by Jaycee Clark
Christian pulled away from Brayden and hurried to the car. Tori slid in after her. Through the dark glass, she saw Brayden standing on the steps, still looking around, his gaze predatory. She could see the determined set of his jaw from here.
"What’s wrong with Daddy? He looks mad," Tori said from her seat along the windows.
"I’m sure it’s nothing," she answered.
Richard guided Estella down the steps. It was choreographed perfectly. A slight jostle, and Estella stumbled right against Brayden.
Christian’s breath caught, as Brayden mumbled something and turned his back on the pair, still searching. They stepped away, but Richard turned back and glared at Brayden.
Finally, Brayden ran a hand through his hair, hurried down the steps without a word to either Richard or Estella as he brushed past them. The driver opened the door for him and he slid in. When the doors closed and the car pulled away from the curb, she sighed and leaned back against the seat, snuggled up next to Brayden.
Too close. Too damn close. God, she felt sick.
Tori’s chattering voice saved her from an inquisition but she knew it wouldn’t last. Forcing a smile, she listened and tried to concentrate on what the girl was saying.
"My favorite part is the Russian dance," Tori said.
Brayden listened with half an ear to his exuberant daughter.
The ride to their hotel was quiet, save for the slush of tires over the wet asphalt.
Brayden watched Christian while she got Tori ready for bed. She was wound tight as a violin string.
Something had happened and he wanted to know what. He was rather impressed with himself for not demanding to know right away, but demands didn’t really work with Christian. Well, not most of the time anyway.
Whatever it was had happened during intermission. She’d been fine when she’d left the auditorium, but pale and jumpy, too composed when she’d returned. And she’d used her inhaler.
He fixed them a drink and set them on the coffee table, before striding to his daughter’s room.
Goodnight kisses and hugs all around. He flicked the light off and led Christian out of the room and to the couch.
Without a word, he sat. And waited.
Her fingers drummed on her thigh.
"Thank you for tonight. I had a great--"
He stopped her words when he put his finger against her lips, turning her to face him. "Tell me."
The shadows of fear slithered in the smoky depths of her eyes.
She opened her mouth, shut it and shrugged. "It was nothing. Nothing."
"Let me be the judge of that." Gently, he caressed her cheek, her jaw, all the while watching her eyes.
"I just-I just thought I saw someone I knew." She shrugged again.
He nodded once. "And did you?"
Her eyes darted down. "I-I don’t know. I lost them in the crowd."
He thought about her words, wondering what part of it was a lie, what part was the truth. "Hmmm."
She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
He tried a different approach. He leaned forward and kissed her.
"Tell me," he pressed, whispering against her lips.
She grabbed his head between her hands, spearing her fingers along his scalp.
He tried to stay detached; he wanted answers.
The kiss was ravenous, her tongue dueling with his, parries and forays.
Brayden leaned over, laid her back on the couch, tried to remember where they were and that his bedroom was across the way.
Instead, he kept kissing her, letting her have the lead for the time being. Soon they were both panting.
He stood and pulled her to her feet.
Without a word, he led her to his bedroom. They couldn’t continue on the couch, Tori might wake up.
At the bedside he stopped. And looked at her. She looked to him then the bed.
Again, she grabbed him close to her, pulled him back with her toward the bed and whispered, "Make love to me Brayden."
Make me forget ... make me remember ... might as well have been shouted.
There was a desperation in her, one he wanted to question. But her hands and tongue left little room in his mind for thought. Most of his blood had already rushed to lower regions anyway.
"Let me get some blankets," he told her, trying to unwind her arms.
She shook her head, tightening her hold on. "Banish him. I want the bed. I want you. I just want us."
But the darkness shifting in her eyes, her unspoken cry for help, pulled at him as nothing else did. If this is what she wanted, he would give it to her--for now. Because now he knew what she’d lied about. She knew the person she’d seen. There was no doubt in his mind the bastard had been in the same place they had, in the same room they had.
Rage warred with the passion rushing through his veins. He’d banish the sonofabitch from their lives if it was the last thing he did.
But for now, Christian needed love, not anger. With his mouth and hands, with his words, he gave her what she needed.
She jerked him down onto the bed, sat astride him. "I want you."
Apparently the buttons were too much to mess with, she ripped his shirt apart. Brayden reached up and cupped her face, his other hand bunching the material on her waist, the velvet crushing in his fist.
"It’s okay," he told her, his voice tight. "I love you."
She paused, her hands on his chest. He felt them tremble. Looking into her eyes, he quickly undressed her, as she undressed him.
Brayden sat, propped against the headboard on a mound of pillows.
She left on her heels and stockings. A fire burned in her eyes as she climbed back on the bed.
Brayden’s gut tightened.
She crawled to him, her features set.
"Christian," he said, reaching for her.
She shook her head, her hands, running up both his legs. With a cocky gleam, she leaned down and flicked her tongue over the edge of his erection.
All thought and breath stopped.
He could only watch as she circled him with her tongue again, then closed those kissable lips over his shaft.
