In Bed With the Billionaire

by Jackie Ashenden

  Temple groaned and turned her head to the side, sucking in some air, trying not to think about it.

  The room was silent.

  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and carefully rolled herself over.

  There was nobody there, the room empty. She was alone.

  Thank God.

  She sat up, straining to get rid of the fabric he’d wrapped around her wrists, but there was no give in it and attempting to slide her wrists free only seemed to draw the knot tighter. The evil prick. What the hell kind of knot was it?

  After a futile minute or two, she had to admit defeat and just sat there on the couch, panting, surveying the rest of the room that they’d apparently destroyed during their fight.

  The coffee table was shattered, glass glittering on the carpet. The roses were scattered and crushed, the vase they’d been sitting in also broken. One of the armchairs lay upside down against a wall, a fallen painting lying on top of it, the glass cracked. A cushion filling lay on the carpet amid the broken glass and water from the roses, threads of white silk everywhere. Dots of red stained the carpet. Blood.

  Jesus. It didn’t look like a perfectly decorated, tasteful French drawing room anymore. It looked like a bomb had exploded in it.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Jericho came back in from wherever he’d gone, carrying what looked like a shirt in one hand.

  Temple stared at him. There were bloodstains under his nose, a cut on his lip, a darkening bruise on his jaw and around one eye. Her marks on him.

  He paused in the doorway, meeting her gaze. And he smiled, a wicked, dark, savage smile that had something inside her shivering with excitement and anticipation.

  No. God, no. Not again.

  “See what you did to me?” he said in that low, purring voice. “You gave as good as you got.” There was no anger in his expression, and the look in his eyes … Shit. They weren’t cold any longer. Embers of gold smoldered there, as if all it would take was one breath to make them catch alight.

  Yes, you want to catch alight too. You want to burn.

  She gritted her teeth, forced the thought from her head. “Well, you deserved it. How about you untie me now that you got what you wanted?”

  His smile deepened, and he moved over to her, avoiding all the broken glass and crushed flowers, coming to stand in front of the couch.

  And despite herself, her breath caught. Because he was bare to the waist, all smooth tanned golden skin and the kind of broad chest and sculpted abs that spoke of long hours spent in the gym. Except, given the fact he’d actually managed to catch her and hold her down in submission, she didn’t think he’d spent hours lifting weights. No, she’d bet anything he practiced some form of martial arts.

  His pants sat low on his lean hips, only partially zipped, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of the crisp golden hair arrowing down his flat abdomen and disappearing beneath the black wool. The definite outline of his cock pressing against his zipper showed that he was still semi-hard.

  Her mouth dried. He was so fucking beautiful it hurt. And that was wrong. There should be nothing beautiful about a man like him. Nothing that she should want.

  “Hmmm. No, I don’t think I will.” He sank down on his haunches in front of her, the shirt he was carrying still held tight in one fist, all coiled power and tightly leashed strength. “I caught you, Temple, which means you have to give me the truth.”

  “That wasn’t the deal. I had to tell you to stop.”

  “I don’t believe we agreed on the details.” He reached out, sliding his free hand up her thigh, making everything inside her clench hard with desire. “Something tells me you’re not just a dancer trying to make ends meet, hmmm?”

  She made herself smile back at him, not giving anything away, though part of her whispered that was pointless when she’d revealed so much already. “Untie me and I’ll tell you everything.”

  He laughed and the desire inside her twisted at the dark eroticism of the sound. “Always with the bargains, kitten. No, I think we’ve come to the end of bargains. I want to know who you are and you know I can make you talk. I don’t need to use pain to do it.” His fingers moved higher, brushing the inside of her thigh, sending shivers of helpless pleasure through her. Proving his point.

  Asshole.

  She stared into his eyes. The glowing embers of heat were still there, but behind them burned something else, an implacable will, a determination like a force of nature. Nothing would stop this man from his goal, nothing would keep him from it.

  He was like her.

  Who am I? I’m the woman who’s here to kill you.

  No, she couldn’t tell him that. He probably already suspected, given the fight she’d put up, but even so, she wasn’t going to give him a heads-up on what she intended. Then again she had to give him something. Because that look in his eyes was clear: He wasn’t going to give up, not until he’d taken her apart even more thoroughly than he already had.

  She was silent a moment, turning it over in her head. Then she said, “I’m here for information.”

  His gaze narrowed. “What information?”

  “I’m looking for someone. And apparently you’re the man to ask when it comes to finding people who’ve gone missing.”

  She couldn’t tell what was going on behind those fascinating eyes of his, the expression on his face completely enigmatic. “Who?” The dark sexiness had faded from his voice, the question hard, curt. An order.

  Before she could answer, a cell phone started to ring.

  Jericho stared at her silently, something intense in his gaze. Then he cursed and let her go. Straightening, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, glancing down at the screen before hitting a button. He answered in Russian, turning away, his beautiful voice cold as he asked a question.

  She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, keeping half an ear on his conversation despite the fact she couldn’t understand it. Shit, she should have learned a few languages. That would have come in handy right about now.

