“Chantelle!” I manage to gasp, my hands going to her breasts, feeling the weight of them. My fingers find her nipples and pinch them lightly, knowing it always turns her on.
“Nijad! I didn’t expect you today!” She pushes me back a step and slides away from my grasp.
Something about the tone of her voice doesn’t sound right, but I’m too wound up to stop and consider.
“Come!” Assertively, I take her hand and pull her into the bedroom. It needs a little tug to get her moving, but not enough to suggest she’s making any real protest. I push her down on the bed, falling on top of her. Taking both her hands in one of mine I hold them above her head, imprisoning her. My legs slip between her thighs. I start to kiss her again, and it’s at that point I realise something is decidedly wrong.
Rocking back on my heels, I release her hands and stare down into the face of the unusually unresponsive woman lying beneath me. Only then do I start to notice the signs that I initially missed, now taking in the redness in her eyes and her pale pallor. For the first time, I wonder why she was standing by the front door all but naked when she hadn’t known I was coming back today. Mentally kicking myself, I belatedly realise that stripping off her robe as soon as I entered the apartment and dragging her naked into the bedroom wasn’t one of my finest ideas. The question of why she’s so scantily clad, and why the bed is still rumpled when it’s already past noon, now crosses my mind. Looking into her eyes, I worry she seems almost wary of me. It’s perhaps a bit late, but now I ask, “Chantelle, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Why are you home so early?” she breathes, her voice sounding strange. I can’t tell what’s wrong, but I realise as she turns her head away that something is way off.
Smiling at her, I slide my finger down the side of her face. “My last meeting was cancelled. I couldn’t wait to get home; I missed you.” Well, that’s true of a certain part of me, for sure. My cock is straining at the fabric of my jeans as if it’s trying to escape by itself, but I’m starting to come to terms with the realisation that I am going to have to remain uncomfortable. Shutting my eyes, I will my erection to subside. I’m twenty-seven years old, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager, and I should be able to control my libido. Her uncharacteristic behaviour triggers my sympathy. “Are you not well?”
She starts at my question, and then sniffs dramatically, “I’m OK, it’s just a cold.”
“Just a cold? Can I get you anything?” My fingers move higher and as I begin to gently stroke her forehead she leans in to my touch. “Do you need a doctor?”
She shakes her head, and then winces as if in pain. “I’m sorry, Nijad. My head hurts so bad. We haven’t got any painkillers left in the flat. Could you possibly go out and get me some?”
I hear the nervous catch in her voice and feel a bastard for not realising how poorly she must be feeling. Assuming she thinks she’s asking too much of me, as I’ve only just arrived home, I lean down, reassuring her by gently brushing my lips against hers. “Of course I will. Do you need them now?” I’ve been travelling since well before dawn and, in truth, could kill for a cup of coffee, but I hate seeing my woman, or any woman for that matter, in pain. My own comfort will have to wait. Fuck.
As I start to rise, she shrugs apologetically. “If you could …”
Before she can finish her sentence, I hear the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut loudly. As I hear footsteps coming along the hall and then across the main room I straighten up, immediately on high alert. The only person who would just walk in is Jasim, and I left him in Amahad last night. Jon has a key, but he would always ring or knock first. I start to reach over to the bedside table where I keep my gun, but before I have a chance to grab it a gruff voice calls out.
“Hey, bébé, Daddy est là, et il a sucre pour vous. Mais avant que vous pouvez avoir toute les trucs sucrés votre Daddy veut quelque chose pour lui-même.”
Daddy’s home and he’s got sugar for her? I interpret the words faster than their meaning. I fling myself off the bed, swinging round as I see a man walk into the bedroom, his belt already undone, trouser zip half lowered. There can be no fucking doubt about his intentions.
“What the fuck?” I suddenly know what it means to see red – anger floods through me like a gigantic wave. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” I roar.
