Stryker's Desire (Dragons Of Sin City Book 1)

by Meg Ripley

  Rachel set her phone aside as the message magically disappeared, climbing out of the tub. She would sleep on it; the next day, she would decide if it was worth the risk. A little voice in the back of her mind suggested that if she hadn’t told Dylan about the text messages yet, she had already decided her course of action—but Rachel pushed it aside.

  ****

  Rachel’s heart pounded in her chest as she and Dylan neared the church of Joan of Arc. She had made an excuse of wanting to see it during lunch. She didn’t know if Dylan was suspicious of her sudden interest, but he went along with the plan anyway, barely giving her a glance as he lit a Gauloise.

  “For a woman with no religion, you’ve got a keen interest in churches,” he’d commented as they started to make their way across the city. At least, Rachel thought, it wasn’t entirely out of character for her; she had visited several cathedrals within the city during their stay so far—she just hadn’t made a point of visiting this one as of yet.

  She wondered if the people looking for her—intent on giving her the truth of the situation, or so they said—knew that it was a meeting place where she could go without attracting much suspicion from Dylan. Did they know her habits that well? Or was it simply a lucky guess—a tourist destination within the city that wouldn’t raise many eyebrows? Assuming I’m making the right choice, I guess I’ll know about it soon enough, she thought.

  Rachel glanced at the time on an enormous clock set up on one of the buildings nearby. It was ten minutes to 2. Her skin crawled as she tried to imagine how exactly this was going to go down—was someone watching for them, already in position? They had to be.

  They arrived at the front of the church with only a few minutes to spare; beads of sweat started to form on Rachel’s brow. She stopped short of actually going onto the grounds, telling Dylan, “It’s not like we’re on a schedule here—I want to look at the outside first.” Against the stately, picturesque gothic and medieval cathedrals of the city, the modern lines of the 1970s-built church were almost a disappointment, though she had to admit that the sweeping, curved lines of the roof were at least breathtaking.

  Suddenly, she saw something move in her peripheral vision. Rachel felt Dylan’s grip on her hand tighten as they were abruptly surrounded by a group of men in the uniform of Gendarmes de Rouen, quietly penning them away from the flow of people moving through the city center. Dylan immediately moved to pull her away, but there was no way for them to escape—and he saw it in an instant.

  “Mademoiselle, venez avec nous s’il vous plait.”

  Dylan refused to let go of her hand, and Rachel realized that the men were not—as their uniforms suggested—actual police officers. The uniforms were too clean, too immaculate, and too new. They were ushered quickly away from the public street.

  “No one here is authorized to harm either of you,” one of the fake police officers told them, as they were gently, but inexorably, led towards a waiting car. “But if you struggle, we will immobilize you, and then silence you.”

  Dylan looked at her and Rachel felt her heart lurch in her chest. He knew. None of the men tried to attack them. “You couldn’t have just told me what was going on, could you?” Dylan asked her.

  “Why should I? You’ve never given me that courtesy.” Rachel pressed her lips together, feeling guilty without being certain of why; Dylan hadn’t told her anything more than he absolutely had to for the entire time they’d been stuck together.

  Rachel saw the car door open. The next moment, the crew of false police officers pushed them both towards it; Rachel ducked her head, climbing in, not knowing whether or not she had made a horrible mistake. Dylan’s grip on her hand fell away as he slipped in behind her.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she heard someone say. Turning her head, Rachel saw the car door close, and then spotted the man they had been brought to.

  He was seated across from them at the back of the low limousine. The man’s hair was graying at the temples, the rest of it a dull dark brown, combed immaculately back from his forehead. The car began to move, and the man smiled slightly. “Thank you for joining me, Rachel,” he said. He glanced at Dylan. “It’s good to see you again, Dylan. Though I’m sure you probably have a million places you’d rather be.”

  Rachel looked over and saw that Dylan’s hands were behind his back, his wrists bound by handcuffs—when had that happened? She remembered his touch falling away from her as she went into the car.

  “Okay,” Rachel said, feeling the sweat building up on the small of her back; her palms getting clammy. “Just what the hell is going on here?”