  Telling him about Thalia though … She really didn’t want to give out her sister’s name. Didn’t want to reveal her own relationship to her either, because there was no telling how he’d use that information. Keeping it impersonal and distant was the only way.

  Like he’s seriously going to tell you?

  She looked up at him. He was turned away from her, giving her his broad back. A full-color Chinese tattoo had been inked into his golden skin, covering most of his back. It was of a tiger climbing a rock, its head turned, its mouth open, snarling at the world. It was strong and so achingly beautiful, just like the rest of him.

  Then her gaze narrowed. Hidden in the colors of the tattoo were a lot of dark spots that looked like … blood. In fact, now that she looked closer, she saw that there were many small cuts all over his back, some of them long and ragged. And then she remembered how he’d caught her as she’d leaped at him, holding on tight and turning them both over as they fell so that she’d landed on top of him.

  The glass in the carpet. He must have fallen on it.

  She blinked as another thought slowly made its way into her consciousness. He’d turned so he was the one who’d taken the brunt of the fall, who’d taken the cuts from the glass. He’d protected her from it.

  Just like he protected you from that Russian asshole and his wandering hands.

  A feeling she didn’t want to name or even acknowledge shifted in her chest.

  Only one person in her life had ever protected her and that was Thalia. And after Thalia had gone, she’d had no one. Only herself. And that had been enough, more than enough. She didn’t need anyone else.

  But you like it all the same.

  No. No, she didn’t. Anyway, he wasn’t a man who protected women. He was a man who hurt them.

  Jericho finished his conversation with a curt word, turning back as he returned his phone to his pocket. “The Lychenkos are causing issues at the club. I need to
deal with them.” He came over to her and tossing the shirt he was holding onto the couch beside her, he bent, pulling at the white cotton around her wrists before moving on to where she was tied around her thighs and ankles, undoing the knots quickly. “You will stay here.”

  She lifted a shoulder, rubbing at her wrists absently. “I’m not planning on going anywhere yet.”

  He eyed her a moment. “Get up.”

  “Back to the control part of the evening, I see.” Nevertheless, she did what she was told, getting slowly to her feet.

  “Arms out.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  Letting out an impatient breath, he picked up the shirt he’d dropped onto the couch then, without any fuss at all, began to dress her in it.

  Temple opened her mouth to protest, but by the time she’d gotten over the shock, he was already doing the buttons up. She blinked, not quite sure how to take this. It seemed … odd. He hadn’t covered her up as they’d left the club and that was in public, so why now?

  His head was bent, his movements deft and focused, and the scent of him, warm and spicy, made her momentarily dizzy. Enough that she just stood there and let him finish doing the buttons up, dressing her like she was a child.

  As he finished the last button, he stepped back then strode over to the door where there was an electronic panel on the wall. He pressed a button, issued some kind of order in French, then turned back to her, the look on his face unreadable.

  Almost instantly, the door of the lounge opened and three guards came in, all with semi-automatics slung over their shoulders. Jericho said something to them, again in French, then he glanced at her. “The guards will escort you to my room,” he said in English. “And they’ll make sure you stay there.”

  So. She was to be a prisoner. Unsurprising. “I told you I have no plans for going anywhere else. Isn’t three guards a little over the top?”

  “I’m not stupid, kitten, don’t treat me as such.” A green spark glinted deep in his eyes. “Especially after you nearly broke my nose. One guard won’t be nearly enough.”

  Okay, so no, he wasn’t stupid.

  “Guess that cat’s pretty much out of the bag then.”

  Jericho murmured something, and the guards all swung their semis around, pointing them directly at her.

  She folded her arms, not giving the guns the slightest bit of notice, staring at him instead. “I thought I was going to be escorted to your room? Or have you decided that killing me is easier?”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Temple. You’re mine for the night, remember? Besides, I don’t have any of the answers I want from you yet.”

  “Then you don’t need the guns or any of this heavy shit. I told you, I’m here for information. And I’m not going anywhere until I get it.” She paused a moment, sweeping her gaze over him, making sure he knew that she wasn’t in any way cowed. “I’m not going to kill you if that’s what you’re afraid of.” May as well name it, say it out loud.

  One corner of his mouth curled, as if he was in on the joke. “Oh, I’m not afraid. Trust, though, is a different story and I don’t trust anyone. Least of all you.” He glanced at the guards and said something sharp, then he turned and before she could say anything more, strode from the room, leaving her staring down the muzzles of three guns.

  One of the guards jerked his head toward the door, his meaning clear. Time to move.

  She went, because although she could probably have taken all three out, they were armed and that weighed the odds in their favor. And she wasn’t into odds like that, not quite yet, not when she hadn’t figured out what had happened to Thalia.

  They took her upstairs and pushed her unceremoniously into a large room, locking the heavy wooden door behind her. She didn’t bother trying to see if she could unlock the door, turning instead to give the room a quick scan.

  It was massive and decorated with the kind of low-key opulence that was only within the reach of the super-rich. The floor was dark, old parquet covered with silk rugs from the Middle East, and on the ivory walls, paintings were hung. She didn’t know who the painters were, but given the heavy gilt frames, she thought they were probably very important.

