by F F Perez
“Get back over here,” Lance snapped. “I need your help.”
“I don’t—”
“Now!”
Grimacing, I scooted up next to Lance, my stomach turning over.
“Hold his arm,” Lance commanded. “Just like I am. Don’t worry, he won’t be going anywhere.”
I really didn’t like the sound of that, but I obeyed. Grabbing the stranger’s arm, I held it exactly as Lance told me to. Stepping over the man’s body, Lance grabbed his other arm and jammed the knife through the attacker’s hand. An agonizing scream pierced the small space as I fought to keep my breakfast down.
“Do you know how many nerves are in the hand alone?” Lance growled into the man’s ear. “I can do this all day.”
He twisted the knife, pulling more screams out of the man on the floor. I gripped his arm tighter, sweat beading on my brow and dripping into my eyes.
“You fucking bastard,” the assailant spat.
“Who. Sent. You?” Lance asked his voice low and dangerous. When the man didn’t answer, Lance twisted the knife again.
“Jameson!” the man screamed, thrashing around.
Shock thrummed through me and I dropped the man’s arm. The injured man immediately brought his arm close to his chest, most likely to protect it from any more harm.
“Why?” Lance asked his voice still low and sharp.
The man didn’t answer, just kept thrashing around in pain. Lance showed no emotion as he flipped the man onto his back. He swore as foam dribbled from the stranger’s mouth and the thrashing finally stopped. His body went limp and his eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling.
“Is he…?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Dead,” Lance confirmed, releasing the man with a look of disgust. “Cyanide.”
Lance reached over and pushed the emergency stop button again, forcing the elevator to stutter into movement. The elevator dinged and opened to reveal a half dozen security personnel, their guns trained on the elevator. Security must have been alerted when my elevator stopped. They lowered their weapons when they saw Lance and me with the dead body. I gazed numbly around as Lance explained to the men what had happened.
“Get Malcolm on the phone,” he barked at one of the black-suited men, firmly gripping my arm and dragging me off toward my father’s office.
My office, I corrected myself silently. I closed my eyes and allowed Lance to guide me through the strong oak doors, swallowing against the nausea building within me. As soon as Lance closed the doors behind us, I wrenched my arm free of his grasp and emptied my stomach into a nearby trash can.
Chapter Two: Lance
She really is beautiful, I thought to myself as Nancy Corrigan heaved into the trash can. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in silky waves. As another heave overtook her, a few strands escaped and fell over her shoulder.
Sighing, I strode over and grasped the wandering strands in my fist, pulling them back from her face. It had been too long since I had been around someone as delicate as the woman in front of me. I waited patiently for her sickness to abate itself, studying the hair in my hands. There was just a hint of strawberry to the blonde I had missed upon our initial meeting downstairs. In my defence, surveying the surrounding area and answering her questions had taken most of my attention.
I let go of her hair as she straightened up and wiped her mouth. I ignored her embarrassed look. Moving over to a minibar in the corner, I poured a measure of whiskey into a glass, handing it to her.
She looked at it dubiously. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“You need something to calm your nerves,” I answered, pressing the glass into her hands. “At the very least, you can rinse your mouth out.”
She flushed but fell silent as she sipped on the whiskey, which gave me a chance to study her with nothing to distract me. She was taller than what I had expected, the top of her strawberry blonde head coming to my nose. Her silky tresses framed a soft oval face before falling past her shoulders almost to her waist. She had full pink lips, a pert little nose with a small bump on one side and breath-taking aquamarine eyes.
Nancy Corrigan had an hourglass figure that usually only existed in a man’s deepest fantasy. Her eyes had stolen my breath, but her figure had drained all the blood into my lower region. Her full breasts strained against her dark grey button-up shirt, and her black pencil skirt hugged her trim waist and wide hips. I let my gaze travel down her shapely thighs and legs, all the way to her three-inch stiletto heels. That explained the height. I shook away the image of her wearing those heels and nothing else, on her back with said heels in the air. Now was not the time to be thinking like that.
“You’re bleeding,” Nancy whispered, nodding at my arm.
I twisted around to look at the back of my arm where the bastard had sliced me. With a sigh of disgust, I ripped my jacket and shirt off to get a better look at the cut.
“Here, let me help you,” Nancy said, setting her glass down and pulling a large first aid kit off the wall.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. I hated it when people saw me hurt. It showed weakness that wasn’t there and reminded them I was mortal just like them.
“Don’t be stupid,” Nancy huffed. “You can’t reach it yourself.”
I ignored her and attempted to bandage the wound anyway, failing miserably.
“Fine,” I growled, tossing the gauze at her. She caught it and moved behind me to examine the wound.
“It looks like it might need stitches,” she said after a while, her voice nervous. “We should go to the hospital.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance.”
I pulled a suture kit out of the first aid kit beside her. When I handed it to her, the little color left in her face drained.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope,” I answered, moving so she could get a good look at the cut.