  “My name is Jeffrey Brock. I am the current CEO of Vantech Incorporated, having taken over the position after my predecessor, James Whitley, was ousted for erratic and irresponsible behavior.”

  Rachel glanced at Dylan; his jaw was set, his lips pressed firmly together. She turned her attention back to Brock. “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

  Brock smiled again, more broadly this time. “Very astute of you.” Dylan shifted as the car turned, pressing against Rachel. She felt his fingers grope for her hand to communicate something he wasn’t willing to say in front of whoever this man was. “As for what’s going on...I’m sure you’re probably less than inclined to trust me.”

  “Well, considering that you—or at least, some people working for you—threatened me, tried to attack me, and then burned down my apartment, no. I’m not.” She caught a flash of a smile on Dylan’s face.

  “How do you know that all of those things were done by me, or at least by my command?”

  Rachel furrowed her brow. “I suppose there’s a possibility that someone decided to give me a ton of money and then torture me with the fear of being killed over it to get his jollies off, but I kind of doubt anyone’s that depraved.”

  “I didn’t say none of those things were at my behest,” Brock countered. “Just that not all of them were.” He glanced at Dylan. “The phone call, regrettably, I have to take credit for. It wasn’t me who made it—but it was made under my directions. The man who broke into your house was an agent of mine, much like Dylan here on retainer. He exceeded his instructions and, Dylan, I’d be glad to pay you a reward for taking him out of circulation.”

  Rachel looked at her bodyguard and erstwhile lover; the tension in his shoulders, above and beyond the constraints of the handcuffs, was unmistakable. “So, then you’re telling me that the fire in my apartment building had nothing to do with you,” Rachel said, looking from Brock to Dylan.

  Brock shrugged. “I didn’t order it, and none of my people on the ground reported having done it. I had already decided that the best course of action was to appeal to you directly and without threats. So, you should ask yourself a question, Rachel: who would benefit the most from getting you away from me?”

  Rachel stared at Dylan. He couldn’t have set the fire—he had been with her all along. “Dylan, what do you know about this?” she asked him, her throat tightening with a growing sense of betrayal.

  “I don’t know anything,” Dylan said. “I told you, I don’t ask questions.”

  Brock sat back in his seat. “Dylan is excellent at following orders—in fact, that was why I originally brought him to Jim’s attention. He goes where the money is. How much is Jim paying you for this escapade, Dylan?”

  “That’s between me and him,” Dylan said, his voice nearly a growl.

  Brock turned his attention back onto Rachel. “By my estimate, he’s making about as much as you are from this transaction—it’s rather arduous, guarding someone who thinks they’re being constantly pursued.” Brock’s lips twitched. “Which brings us to the main problem—and also an opportunity. The money James Whitley gave you wasn’t his to give—it belongs to the company I now control. It was earmarked for a merger that we still very much want to go through with, and the accounting for it is…let’s say, less than amicable to the IRS. If we don’t get it back—if it stays as a mark in our ledgers as it stands ri
ght now—we could be in serious trouble.”

  “So basically, you’re trying to convince me to give it up. Doesn’t sound like an opportunity to me: Rachel, you’ll be stranded in a foreign country—but you’ll have our eternal gratitude for keeping us clean with the IRS!” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “The opportunity would come with the reward earmarked for the fund’s return,” Brock said quickly. “You have to understand—I don’t necessarily care that the money came to you. In the overall scheme of our profits, it’s a drop in the bucket. What I care about is a long, drawn-out audit that costs us a fortune. If you’re willing to return the money to us, I have the authorization to give you a five-million-dollar reward—provided you are also prepared to testify against James Whitley in an impending lawsuit we have filed against him.” Rachel stared at the man in shock, barely noticing the fact that the car had come to a stop. “As a gesture of good faith, I will give you two weeks to decide what you want to do. You can leave freely right now.”

  Rachel glanced at Dylan. “He’s handcuffed, you ass,” she said to Brock. Brock’s eyes widened and then he nodded, evidently only just realizing the significance.