  Across the room, tall windows faced the street, an arrangement of white armchairs with a dark wood coffee table gathered beneath them. And in the center of the room, pushed up against the wall, beneath a huge painting of a man on horseback wielding a sword, was a massive dark oak bed, piled high with white pillows and a thick white quilt.

  Temple narrowed her gaze, scanning the room again. Yes, it was luxurious, no question, but it was also completely impersonal. There were no clothes over the backs of the chairs, none on the bed either. No shoes lying on the floor. No photos on the antique oak nightstand by the bed and none on the matching oak dresser.

  It was like a hotel room. There was no personality to it at all. It even smelled of … absence.

  If this was Jericho’s room then he hardly ever slept in it, if he even did at all.

  She paced over to the windows, checking the catches. There were locks on them, electronic and heavy-duty, and not ones she could get open. She was betting the glass was bulletproof, as well.

  Putting her hands on the sill, she peered out into the night beyond. A dark garden lay beneath, surrounded by high stone walls, and every now and then she caught the movement of a shadow around the perimeter. Guards.

  Escape would be difficult. Not impossible certainly, but difficult.

  She turned around and began another check on the room, going through the drawers in the dresser and finding nothing but neatly folded masculine clothes. Jericho’s? But then who knew? There was nothing in the nightstand drawer at all.

  Interesting. He didn’t sleep here, hell, he barely even lived here.

  A sliding door on one wall revealed a huge walk-in closet, but again, despite an in-depth search, she found nothing but more clothes. Suits and business shirts mainly. If these were Jericho’s then he had boring taste in clothes, that was for sure.

  Another door led into a huge, ornate bathroom with a big, white marble tub and a shower big enough for four or more people at least.

  Temple stood for a moment in the bathroom doorway, debating what to do, not that she could do much given that she was locked in this room. But a plan for what she was going to do when he got back would be good.

  She couldn’t let herself slip again, be broken open again, not the way he had downstairs. She couldn’t afford to give away any more secrets. Already she’d revealed far more than she’d initially intended.

  You didn’t know what he’d be like. You didn’t know you’d want him.

  Her jaw tightened. Fighting him had been exhilarating and she’d let herself get carried away—too carried away. And going down like that on the sofa, letting him screw her the way he had … Jesus. Sure, she’d expected she’d have to fuck him at some point, but not like that. Not screaming into the cushions as he’d made her come.

  Letting out a breath, she attempted to calm herself. Okay, so none of this had gone the way she’d planned, but that was okay. She’d adjust her approach, no biggie.

  Anyway, nothing had changed. Find out what had happened to Thalia. Kill the evil crime lord asshole who’d taken her. Get back to Zac Rutherford and his friends, and claim the money. That’s all.

  She was exactly where she’d meant to be. In his house. Close to him. And he clearly was intending to keep her for the night. It was all good.

  The only thing she needed to figure out was how to play their next round.

  He’d want to know who she was, especially now that he’d realized she wasn’t exactly defenseless. Which meant the pressure was on in terms of getting the information she needed out of him. She had to get it and get it fast, then do what she’d come here to do: kill the son of bitch.

  But how to get it out of him?

  He’s curious. He likes to be challenged and he likes a fight. And he wants you …

  Sex was the o
bvious answer. That had always been her plan, after all, even before she’d come face-to-face with him. Seduce him, get him to tell her everything she wanted to know, then kill him. Easy.

  Not so easy. Not given what he did to you downstairs.

  No, he’d done nothing to her downstairs, only given her an orgasm. It didn’t mean shit. But she wasn’t going to slip up again. Next time he touched her, she’d be ostensibly welcoming, lulling him into a false sense of security, getting him to drop his guard.

  Then she’d either lay an arm across his throat or close her fist around his balls and get him to spill his guts. Her own secrets would stay safe, but this time, he’d be the one broken open. He’d be the one with his head buried in the couch cushions fighting tears.

  She’d make sure of it.

  * * *

  “The woman is dangerous.” Dmitri delivered the observation in his customary flat tone.

  Jericho raised an eyebrow at him. “You think I don’t know that? Do you not see what she did to my face?” He shifted then winced. “Not to mention my back.”

  They were driving back to Jericho’s house from the club, dawn breaking clean and crisp over the city. A pink and gold sunrise gilded old buildings and ancient spires, distracting from the dirt and decay of the streets, highlighting the beauty of the city.

  Jericho loved Paris, always had. Which was why he’d made it the center of his operations. The home of artists and dissidents, poets and politicians, it had always seemed like a city where a person could do anything, be anyone. Where ideas and greatness could be born.

  Or a place for a monster to hide.

  Yeah, well, pity it had turned out that way for him. The only idea that had been born to him was the plan he’d formulated the day he’d come here, the one that had involved taking out the man who’d been Jericho before him. The only greatness, the end to that plan. The fall of the trafficking network that spanned countries and continents.

  Nothing else mattered. Nothing else even came close to mattering.

  Least of all one woman who’d given him the fight of his life and the bruises to prove it.