Brayden closed his eyes, his chest tightening as her mouth loved him and her hands fondled him. When he could take no more, he grabbed her and pulled her up.
Her hot silver eyes locked with his, and she straddled him. Those black heels making her legs seem even longer, the hose whispering against his thighs and hips as she settled on him.
Brayden tried to keep things gentle, but she wasn’t letting him. She wanted more, had to have more.
He leaned back, fisted his hands in her hair. "I want to go slowly, easily."
"I want it now, not long and drawn out. Now, Brayden."
What the woman wanted...
He kissed her, ravaged her mouth, scraped his teeth down her neck as she tossed her head back.
He ran his hand down the long line of her body, jerked her forwards and kissed her breasts until she moaned, spearing his fingers down between them, working her until she shattered so quickly he couldn’t stop. With deft, determined strokes, he built her back up again, biting down when she reached between them and slid down on him.
Their lovemaking was fast and furious as if through intensity they could drive the darkness away. Or shove it away. She rode him hard until he could see nothing but the hot gray of her eyes.
They both broke, panting and sweating.
Her grin made him wonder if perhaps she could outlast him, not that he even had the breath to ask.
She fell forwards onto him and he wrapped his arms around her, felt the thundering pound of her heart against his.
When he could move, he reached down and pulled her shoes off, rolled those stockings off and covered them both.
Christian fell asleep minutes later. Brayden held her to him and stared at the ceiling. Banish him, she’d begged. Well she was relaxed and asleep now, so either he did his job, or she did it for him. He wasn’t certain and quite frankly didn’t re
ally care for the way things just ... just ... tore out of his control.
He wanted to know exactly what happened tonight. Thought she saw someone.... Yeah, he’d bet she did.
Wealthy? Probably as tonight was one of the more expensive performances. And the man enjoyed the arts. As to whether he was young or old, Brayden had no clue. And if she’d been running and running, chances were she’d run as far and fast as she could. Oregon. That was his guess.
Slipping quietly from the bed, he went to the living room, booted up his laptop and sent an email off to Rob Roy.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The opera poured out of her, straining, straining to hold that last note.
She didn’t want to disappoint him. Never disappoint him. It was worse when he was disappointed.
The stage lights glared, bright and hot. Christian could see nothing other than the empty silent stage.
But she could hear voices.
"Josephine.... Josephine...."
She whirled around, the beautiful ice blue gown swishing around her legs.
"My Angel... Come to me. Come, sing. You are mine, you can’t sing for anyone else. Mine."
Where was he? She heard Richard, but his voice moved around her, above her as if he never stayed stilled. It lingered and stretched so that one whisper ran into the next. The scent of those sweet cigars he smoked swirled with the tangy smell of brandy, a heady fragrance that churned her stomach.
Chills skittered up her back.
"Christian?"
Brayden.
She sighed and turned again, but their voices mixed, rose together.
"Help me, Brayden. Please, help me!" she cried.
"You won’t let me," he said.
Richard’s smooth, throaty laugh danced around her. "Oh what a tangled web we weave.... She’s mine.
Mine. Mine."
"Help me, please."
"You have to let go first," Brayden’s voice told her just as he stepped up beside her.
Richard appeared on the other side, holding ropes and a gag. A camera hung from his neck, and that look glinted in his eyes. "Mine," he whispered.
Warm tears trailed down her face.
Brayden held a hand out to her. "Take my hand, Christian. Open up and talk to me, and I can help you."
She was looking from one to the other, one to the other.
Brayden’s eyes pulled her to him, drew her attention from all else.
"Let it go," he coaxed.
"Mine," Richard’s voice whispered behind her.
She didn’t turn around, her attention solely focused on Brayden.
"Christian, don’t let him win. Take a stand and fight!" Brayden told her.
For a moment, she stood undecided, then reached for Brayden’s hand, their fingers inches apart.
"Funerals are pesky things to plan, aren’t they, Josephine," Richard murmured.
Funerals. Oh God.
She jerked, clasped her hand to her chest.
"Christian?" Brayden asked.
She took a step back.
"I can’t. I’m sorry, I love you too much. I can’t!" She backed away again, another step then another.
All she saw was the disappointment and hurt in Brayden’s eyes.
"I’m sorry," she whispered.
His hand was still outstretched. "Christian, don’t!"
One more step behind. An arm snaked around her, and Richard whispered in her ear. "See, you always come back to me. You will always be mine."
A rope pulled tight around her neck, tighter and tighter.
"Nooooooooo!" she screamed, and realized her mistake too late.
Hands held her.
"No, no, no," she fought them off, tried to pull away.
"Christian! Christian! Wake up, damn it!"
Brayden’s voice finally filtered through the haze of terror, jerking her back to reality--back to their dimly lit room.
"Brayden?"
"Yeah, baby, it’s me."
She threw her arms around him and held on for dear life.
God, it was so real. So real. She still felt the rope around her neck, cutting off her air.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer to him. The hair from his chest tickled her chin.
