Kidnapped by the Billionaire

by Jackie Ashenden

  Your father. The monster.

  Violet pushed the snide voice in her head away. Yes, her father had been a monster, but shit, did that make every lesson he’d ever taught her a lie? And what else was she supposed to do? Sit there helplessly and wait for rescue?

  No freaking way.

  Ostentatiously she hiked up the blanket, taking a silent breath as Elijah lifted his gaze back to hers. There were flames in his eyes and they burned.

  Her heart beat faster and she became very, very aware of her nakedness, her skin going all tight and sensitive beneath the blanket.

  This is not a good idea.

  She ignored that thought too. “Or”—her voice sounded a little husky, which didn’t hurt—“I guess the alternative being I could just walk around naked.”

  The rough lines of his face hardened, the scar twisting his mouth whitening. The bruises he’d been sporting the previous day had deepened, and now he didn’t look just dangerous. He looked lethal. Not an elegant blade but a club. Heavy and brutal, ready to smash anything he didn’t like right out of existence.

  He moved in that sudden way he had, the way that took her by surprise since a man that big shouldn’t be able to move that quickly, coming toward her, inexorable as the tide. And a wild kind of panic wrapped long fingers around her throat, her earlier confidence crumbling utterly.

  But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her fear, so she remained where she was, clutching her pathetic blanket around her as he came right up to the couch and stood in front of her, bending down and putting his hands on the couch back, one on either side of her head.

  There was nothing hot about him now as he leaned over her. He was black ice. “You think you can play me, princess?” he demanded, his voice a low, rough growl. “You think I’m going to follow you around like a puppy dog with my tongue hanging out? I’m not one of those little rich boys you can manipulate and toy with just by flashing your tits.”

  Oh no, she’d never make that mistake. She had an idea about what he was, about what kind of man she was dealing with. But she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, no matter what he threatened her with.

  So she didn’t look away, letting him see her own determination as he bent over her. “You didn’t seem to mind those tits yesterday, as I recall. In fact, you seemed to quite like them.” And he had. Right up until the moment he’d suddenly pushed her off him as though she’d burned him, oh yes, not forgetting that. “In fact”—she lifted her chin—“maybe you even took advantage of them later? After I passed out?”

  Something changed in his eyes, she didn’t know quite what, but suddenly the space between them was full of pressure, like a storm front approaching. A dark, leashed violence that made her breathing shorten and her heart race wildly. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

  This man was a force of nature and a deep, secret part of her wanted to throw herself into the hurricane.

  * * *

  Little bitch. There she sat, all naked and wrapped only in a blanket. With her goddamn dreadlocks and vivid eyes, thinking she could manipulate him with a glimpse of her body. Thinking she could use sex to play with him. Thinking he was weak enough to fall for it.

  Well, aren’t you? You were last night.

  The thought made him even more furious with her than he was already. And he was pretty fucking furious.

  The cold shower he’d had last night had dealt with the hard-on in his jeans, but it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference to the hunger that burned in his blood. He’d had to work himself into exhaustion with the punching bag for hours to stop himself from going over to where she lay on the couch and doing exactly what she’d just accused him of.

  Then he’d stormed off to the bedroom to try and get some sleep, but the feel of her skin was on his fingertips and he couldn’t get the sound of her sighs out of his head. And it wasn’t until he’d taken himself in hand that he’d been able to get a bit of relief.

  Even so, he hadn’t slept much after that. He could usually operate as normal on little or no sleep, but this morning he’d felt like shit. And when he’d stalked out of the bedroom and into the living room, there she’d been on the couch, still asleep. The blanket had slipped down revealing one smooth shoulder and the curve of her breast, and he’d felt the fucking hunger pour through him like a tide.

  It was like she’d flipped a switch on inside him and he had no idea how to turn it off.

  But one thing was for sure. For seven years he’d kept himself cold and focused and set on his goal. He wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted from it by one little rich girl now, no matter how goddamn sexy she was.

  “Listen to me,” he murmured, staring down at her. “I could care less about your fucking tits. Yesterday was an aberration and it won’t happen again, no matter how often you keep flashing them around.”

  She’d pressed herself back into the couch, a flicker of what looked like fear crossing her face, and that was good. That was how it should be. He needed her afraid and obedient because he was getting pretty damn sick of her fighting him all the time.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do,” he went on, not waiting for a response. “I have a few things I have to do this morning and because of your little performance yesterday, I can’t leave you alone. Now, I don’t give a shit about whether you wear your filthy, wet clothes or whether you go naked, but unfortunately either of those options will draw attention. And I can’t have attention. So we’re going to have to get you something else to wear.”

  Her jaw had gone tight, and behind the fear in her eyes, a spark of determination glowed. “Fine,” she said. “Then we’ll go out. God knows, I could use some fresh air.”

  Jesus, even now, the damn woman was refusing to be cowed.

  It only added to his fury, though he wasn’t even sure why. She was so pretty and delicate, like a china figurine he could crush with one hand. Covered in only a blanket while he was fully clothed. She was vulnerable. She should be trembling with fear. Yet she wasn’t.