The man just stands insolently in the bedroom doorway. “Is this your rich Arab, Chantelle?” he asks, switching to English, the language I’d used. “Or another of your suitors?” He sounds amused. I don’t see the joke.
“Henri! Just leave!” Chantelle hisses. Her eyes flick warily between the two of us. “Go! Go now!” she cries desperately.
“Are you sure it’s me you want to leave? He can’t give you what I can,” the man suggests nonchalantly, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out.
My eyes narrow as I see the packet of white powder the newcomer holds between his finger and thumb, taunting the woman behind me. With a roar I rush at him, twist his arm behind his back, and propel him down the short hall and out of the front door, not caring that he stumbles and falls. I just need to get him out of my sight before I act on my first impulse to beat the fucking shit out of him.
“Get out, and stay out!” I yell as I slam the door shut, and then lean up against it, taking some deep breaths, trying to process what has just happened. Such rage comes over me that I take the only outlet I can and slam my fist into the wall hard enough to graze my knuckles, breaking the skin. The pain clears the fog, and helps me realise there’s only one interpretation for what’s just transpired, and even my bemused brain quickly comes to the conclusion that there is only one solution.
“Fucking hell.” I shake my head, unable to believe the situation, although the evidence is plain. No wonder she greeted me wearing a flimsy negligee; it wasn’t me she was fucking waiting for! Fortifying myself with a deep breath I spin round to deal with this shit.
“Nijad, let me explain …”
I glare at her as she stands, still naked, at the bedroom door. I don’t want to hear lies or excuses. Clenching my fists to stop me doing something I’ll later regret, I push past her to retrieve her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and then pull open the closet doors and start chucking in her clothes. I don’t bother folding them, nor do I worry about the blood from my injured hand dripping on to the fabric.
“What are you doing? Nijad, wait, we have to talk,” she pleads, stepping towards me, putting her hand on my arm to try to make me stop what I’m doing. I shrug her off, but pause briefly, glowering at her. I cannot remember ever feeling so angry in my life. Trust and honesty. That’s what I expect from people. Is that too much to fucking ask? On current evidence it seems it is.
“There’s nothing to say. I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been making a fool of me. Get dressed and go.” I sling some clothes at her, hoping there’s something there she can put on, but not giving a damn if she has to walk out of here naked. I just need her out of my sight as quickly as possible.
“It’s not like that …” Her arm reaches out to touch me again. Stepping back, I evade her touch.
I can see tears in her eyes, but have zero sympathy. She’s brought this on herself. I take a deep breath.
“What is it like then? You’ve been screwing other men in my apartment, taking drugs? You’ve lied, cheated. What other secrets have you been keeping?” As she starts to answer, I slash my hand through the air, cutting her off. “Don’t say another fucking word, Chantelle. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear.” I continue stuffing her belongings any old how into her suitcase.
“Nijad, we’re good together! I didn’t expect you home today!”
I can’t believe she’s trying to offer that as an acceptable excuse. She puts both her hands round my head and tries to pull me down as if she’s going to kiss me. Unsure how I’m still controlling my temper at this point, and incredulous that she thinks there might be
any justification for her actions, I remove her hands roughly, my sore and bleeding knuckles leaving a red smear across her cheek. I thrust her away from me …
And then the world goes black.
****
I wake feeling groggy, with no idea where I am. Slowly, I begin to take in the sounds around me and the strong smells wafting in the air. The unmistakable odour of antiseptic makes me think of hospitals and, as I open my eyes, I realise that I’m right on the money. It’s not until I go to sit up that I find my right wrist handcuffed to the side rail. What the fuck? Shaking my arm, trying to rid myself of the restraint, I see I’ve drawn the attention of a gendarme sitting in a chair beside me. It’s impossible to ignore the look of disgust on the officer’s face. Disorientated, hurting and utterly bewildered, I swallow a couple of times, trying to produce enough saliva to speak.
“Hommes comme vous me dégoûter!” the gendarme mutters.