She stood silent for a few more minutes before turning back to the first aid kit, muttering darkly under her breath. Something about men and pride. Her angry, flushed cheeks looked absolutely delicious, so I leaned back and watched her through half-closed eyes. She rummaged around in the first aid kit, pulling out bottles and bandages before swallowing the rest of her whiskey. She glared at me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me over to the large oak desk facing the window. I gave her an exasperated look.
She tapped her foot impatiently. “I need the light.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled the blinds closed. “Do your best without it.”
She rolled her eyes and started flinging things off her desk onto the floor. After manoeuvring me into a sitting position on the desk, she poured a clear liquid right onto the wound, causing me to hiss in pain. She smirked as she wiped the blood off my arm.
“Was that entirely necessary, Miss Corrigan?”
“Nancy,” she corrected. “And it was if you don’t want an infection.”
I grumbled, but let her continue her cleaning. She was probably right. Who knew what was on that blade?
“Why do you think Jameson wants to kill you?” I asked, making her jump. “Easy,” I warned. The last thing I needed was to be impaled by a suture needle because my nurse was too jumpy. Nurse. Hmm, now there’s a thought.
“I have no idea,” Nancy answered, bringing me out of my naughty thoughts and back to the present.
“You must have some idea.”
“The only thing I can think of,” she answered, glaring at me, “is that with me gone, he stands to inherit the entire company for himself and his family.”
I stared at her for a moment. “Yes,” I said a hint of condescension in my voice. “That would be a really good reason to want you dead.”
She whacked me on my good arm before slipping on a pair of sterile gloves and threading the needle from the suture kit.
“It didn’t occur to me that someone would kill me for 60% of a company,” she whispered, her face turning red.
“Really?” I asked, disbelief c
oloring my voice.
She sighed, jabbing the needle into my skin. I kept my face blank; years of Krav Maga and other martial arts training had taught me to hide my pain behind a blank mask.
“Okay, yes. It had occurred to me, and I was going to talk to Malcolm about it. After doing a little investigation into my father’s death, I began to suspect William. I already tried the police, but they have no evidence against him. It’s one reason I came back to take over the company. I have more resources here to find answers than I do holed up in my home mourning the only family I had left.”
I swallowed, feeling uncharacteristically guilty for forcing her confession. It made sense she would go to Malcolm about her suspicions but not share them with me. She didn’t know me. Malcolm, however, she had known for years.
Malcolm Shieldman was the owner and head of Shields United, the firm in charge of Nancy’s security. He was also my father. In a few years, Malcolm wished to retire and hand the whole company over to me. Before doing that, I needed—and wanted—to learn everything about the company from the ground up. I convinced my father to hire me out as security within the firm so I could gain a better understanding of what we do. It wasn’t difficult to convince him. I had studied Krav Maga and an eclectic mix of other fighting styles for twelve years now, and I knew how to take care of myself. From there, it was only a matter of changing my last name to my mother’s maiden name and being assigned a job.
This was my third job. My first job had been to escort a pop singer on her world tour. It had been a year of listening to awful music and muscling obsessed fans, but the job itself had been uneventful. My second job had been to escort a foreign dignitary to a hostile country for peace talks. That one had been a little more eventful. It had been the first time I had to kill for Shields United, but I took comfort in knowing the people I had killed were bad people.
I had just gotten back to the States three months ago when my father approached me about this job. He wanted someone he could trust to watch over Nancy while he figured out how someone had poisoned her father on our watch. I had accepted, something about Nancy’s story tugging at me.
As I gazed at her soft face, I noticed a slight dusting of freckles she had tried to cover up with makeup. Her eye makeup was a little smudged from her earlier bout of nausea and vomiting, but the messiness gave her a softer, more delicate air.
“I think we should call the police and tell them what that assassin said.” Nancy’s soft suggestion snapped me out of my thoughts.
“No,” I answered a little too sharply.
She looked up at me, frowning.
“No,” I continued, more gently. “We don’t have any proof, and Jameson is a powerful man. Without proof, there’s nothing the police can do. Malcolm is already investigating your father’s murder, and he intends to find the proof needed to put the murderer—to put Jameson away for good.”
“He is?”
“Of course he is,” I replied defensively. “He killed your father on our watch. We take that seriously.”
Nancy didn’t reply. She finished sewing up my wound and covered it with gauze, then reached into the first aid kit and took out a roll of bright pink self-adhesive tape. I glared at her.
“It’s the only color in there, and you need to keep it wrapped,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. She wrapped my arm and then took a few steps back.
I caught her hands and pulled her in front of me. “I promise you,” I began, stroking her hands with my thumbs. “We will find the proof to put him away.”
She nodded.
“I need you to tell me more about why killing you will help Jameson inherit the whole company,” I said, still clutching her hands.