  Why the hell did some part of him, something deep in the recesses of his black heart, like that?

  In fact it only made the hunger in him worse. Made him want to rip aside the blanket that covered her so he could see all of her. He was pretty certain she didn’t dye her blonde hair, but he very much wanted to see if he was right.

  You shouldn’t have gotten close to her.

  Yeah, that had been a mistake. But backing away now would be to admit that this damn hunger was stronger than he was, and there was fuck-all chance of him doing that.

  Driven by some need he didn’t really understand, perhaps only the need to test himself, he lifted one hand and took one of her dreadlocks between his fingers. It was much softer than he’d expected, like raw silk. With a certain amount of deliberation, he began to wind it around his hand, staring down at her all the while.

  She’d gone completely still, her eyes widening slightly. Watching him like a deer watches a lion stalking toward it. “What are you doing?”

  You bastard. What would Marie think of you now?

  Marie wouldn’t have thought of anything. Marie was dead.

  “Like I said, I don’t want attention. Which means these”—he tugged on the dreadlocks wrapped around his hand—“are going to have to go.”

  Violet blinked. “What do you mean these will have to go?”

  He stared back, unyielding. “I mean you’re going to have to cut them off.”

  “Are you kidding me?” A green spark of anger flared in her eyes.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Everyone knows what you look like, princess. Especially with those fucking things on your head.”

  “So I’ll wear a hat!”

  “No.” He couldn’t leave her here by herself, yet having her with him while those very noticeable and distinctive dreadlocks were on her head was absolutely not happening. “I’m not leaving anything to chance this time.”

  Fury burned in Violet’s gaze.
“You asshole. It took me years to grow—”

  “You only grew them to annoy your goddamn mother so don’t start pretending they’re holy fucking relics.” Slowly he unwound the dread from his hand, ignoring the strange reluctance that went through him as he did so. “You have two choices, princess. Either you cut them yourself or I cut them off for you.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be carried home in a bucket. “You’re a prick.”

  “So I’ve heard.” He made himself push away from her, and it absolutely wasn’t to do with the fact that if he spent another moment bent over her, feeling her warmth and breathing in the very faint scent of sandalwood, he’d rip that blanket away and—

  What? Put your hands on her? Fuck her?

  Hell no. He wasn’t going to end seven years of celibacy with Violet Fitzgerald. He wasn’t going to end it at all—at least not until he’d avenged Marie’s death. And that wasn’t going to happen until Jericho and maybe his whole fucking operation was burned to the ground.

  But he wouldn’t think beyond that now. Because thinking beyond that opened the door to needs and desires and expectations. And those would kill his determination to do what he had to do stone dead.

  Violet sat up, glaring at him. “You can’t make me do it.”

  “You think?”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, and if you were going to put me down in that basement, I would be there right now.” Her chin lifted. “So really, what else have you got left to threaten me with?”

  Of course. This was Violet. And she never did what she was told.

  Reaching down, Elijah took out the knife he kept in his boot and held it loosely in one hand. “Sounds to me like you want me to give you a haircut.”

  Her face went pale, but he suspected that was from rage not fear. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You’re seriously asking me that question?” He lifted the knife, letting the light glitter along its razor-sharp edge. “I wouldn’t advise struggling against a man armed with a blade.”

  Abruptly she pushed herself to her feet. She was inches away from him, the blanket held firmly under her arms, her shoulders bare, golden dreadlocks falling down in a shower around her head. Her eyes were bright with anger, vivid against her pale skin. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said, like she knew it for fact. “You just told me you weren’t interested in doing so. Plus you stitched me up last night and cooked me food.”

  “Don’t mistake that for anything but what it is. I want you in one piece for Jericho, that’s all.” He flipped the knife in his hand, an easy demonstration of skill that he hoped would make her think twice about any more arguments. “Last chance, princess. Are you cutting your hair or am I going to have to tie you up and cut it myself?”

  Something in her gaze flared. “I hate you.”

  “Hate all you want.” He stepped closer to her. “I don’t give a shit.” And it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t give a shit. The only thing he cared about was taking down the man who had killed Marie. And Violet was the means to that end. That was all.

  Yet the fury in her eyes didn’t let up and she didn’t look away as he reached out for her dreads for the second time, almost as if she was trying to stare him down.

  Well, she could try. But if she thought his conscience was going to kick in, she was shit out of luck. He didn’t have a conscience. He couldn’t afford one.

  Taking a bunch of dreadlocks in his fist, Elijah pulled them tight. Her hair must have grown some because there were at least a couple of inches growing out from her scalp. She wouldn’t be completely bald at least.

  Weren’t you supposed to not care about that?

  Violet had gone completely still, her posture rigid. She didn’t struggle. She only kept staring at him as if she could burn a hole right through his forehead.

  Ignoring her, he raised the knife and sliced through the gilt strands. The blade was sharp, cutting effortlessly, barely tugging on her scalp at all.

  She didn’t protest or try to pull away. She only stood there with her arms folded, the expression on her face one of complete and utter fury.