"It’s okay. You’re okay, you’re safe." His voice was warm against her temple. He lay back down and pulled her with him.
She was tucked up against him, her ear directly over his heart. Hers felt as if it would burst from her chest.
"I’m sorry," she said. "I’m sorry."
"For what?"
"I reached for you. I should have just grabbed hold of you and never let go. Too late," she muttered against him, wiping her wet cheek against the muscles of his chest. "I’m sorry."
He propped up on his elbow, and she turned into him. His finger was gentle yet firm beneath her jaw as he turned her to face him.
"Christian, it was dream. A bad dream," he said, brushing a kiss on her forehead.
She could only shake her head. She remembered it, and though she wasn’t one to put stock in dreams, or omens, or whatever, there was no denying the meaning of the nightmare.
A choice loomed before her, no smaller now than it had been moments ago in her dream, no less nerve racking now than it had been at any time for the last few months or even years, for that matter.
She could see Brayden above her, his black hair, the lighter contrast of his face. It was dark save for the faint predawn light slanting through the shutters, giving the room a dark blue glow.
His stubble scraped against her palm as she cupped his cheek. "When did you know?" she asked.
She felt him pull back a bit.
"Know what?"
"That I wasn’t just Tori’s nanny, or the Kinncaids’ surrogate sister."
"Heard that term did you?"
He settled back down beside her, but she rolled to her side. Brayden spooned her, his heat surrounding her. She waited, then waited some more.
Finally, he said, "It was one summer afternoon. That summer before everything blew apart in Colorado with Aiden and Jesslyn. Actually, it was only a couple of days before that. Mom and Dad had already flown out there." He draped his arm around her and pulled her even tighter against him, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. "Anyway, Tori was playing in the pool with Abby, that little redheaded girl that used to live down the lane. The sun was glaring off the papers I was looking over, and I looked up and there you were." His voice softened at the end. "You were holding a tray of lemonade and cookies, and you set it by the side of the pool for the girls. You had on a siren red bikini and some sort of wrap-skirt thing." A chuckle whispered against her ear, blowing against her hair. "And suddenly there you were looking like a woman straight off the pages of some men’s magazine."
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and smiled. "I was always there."
"Not like that," he said, his voice deep and gruff.
Feeling daring, she asked, "And what would you have done if the girls hadn’t been there?"
Again a murmured laugh. "I have no idea. It’s a good thing they were. I might have hit on you."
Brayden’s lips were soft on her cheek, his stubble scraping her face. "Then again, I probably wouldn’t have. I was too shocked at my own reaction. Thank God, I had those papers."
Christian smiled. "I first saw you, really you, when Tori was four and had pneumonia. Remember?"
He grunted.
"Anyway, I was so worried and scared, and you’d already left for London. That night, her door opened and there you were. Changed your plans and flew back. You sat beside her bed and told me to go get some rest." She would never forget that.
Brayden hummed. She knew he wondered what she was getting to.
Biting the bullet she went on. "I was so scared of you, of all of you when I first moved here," she whispered.
He tensed behind her, but didn’t move.
Her heart pounded in her chest, he had to feel it. It felt like a bird, s
lamming against glass, demanding to be free. Tears stung the backs of her eyes.
"You weren’t scared of Mom," he whispered.
She could only shake her head. On a sigh, she said, "No. Not really. Your mom is too nice." Time for it all to come out. To let it go. "But all the rest of you.... You were such big men."
Big men.
Brayden closed his eyes, his gut tightening at what he suspected. He didn’t know what had happened that Christian was suddenly opening up to him, and he was afraid to even move for fear of her shutting down again.
"Do you know, to this day, I still don’t know how I got to your house?" she asked, her voice so soft, he had to strain to hear her. "And then, when I woke up, there was your mom and dad and I was too scared to say anything."
"I remember," he whispered. He also remembered how he thought his parents were crazy for taking in a runaway when he’d just brought his baby home and had sold his apartment and moved back home with them.
They’d known nothing about her. She was just this silent waif of a girl with large terrified eyes. It had been the eyes that had swayed him, that and once when he was down in the gym and thought Tori was asleep, Christian had ventured down to tell him that his baby was crying and she was afraid to pick her up.
From then on things changed, at least with them. And after a time, the fear left her eyes, and after more time, she’d finally lost the haunted look and became part of the family.
"I’d learned the hard way, what men could do."
Her words slapped him back.
"Though as a child I didn’t know. I had a wonderful father. Sometimes Jock reminds me of Papa, and you boys remind me of my older brother."
Brayden wanted to ask her what happened to them, but he didn’t. She was so still, so tightly wound, it seemed she might shatter at the least provocation.
"Josh, my brother, and I are about twelve years apart. He’s from Papa’s first marriage."
Brayden reached around and laced his fingers through hers, wincing at the grip she had on his hand.
"I should have told him, but I was too scared to, too afraid of what could happen, and too ashamed,"
she whispered.
Silence fell, settling thick and heavy with each passing moment.