“His grandfather and my great-grandfather started this company years ago. His grandfather only provided capital, so in the original contracts; they agreed to split the profits 60/40 with the majority going to the Corrigan family. Old man Jameson had other businesses, so a 40% interest more than satisfied him. Those businesses have since failed, leaving the Jamesons a little worse for wear, but certainly not destitute. My father brought William on as a partner but didn’t change the contracts. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and Daddy put in all the work to build up this business, so my father didn’t think it necessary or prudent to change the contracts.”
“That still doesn’t explain how he can inherit the whole company,” I prompted.
“In those original contracts,” Nancy continued, “it stated that if the Corrigan line dies with no heir, either male or female, control of the company would shift to the Jameson line.”
“And you’re the last Corrigan?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
Nancy nodded.
“So, killing you means complete control of the company.”
“Which,” Nancy interrupted. “Would be worth $1.2 billion dollars according to last quarter’s numbers.”
“Fuck,” I whispered. “That is definitely reason enough to kill someone.”
Nancy’s eyes filled with tears, and I cursed myself for my stupidity.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Nancy said, swiping at the tears in irritation. “It’s just hard being the only one left.”
I studied her for a moment, trying to think about how I would feel if I lost my whole family. Most likely, I’d feel about as lost and desperate as the woman in front of me.
“I don’t know how you’ve held together this long,” I whispered, running my hands up her arms.
She shook her head, choking back a shuddering sob. Sighing, I pulled her into my arms, stroking her long hair and holding her against my chest as sobs of grief and shock rolled out of her in waves.
Chapter Three: Nancy
Lance’s strong arms encircled me in warmth and security. It very well could have been the alcohol going to my head, but it felt nice, and I leaned into him. Lance’s fingers stroked my back, easing the choking sobs from my chest. I hadn’t cried since that night after my father’s funeral, preferring to spend my days in an irritable and rage-filled determination to find his killer. I hadn’t let myself break down.
After all, I could take more than most people. My father had drummed resilience into me since I was a child. He hadn’t softened with the death of my mother; crying was a weakness he hadn’t tolerated. There were times I thought he hated my tears for no other reason than he couldn’t fix them. Regardless the reason, he had trained me not to cry and not to show weakness. It was a testament to the stress and fear of the current situation that I was falling apart in a stranger’s embrace.
And a testament to the strength of the alcohol, I thought, sniffing hard.
Lance pulled back from me and studied my face. “I think I might know a way to not only protect you, but to flush Jameson out,” he murmured.
“What’s that?” I asked, swallowing a hiccup.
“Marry me,” Lance said simply.
I stared at him for three heartbeats before collapsing in a fit of laughter.
“It’s not that funny,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“I don’t even know you,” I gasped, trying to get a hold of myself.
“That’s why it will be a fake marriage,” he snapped, his eyes glittering dangerously.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed harder. Maybe I was losing my mind. High-stress situations did that to people, or at least that’s what I’d read.
“What the hell is so funny?” Lance asked, losing his temper.
That sobered me a little. “I really have no idea,” I whispered. “But… I can’t marry you, Lance.”
“Why not?” he asked, advancing on me slowly.
I backed away, trying to put distance between us so I could think through the fog of whiskey and fear. “You’ll burn my life to the ground.”
He chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated through my veins. “At least you’ll have a life because once Jameson learns of our marr
iage; he will know that you are not the last but have I as your next of Kin and it can buy us time to catch him in his evil act.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t deny it, then?”
He shook his head.
“That doesn’t exactly endear you to me, Lance,” I scoffed.
Quick as lightning, he had me against the wall, his hips grinding into mine. He grabbed my face in his hand and forced my eyes to his. “Maybe you need a little fire in your life, Nancy,” he whispered.
“How could you possibly know what I need?”
He shrugged.
“And what makes you think you could give me that fire, anyway?” I challenged.
His lips were on mine before I could blink. His mouth was bruising and punishing, demanding everything from me. He pried my mouth open, claiming it with his tongue, exploring every corner of me. I gasped into his mouth and pushed at his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to stop him.
Lance answered by grabbing both of my hands and pinning them to the wall on either side of me. He nipped at my lips before trailing kisses down my jaw and neck, swirling his tongue in maddening circles at my collarbone. When the action pulled a moan from my mouth, he released my hands to trail one of his own across my breast and down to my hips. He buried his other hand in my hair, pulling softly, letting me know there was no escape.
I didn’t care. I didn’t want to escape. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tangled my fingers in his hair as he gazed into my eyes, drawing me in and drowning me in their intensity. I whimpered at the passion his gaze promised. Smirking, he slipped a hand under my skirt and into my panties, thrusting a finger deep inside my already wet opening. He quirked one eyebrow at my obvious arousal.
“I’ll give you more fire than you can handle, Nancy,” he murmured, using his thumb to play with my little bud while thrusting his finger in and out of me.
I moaned, too lost in sensation to form words.
He trailed kisses along my jaw, nipping at my neck.
“I’ll take you higher than you’ve ever been,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll save your life, and when all is said and done, you can tell me if it’s worth braving my flames. Either way, you’ll be alive. And that is my ultimate goal.”