  “There are some more…personal police standing outside the car. They’ll free him the moment you step out,” he said. Rachel looked from one man to the other incredulously.

  Brock reached over and pushed the car door open. Dylan followed her out of the car, and true to Brock’s word, there were several more fake police stationed around it, apparently at attention. Rachel caught a flicker of movement and then Dylan’s hands were freed. The car pulled away and the “police” began to drift off, one by one, as if called by other duties.

  “We need to get back to the apartment, get your things together and go,” Dylan said quickly. Rachel opened her mouth to protest; for a moment, she saw a flicker of fear in Dylan’s eyes. “Don’t argue with me right now. I swear, I will explain it to you later.” He grabbed her wrist and started pulling her down the street, still shocked by everything that had happened.

  ****

  As they hustled back to the apartment, Rachel’s head was spinning over the information Brock had given her. She glanced over at Dylan, embittered by what little she had been able to pull out of him about his assignment and the man who paid him for it.

  Just then, Dylan’s phone rang. Without stopping, Rachel watched as he pulled it out of his pocket and began talking the moment he tapped the accept icon.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Yes—yes, we were just with him. No, we didn’t stay for tea. I’m going to get her out of the city as fast as I can. It’s all gone to shit.”

  He hung up without waiting, and Rachel’s mind reeled; once more, she realized she had no idea what the hell was going on in her life—and now, she had no idea if she could even trust the man who was supposed to be protecting her.

  PART THREE

  Rachel found herself at a table, on the terrace of a tiny brasserie, in a tiny town whose name she was no longer even sure of, somewhere in the border territory between France and Switzerland. On the table in front of her were a pack of cigarettes, a tiny coffee cup with deep, dark coffee thick as syrup, a shot of myrtille eau-de-vie, a lighter, an ashtray, and her phone. As she looked out from the terrace from behind a pair of sunglasses, she watched a man re-loading his beat-up van with leftovers from the market that was dispersing. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, reaching for her packet of Gauloises bleus. Note to self: if you ever do quit smoking, do it in a country that doesn’t love cigarettes so much. She had never been much of a smoker before she had met Dylan; but then, Rachel thought wryly, she had done a lot of things she wasn’t accustomed to since Dylan had dropped into her life.

  Dylan was no longer, technically, in her life. Rachel lit a cigarette and took a long draw of the smoke, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses as she exhaled. She had left him a little over a week before, after she had met with the man Dylan had painted as her enemy, and learned that the situation regarding her mysterious newfound fortune was much more complicated than it had even initially seemed.

  Rachel’s phone buzzed and she started; even without the constant suspicion that every blind corner might bring a henchman to grab her off the streets and carry her away to be either killed or somehow forced to relinquish her fortune, Rachel had grown so accustomed to the jittery feeling of anxiety that it was hard to give up. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she missed the feeling of protection that had come along with Dylan’s presence. She picked up her phone and unlocked the screen, taking a deep breath again to steady her nerves. She set her lit cigarette down lightly on the rim of the ashtray and picked up the jigger of myrtille-flavored liquor. It didn’t, technically “go” with the coffee, but the eau-de-vie was more popular in the Alps than Calvados, and of the flavors available, Rachel had favored the wild blueberry sweetness more than any of the others.

  The number listed was unidentifiable; it wasn’t even a European number. Rachel frowned; she knew it couldn’t be Brock—he wouldn’t be calling her quite so soon to get her decision. She bit her bottom lip for a moment before knocking back the burning, faintly sweet liquor to steady her nerves. She set the tiny glass down and brought the phone up to her ear. There was a message—another sign that it wasn’t Brock contacting her. Rachel swallowed convulsively, deciding that she might as well hear whatever it was.

  The message started with a gritty riot of rhythmic electric guitar, almost too loud. Rachel winced slightly, listening to it. “I feel you/ your sun it shines…I feel you/within my mind…You take me there, you take me where, the kingdom comes/ You take me to, and lead me through/ Babylon…this is the morning of our love/ It’s just the dawning of our love…” Rachel felt her throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the eau-de-vie and knew, suddenly, exactly where the call had come from. Her eyes stung as the song played, far beyond the usual limits of what her voicemail would allow.

