journey, then bid her to him with the crook of his finger. “Should I get on one knee, love?”

  She stared at the ring and he saw the dreams. Son of a bitch if he didn’t see the dreams in her face.

  As she rounded the desk he rose from the chair and drew her to it. When she sat down, he went to one knee, staring into her shocked face, and removed the ring from the chain.

  It was his treasured grandmother’s. To be held for Amara until his death, or given to the woman who would be his bride.

  “Marry me, love?” he asked her softly, staring back at her, watching her hand tremble as he slid the ring onto her finger.

  “I’ll give it back after the call,” she whispered, still staring at it.

  “You’ll wear it as long as the illusion stands. Take it off and we’ll both agree the fantasy is over.” Yes, she deserved this. She’d give him what he’d dreamed of, and he’d give her the dream she carried as well.

  She stared at the simple diamond, and her lips trembled once, before he leaned forward and covered them with his own.

  She wanted the illusion, and perhaps a fantasy wouldn’t be a bad thing for her. She was young, innocent, and getting ready to enter a very dangerous game. If the illusion of love would make the coming betrayal easier, then so be it.

  He’d give her the illusion of love.

  chapter eight

  Journey would consider the agreement, the proposal, and the ring later. She knew the fine art of living within a lie and letting the fantasy shape reality when she had to. She’d lived that life for twenty-two years by someone else’s rules. This time, the illusion was hers. And it was possibly the one way she’d survive what she was getting ready to do.

  “You sure about this?” Ivan asked as she sat perched on his lap, waiting for him to make the video call. Ilya sat across from them, his expression enigmatic as he watched them.

  “Of course I’m certain.” She frowned, glancing up at Ivan as she folded her hands, engagement ring clearly showing, and placed them on the desk where the computer’s internal camera would pick them up. “Are you? Should I reassure you everything’s going to be okay?” She slid him a teasing, sideways look to hide her own nerves and the fear she pushed to the back of her mind.

  Ivan would protect her. He’d protected Amara all her life. He’d protected himself. He’d see her through this, give her the fantasy she needed to get through it, and everything would be okay.

  “The camera won’t pick me up until I turn the chair toward it fully. He’l
l just see you,” her newly acquired fiancé reminded her.

  “Stop babying me, Ivan,” she told him firmly. “I’ve got this.”

  “But I do so enjoy spoiling you.” He brushed a kiss against her shoulder. “And expect him to get a good look at that mark I left on your neck. There’s no way to hide it.”

  “I had no intentions of hiding it. Now activate the call.” She composed her expression, remembered everything she’d learned at a queen’s knee during summer breaks, and channeled that inner bitch her older sister swore she possessed.

  Just in time for the call to go through and Beauregard Grant’s imposing features to flash onto the screen.

  “Who the hell…?” The forbidding growl broke off as his irritated features went blank.

  He stared at her, taking in her face, her hair. His gaze paused at her neck, went to her hands, took in the diamond, then moved to her face once again.

  “Good evening, Beau,” she said evenly. “I see you’re doing well.”

  He didn’t speak for long moments. Once again, he took in the reddened mark on her neck and the ring on her finger before his gaze returned to hers.

  “Journey?” He frowned, leaning closer to the screen on his end as though in closing the distance he could be certain.

  She let a smile tip her lips. “Surprised to see me?”

  He blinked back at her, then eased back in his chair, a brooding scowl on his handsome features.

  “Why the hell did you cut your hair? And you’ve colored it?” Displeasure marked his expression.

  “I’ve actually not colored it.” She kept her smile cold. “It seems sunlight isn’t as detrimental as Mother believed it to be. My hair loves it.”

  His scowl deepened. “I don’t like the color, dammit. That’s not you.”

  Ivan stiffened, the feel of the tension transmitting through his thighs and the hand that lay above her knee.

  “I’m certain that should bother me,” she assured him blithely, comforted by the fact that it didn’t bother her. “But I have other matters more upsetting that we need to discuss.”

  His gray eyes narrowed on her.

  “You’ve changed, Journey.” Something curious, speculative, shadowed his expression.

  “I’ve grown up perhaps?” she suggested. “It happens to the best of us, I hear. Still, not the reason I called.”

  He lifted his hand, rubbing at his upper lip with a forefinger as he stared at her.

  “After four years, at least you finally deigned to call,” he grunted. “Tell me where you are, I’ll have a plane sent for you and you can return home…”

  She let a low, jeering laugh escape her lips. “Really, Beau? Do you believe I’m calling after all this time so you can send a plane for me?” She gave him the look the Queen Mother gave those she considered rather inept and particularly dim witted.

  If the look on his face was an indication, he didn’t care for it.

  “You can return home…” he tried again.

  “You can call your assassins off,” she demanded, surprising herself at her icy tone. “Right now, Beau. You don’t want the war you’re getting ready to involve yourself in otherwise.”

  She didn’t know if he was behind it, but she knew Beau. She’d known him most of her life; she just hadn’t paid much attention to him until her father demanded she accept his proposal. If he was behind the attempt on her life, then he’d give himself away by the time Ivan delivered the final volley to this call.

  His gaze moved to her hands once again, her neck, then her gaze. By the time his eyes met hers, his expression was still and hard, revealing nothing.

  “Assassins? Journey, I haven’t sent anyone to harm you. The men I sent were hired from a security service to bring you home,” he stated. “Did they hurt you?” And he actually sounded worried.

  “They nearly killed two of my fiancé’s bodyguards. To say he isn’t happy is an understatement. He’s livid. You didn’t send a security team; you sent a strike team.”