  But he didn’t stop. He continued to reach for those long silver-gold tails, cutting them off one by one, until he was standing in a circle of raw, golden silk with Violet in the center.

  As he’d cut, the glow of fury in her eyes had grown brighter and brighter, so that by now she was virtually incandescent with rage.

  With only three inches of hair on her head, she should have looked smaller and more vulnerable but for some reason she didn’t. Her eyes were electric, her features seeming stronger and more clearly defined, no longer overpowered by the wealth of hair. There was a proud slant to her jaw, an elegance to the shape of her head and neck.

  Christ. She wasn’t merely pretty any longer. She was stunning.

  Elijah let the last lock of hair fall to the floor, unable to drag his gaze from her face. Because for all that burning fury in her eyes, she was also trembling.

  Something in his chest locked, which was goddamn stupid since he hadn’t hurt her, merely cut off her fucking hair. Yet the sight of her trembling made that strange, tight feeling get even tighter.

  Then she blinked hard, a small tear escaping to slide down the curve of one pale cheek.

  And he couldn’t help himself. His hand lifted as if of its own volition to cup that proud jaw of hers, his thumb sweeping across her soft skin to brush away the moisture.

  She shivered.

  Then she went for the knife.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was his hand against her skin that did it, the touch gentle yet searing her like a streak of fire. And it broke the strange, furious paralysis that had gripped her. The one that had her wanting to scream and struggle against what he was doing and yet stand very, very still.

  Because there was another feeling that had her in its claws. As if with each cut of the knife, a small part of her was being cut away. A part she didn’t want and didn’t need. Sloughed away like dead skin from a scar.

  She didn’t know where the feeling had come from or why, but it held her motionless. Torn between the part of her that raged against what he was doing and the still, quiet part that wanted to know why she felt different as each lock of hair fell to the floor. Why she felt she was changing with each pass of the knife.

  So that at last she stood there, her head feeling so light she thought it might float away, and as the last lock fell, his eyes went wide, something unreadable flickering in the lightless depths.

  A surge of emotion went through her, rage and fear and loss all combining together into one overwhelming wave, making her have to clench her jaw hard and blink to stop stupid tears from falling. But one escaped anyway. Which was when he’d touched her, warm fingers sliding over her jaw, his thumb moving over her cheek.

  She moved before he could, reaching for the knife held loosely in his other hand. Not to attack him, since even in the grip of this weird emotional storm she knew she couldn’t win against him. But maybe just because she could, because it gave her some power.

  He didn’t move as she snatched it from him, his fingers falling away from her jaw, that strange expression flickering across his face.

  The hilt felt warm against her palm and she held onto it tightly, her breathing coming fast and hard. Her scalp prickled as the air moved over it, no longer protected by the heavy weight of her hair, and she was suddenly conscious all over again that not only was she completely naked except for the blanket, she’d also been completely shorn.

  You’ve got nothing to hide behind now.

  She remained motionless as the realization struck her, a great wave of fear making her feel so vulnerable and exposed, she wanted to run away and hide.

  Turning abruptly, one hand clutching her blanket while the other clutched the knife, she went quickly toward the hallway, moving in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  She didn’t stop and she didn’t turn around. “I
want to see what you’ve done to my head, you bastard.” Well, that too, but mainly all she wanted was to get away from those sharp black eyes and the terrible vulnerable feeling that had gripped her.

  In the bathroom, she cautiously approached the mirror, dreading what she’d see.

  Then she stopped. And stared.

  The young woman in the mirror stared back, spikes of blonde hair sticking up all over her head, making her look a little like an outraged dandelion. Her eyes were very blue and the shape of her face seemed … different. Sharper. More angular.

  Violet swallowed, unable to drag her gaze away.

  She’d had her dreads for nearly five years and Elijah hadn’t been wrong—she’d had them put in to annoy her mother. Hilary had been trying for years to turn her daughter into what Violet could only assume was a younger version of herself. A perfect Upper East Side society wife-in-training. And Violet had just gotten sick of it.

  Her mother had refused to speak to her for days afterward and Violet had told herself that was exactly what she’d wanted, thrilled she’d gotten some kind of reaction out of ice-cold Hilary.

  But over the years, her hair had started to become something more than merely a subtle dig. It had started to become part of her persona, part of a mask she hadn’t even realized she’d been wearing.

  Until Elijah had ripped it away.

  She tilted her head, not looking at her butchered locks, but at her face. Yes, she looked even more naked without her hair. Yes, she looked vulnerable. But also … there was a strength to her features she’d never seen before.

  Who was this woman? This woman who’d been kidnapped and shot at. Who’d sat in that bath and sliced her wrists. Who’d had her hair cut off with a knife.

  She was different. Stronger. A woman who didn’t need to hide.

  What was she hiding from in the first place?

  Interesting thought, because Violet herself had no idea.

  A movement caught her eye and the sound of boots scuffing on the tiles of the bathroom.

  She didn’t turn because of course it was Elijah. She could see him rest an arm against the door frame and lean on it, his attention on her.