Men like me disgust him? I can make no sense whatsoever of that statement. I shake my head to clear it, but the movement only results in the room swimming around me and shooting pains tearing through my skull. After the pain settles, I ask him what he’s talking about.
“De quoi tu parles? Je ne comprends pas …” I need to know what the hell is going on, but he interrupts me.
“Vous ne comprenez pas?” the gendarme spits out. “Je doute que le fait de cette pauvre femme, non plus.”
What poor woman? What has happened? Feeling that I’ve been dropped into an alternative fucking universe, I want to know more, but before I can question him further the door bursts open, and several men enter in quick succession. The first is easy to identify: my brother, Jasim. The second takes me slightly longer to place, but then I recognise the Paris-based lawyer the family use when necessary. His name escapes me for the moment. The man who follows them introduces himself, in English thank fuck, as the detective inspector in charge of the case. What case? Have I been attacked? And finally, there’s a doctor, apparent by his white coat, who’s having little success in his endeavours to usher everyone else out. While not at all in the mood to feel amused, the thought comes into my head that they resemble actors performing a slapstick comedy. I choke back the inappropriate, and probably hysterical, laugh before it can escape, and relax back on to the pillows. All the activity around me makes my headache worse so I close my eyes. Perhaps soon somebody will say something which will make some sense. Luckily, at the moment, they seem content to talk among themselves, seeking no contribution from myself.
“My client will answer no questions. You have no case against him.”
“No case?” The detective sounds incensed. “Have you seen the state of the woman?”
“She’s withdrawn her complaint.” The lawyer’s voice is calm. “She remembers now. She fell downstairs.”
“And his injury?”
“He tripped while helping her,” the lawyer answers steadily. If I hadn’t got the feeling of dread that they were discussing me, I would applaud.
“I can still press charges. The evidence speaks for itself! And do you know what else we found in that flat? Handcuffs, rope, gags, sex toys, whips! My God, what is this man capable of?”
Those were in Jasim’s room, not mine. I open my eyes and throw a quick glance at my brother, who is looking horrified. He gives a slight shake of his head; I nod, and keep quiet. Anyway, it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Last time I looked, there was one crop there, no whips at all. But the sex toys were quite intriguing.
“Whatever. The woman was not bound or whipped. I don’t think the procureur général will want to waste police time investigating a case with no witnesses. Sheikh Nijad al Kassis has an impeccable reputation.”
“And a bottomless pit of money,” the detective adds.
The lawyer nods, not trying to deny it. “As you say.”
I’ve been growing more and more confused listening to them talking. As the conversation seems to reach an impasse I turn to my brother.
“Jasim.” My voice shakes as I start to speak, not only with weakness resulting from whatever’s happened to me, but I’m very much beginning to dread what I might hear. “What the fuck has happened?”
I see the detective shooting me a look as if he can’t believe I asked the question. But his next words show he knows he has to bow to the inevitable.
“Remove the handcuffs,” he instructs the gendarme, spluttering out the order as he admits defeat. “Mr Kassis.” he looks down to address me directly. I note that he declines to use my title. “I suggest you stay out of Paris, damn it, out of France! Your money might have got you off this time, but you’d better pray to whatever god you have that you don’t cross my path again.” He turns to leave the room, but before he reaches the door, he spins back. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out a photograph and throws it at me. “And you might as well have this,” he snarls as the paper flutters down, landing on my chest. “A memento of Paris.”
Bemused, I pick up the photo, glance at it and shudder, feeling bile rising into my throat. I’m no stranger to violence – I’ve been in combat, seen injuries beyond belief on the battlefield – but to see a woman in this state is almost more than I can take. I don’t understand why I’ve been given the photo of a face so covered in blood that it’s almost impossible to recognise her. As I look closer, though, I know her immediately. It’s Chantelle. Fuck, she’s hurt! Who attacked her? Did the same person attack me? Is that why I’m here? Once more I address Jasim.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The disappointment in his eyes almost undoes me. I watch him take a deep breath, and then exhale as if he’s having difficulty speaking to me. In the end, he chooses not to use words at all. He just pulls a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and holds up the front-page headline so I can read it. I immediately wish I hadn’t. “SAVAGE SHEIKH SAVAGES WOMAN!”