  And Ivan had almost lost two people he considered friends as well as employees. More of his people whom he cared for.

  Beau stared at her silently once again. His gaze piercing, intent.

  “Journey, hear me well,” he said softly after several moments. “No strike team, no assassin, was sent for you. Tell me where you are and I’ll come to you myself and we’ll discuss this.”

  She smiled back at him mockingly. “That’s not possible, Beau,” she informed him. “Unfortunately, I don’t trust you at all, and my fiancé trusts you even less.”

  “I’m your goddamned fiancé,” he suddenly snarled, arrogant anger filling his face. “That ring and that mark on your neck be damned. Tell me where you are now.”

  “I prefer to live,” she snorted, aware of the carefully controlled tension filling Ivan now. “If you didn’t send someone to kill me, then who would? Stephen? Craig?”

  “They may as well bare their throats to that goddamned Russian bastard Resnova first,” he snarled. “Anything happens to you and the Queen Mother learns of it, then they’ll fry. She’ll make certain of it. She may not be pleased with you at the moment, but you’re still her favorite of her young cousins and she’s made it clear she’ll blame them if you end up harmed. Now where the hell are you?”

  He was livid.

  She let her smile soften. She’d learned as a teenager how to compose her expression appropriately when needed.

  “I’m with my fiancé,” she answered smoothly, glancing at the ring and remembering Ivan as he slid it on her finger.

  He’d given her the illusion, the romance.

  When she lifted her gaze again, she barely caught the surprised knowledge on Beau’s face.

  “I’ll kill him, Journey,” Beau warned her softly. “And if I don’t, Stephen and Craig will arrange it. If you love him, leave him now. I won’t let you go so easily.”

  She gave a low, amused laugh. “They haven’t managed it thus far and they’ve been trying for years. And I believe once the two of you meet, you’ll change your mind in that regard.”

  His head tilted just slightly as he kept his gaze on her. Crossing his forearms on the top of the desk, he leaned forward, his expression darkening.

  “Journey, be very careful at this moment,” he told her warningly. “Very careful.”

  “Because you’re not alone?” She smiled softly. She’d caught the flicker of the shadow of another person moving beyond the computer screen.

  “Because you don’t want to play this game,” he stated with unaccountable gentleness. “You don’t want to get an innocent man killed. And no matter how rich he is, he won’t be able to protect you. Walk away, sweetheart. Tell me where to pick you up and I’ll come for you myself.”

  The chair turned without warning, giving Beau a clear view of the man holding her.

  “Fuck you, Grant.” Ivan sounded amused, but the Russian accent was thicker than normal. “Go ahead and try to take what’s mine. I’ll gut you.”

  Beau seemed to flinch.

  His gaze went to the mark on her neck again, then the ring, before lifting to meet Ivan’s with dawning realization.

  “She wears your grandmother’s ring.” His expression bordered on shock. “Fuck, you’re trying to get her killed, Ivan.” Anger filled his face, his gaze. “Goddammit.”

  “Find out who’s trying to kill her now, Beau!” Ivan snapped. “If they manage to so much as scratch her, I’ll make certain Stephen and Craig die. Then I’ll come after you. Orders be damned. You understand me.”

  Beau shook his head but didn’t have time to say anything more before Ivan disengaged the program, a muttered curse slipping past his lips.

  “I need a fucking drink,” he growled, staring at her as though expecting something from her.

  Confusion swept through her. “You want me to give you permission?”

  A sound between a snort and amazed laugh left his lips as Ivan muttered something about “idiocy.” “No, baby, but I’d nev
er just lift you from my lap voluntarily. I need you to move yourself so I can stomp, drink, and curse for a moment.”

  Ilya made himself known then with a muttered, “God save us…”

  Glancing at him, Journey rose from Ivan’s lap and allowed him to get his drink; then he stomped, cursed once, and turned to Ilya.

  “Is everything ready to leave here?” he asked the other man.

  Ilya nodded. “Tobias and his team will be here in about an hour.”

  “Have them meet us at the plane.” Ivan slammed the glass to the bar. “I want to leave in the next thirty minutes. We’re not secure enough here, and an hour gives those bastards a window of opportunity that makes me nervous. Thirty minutes.”

  “I need to pack.” Journey watched him, paying attention to his expression, the angry glitter in his gaze, the calculating expression on his face as he considered his options amid the plan they’d come up with.

  “Taken care of while we were conferencing with that whore-mongering royal wannabe,” he sneered as he flicked his fingers toward the computer. “They were packed along with my belongings and placed in the SUV about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Ilya was working quickly on the tablet he’d logged on to, and Ivan was pacing the floor.

  Journey sat down in the desk chair, leaned back, and watched both men as they talked, snarled at each other, cursed each other. She remembered the night Ivan had actually hit Ilya in the face and fired him repeatedly. The other man had paid little attention to anything but the blow to his face.

  As they snapped and snarled, they might resemble enemies during those moments, but she saw flashes of respect and an easing of Ivan’s temper.

  He was known to be cool, collected, at all times, and now she understood why. Ilya absorbed that fury that pulsed below the surface and gave Ivan a verbal punching bag while throwing the words back at him. Like a sparring partner, she thought, remembering the kickboxing lessons she’d taken in New York.

  Ilya was his sparring partner.

  “Ready?” Ivan turned to her, held his hand out, and flashed her a quick smile, his blue eyes once again the dark navy color, his expression not as tense and dangerous as it had been moments before.