  Dylan. Jesus. Rachel shuddered and put her phone down, the sound of shrieking, distorted guitars and yearning wails of lyrics filling her mind. She picked up the tiny cup of coffee and sipped at the syrupy-bitter liquid, a hot tear rolling free of one of her eyes as she sighed. She could remember the events that had led to her current state, sitting on the terrace, in the middle of nowhere, as clearly as if it had been hours instead of days before.

  They had gotten back to the apartment after her meeting in Brock’s car, Rachel trailing in Dylan’s wake as he led her through the streets of Rouen. Rachel’s mind had still been reeling from the information she had received from Brock. “We need to get the hell out of here as soon as we get the call, so you’d better start packing, Love,” Dylan had told her, propelling her through the front door and towards the bedroom.

  “Why do we need to leave?” she had asked, stumbling slightly as she stopped her headlong run and turned to face him.

  “Listen; I know he came off nice in the car, but Brock is not a man who has your interests in mind.” Dylan’s slightly swarthy skin had been pale.

  “He’s offering me more money to give up what I got illegally,” Rachel countered. “While I’m sure he’s not Santa Claus that doesn’t seem like a terrible offer.”

  “He’s faking you out,” Dylan had told her. “I know him. I’ve worked for him.” Rachel’s insecurities began to rise up inside of her mind, along with all of the questions she had been asking herself since their sexual liaison had begun.

  “Yes, you have,” she had said, pinning him down with her gaze. “And now you’re working for some dude who apparently thinks endangering my life and forcing me to live as an international fugitive with a fake name are great enhancements to my life.”

  “That wasn’t in the plan,” Dylan had countered. “The plan was just to give you the money, instead of going through a merger that would have hurt the company.”

  “Why’d he have to do it an illegal way, then? Just what is your boss hiding?” Dylan had rolled his eyes at her, sigh
ing with exasperation.

  “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “Once we’re out of the city, I’ll explain what’s really going on.” Dylan had closed the distance between them, his hands falling to her waist. “I know you’re anxious and worried,” he had said quietly. “We’ll get the hell out of here and hopefully it’ll take Brock a while to track you down again.”

  “I’m not anxious, and I’m not worried,” Rachel had said, pulling away from Dylan’s touch. “I’m frustrated and I feel like I’m being lied to by everyone.”

  “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” Dylan had asked her.

  “Plenty! You have given me plenty of reasons not to trust you. Until Brock’s people torched my apartment building you wouldn’t even tell me anything about anything! And now…” she shook her head. “I don’t know who to believe.” Dylan grabbed at her waist carefully, pulling her towards him, and Rachel found her body beginning to respond in spite of her irritation and distrust, reacting to the proximity of his muscled body, the scent of his cologne, the heat of him.

  “Believe me,” Dylan had told her, his voice dropping to a low almost-growl. Rachel had struggled slightly in his arms, not quite resisting as his lips brushed against hers, as his hands tightened on her hips, pressing her body against his. She couldn’t honestly say that she didn’t want him, but Rachel wanted answers more—she wanted answers to her questions, she wanted to know who to trust, what to believe.

  “You said we don’t have time,” Rachel had murmured as Dylan’s hands slipped underneath her blouse, caressing her bare skin with a feather-light touch that trailed up from her hips to just underneath her breasts.

  “We always have time for this,” Dylan had replied, claiming her lips once more to stop her from talking. He cupped her breasts, giving them a slow, firm squeeze through the fabric of her bra, and Rachel had moaned, arching into his touch as her thoughts and questions began to evaporate like alcohol in the desert. She broke away from Dylan’s lips, intending to tell him that he couldn’t expect to distract her—that she was going to pursue the issue—but before she could form words, Dylan’s mouth dropped to her throat, his lips, teeth and tongue teasing her sensitive skin until Rachel moaned again, her head falling back to give him better access.