Swallowing a couple of times, I take the paper and try to get my eyes to focus and my brain to comprehend what the hell is going on. I read the text beneath the headline, feeling as if a cold hand is clutching at my heart. I turn my eyes up to my brother’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true, Jas,” I plead. “I couldn’t have done this!”
Jasim shakes his head sadly, his despair plain to see. “It would appear that you could,” he tells me simply. “And that you did. This time, you’ve gone too far, Nijad. You club membership is permanently revoked, and what’s more,” he pauses a moment, running his fingers through his hair before turning his face away from me, “I disown you as my brother.”
I don’t know what shocks me most, the accusation of an inexplicably violent attack on Chantelle or my brother’s rejection of the relationship between us. My head is spinning as I try to take in everything that’s been said over the last few minutes.
The police officers have gone, the lawyer following them. The doctor busies himself checking my vital signs, and then he too leaves. Apart from Jasim, the only person remaining in the room is Jon, standing stoically by the door, his arms folded, his feet apart in typical soldier stance. It’s the look of repugnance on his face that’s the final nail in my coffin. Rapidly, I rack my brain, unable to accept what I appear to have done. Surely I couldn’t have reacted so badly? I remember Chantelle and Henri’s appearance. I remember packing her clothes. I remember I was going to throw her out … But everything after that is a blank. I couldn’t have done it; there must be a way to prove my innocence.
“The security camera …” I start, thinking rapidly. The newspaper report said it had happened in my flat, but Jon’s firm installed the security equipment for me.
Jasim defers to Jon with a nod.
“It was turned off,” Jon replies, his voice terse.
My forehead creases. I realise I hadn’t reset the alarm in my hurry to get my rocks off, and Chantelle must have disabled the security camera while I’d been away. Presumably so there’d be no evidence of her dealer’s visits.
“How the fuck could you think it was me?”
&nbs
p; Jon shrugs. “I was first on the scene. There was no one else there. Chantelle told me, and the police, that you attacked her.” He shifts awkwardly and, at last, looks me in the eye. “Ni, I’ve spent the last two days while you’ve been unconscious trying to find another explanation. Chantelle is adamant it was you who attacked her, and the available evidence backs it up. Blood from your knuckles was on her face, and her blood on your clothes. There’s no doubt.”
A touch on my shoulder brings my attention back to Jasim. “You did this, Nijad. Just like you lost your temper with St John-Davies. You’re out of control.” Sadly he shakes his head. “Fuck knows what’s going to be done with you.”
I stare at him but see only the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. With no alternative, I have to accept what he’s telling me. This time, I’ve gone too far. I’ve hurt a woman. Badly. I hurt Chantelle. Jasim’s right; I’ve no control, I’m no Dominant, and I won’t be able to trust myself ever again. Closing my eyes, I can’t forget the newspaper headline. I’ve earned a new title. I think I would rather be dead.
Chapter 1
Cara
“Hunter! For heaven’s sake, you scared me!” I almost scream at his sudden appearance, jumping so much I only just manage to keep a hold of my jar of instant coffee. “Did you have to creep up on me like that? I thought you were waiting in the sitting room!” My free hand covers my heart to try to still its frantic beating.
“Nervy much?” Hunter gives a short laugh. He’s standing, no, looming, in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his tall frame almost filling the entrance; his muscular arms are folded in front of him, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, looking more attractive than anyone has the right to be. But it’s the expression on his face I don’t appreciate. He regards me with an intensity that seems to see right through me, and I know I’m going to have to play it very carefully when he asks, “What have you been up to, pet? I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Cara.”
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 2