Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  I glance at the gun. “What—what kind of game?”

  “Ever play strip poker?”

  Why am I still here? Because this is your chance to get the information you need to write a Pulitzer-winning story. She died less fearful than you are right now, Kate. Suck it up.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “You can ask me questions. Whatever you want. And I’ll answer them. For every question I answer, you’ll remove an article of clothing.”

  My mouth is dry. I swallow some water while he watches, like I’m an exotic sheep on display at the petting zoo.

  “Start with anything you’d like. Lady’s choice.” I take another sip of water and screw back on the cap, tightening until the plastic cuts into my fingers. “When you’re out of clothes, if you still have questions left, we’ll come up with a different game. That’s up to you. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. The gun is your insurance policy. But I promise you won’t need it. I won’t hurt you—unless that’s what you like.”

  I won’t hurt you—unless that’s what you like. I bat the thought away quickly.

  He wants me to take off my clothes for the story. Those are his terms.

  I bite down on my bottom lip so hard it stings. Once I’m undressed, once I agree to go that far, all bets are off. Why should I believe he’ll stop, if I ask? There have to be some assurances. I lift my chin. “How do I know you won’t force me—you won’t hurt me?”

  “Because I just gave you my word.”

  His word. Is that enough? “And you’ll take off your clothes when I answer a question?” I’m not sure why I ask this, or even whether I want it to happen. My head is spinning, and I’m stalling trying to figure out a strategy where I can win.

  “I don’t barter with my clothes,” he answers plainly, in the strong voice of a man who holds all the cards. Every single one. “I only take them off when I’m good and ready.”

  6

  Kate

  I’m not sure what to do. A part of me wants to demand he take me back to my car, but it’s overshadowed by the part that wants to see this through. I might not have another chance. And I’m pretty confident he won’t hurt me. I don’t know why, exactly, but I am. I can stop at any time. I just need to stay one step ahead of him.

  “Have a seat,” he instructs. “You’ll be more comfortable while we play.”

  I look at him pointedly. “I haven’t decided if I want to play your little game.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “You need humbling.”

  He smirks. “And you’re going to handle that?”

  God, he’s obnoxious.

  I’ve never played strip poker, but I’ve played poker. A lot of poker. The next best thing to a winning hand is a stone-cold bluff. I smile at him with all the bravado I can muster, which is a considerable task because I still don’t have a cogent plan. “I need my notebook.” If I’m going to humiliate myself by giving up my clothes, I don’t want this to be a waste. Right now, I can only remember bits and pieces of what I prepared.

  I retrieve my questions, and sit up tall, clutching the notebook to my chest. You’ve got this, Kate.

  “I’m ready.” I say it with my head high and an abundance of confidence. But it’s a sham. I’m not at all ready. Maybe I’ll ask just a few questions, that way I won’t have to actually give up any of my clothes. It’s not much of an attack plan, but it’s all I’ve got.

  He’s drumming two fingers on his thigh, right above the knee. Otherwise, he seems relaxed. “I’m waiting.”

  I draw a breath and say a small prayer. “Wildflower membership is kept under tight wraps. Give me the name of one prominent member.”

  Sinclair hesitates. Maybe I shouldn’t have started with that question, but there’s no easing in slowly, if I plan on keeping my clothes. I don’t have a single question to waste. “Just so you know, I’m not taking anything off if you tell me Larry Jones, Suzie Smith’s grandfather from down the block. I need the name of a prominent Charlestonian who belongs—and it can’t be one of the Wilders.”

  “One, and only one.” He digs his teeth into his bottom lip and releases it with a snarl. “Jordan Hayward.”

  “The Governor?” I choke out. This little tidbit, in and of itself, is worth all the anxiety I had about playing the game.

  He smiles. It’s not a quick, easy grin, but rather the slow, lazy slide of a satisfied tomcat who’s been on the prowl all night. At first, I think he’s smiling because I’m wide-eyed at his jaw-dropping response. But that’s not the reason.

  “Yes,” he responds without hesitation this time. “And that’s two questions. You owe me two articles of clothing.” Sinclair pauses briefly to enjoy my surprise. “Take them off and bring them to me.”

  I peer at him across the floor, preparing a solid argument, but decide against it. Arguing will make me seem weak and whiny. And there’s no way he’ll give in. I’ll gain nothing. I need to be more careful before opening my mouth.

  My face and neck are burning, the mottled pink skin winking at him, as I slip off my sandals, and cross the room with all the dignity I can garner. I plop the shoes into his waiting hand with more force than necessary.

  He’s still delighting in my mistake, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to grab a sandal and whack him over the head with it.

  When I get back to my seat, I take a quick peek at my notepad until I find the right question, and then I take a couple of minutes to think it through. He’s wily, and will seize upon any advantage. I can’t afford another unforced error.

  “For someone with so many questions, it’s taking you a long time to ask one.” I ignore his snarky remark. I’ll ask when I’m good and ready.

  When I’m fully prepared, I look up and meet his gaze. “For how long has Wildflower been hosting sex parties?” I frame the question as if I have some basis of knowledge. I don’t. There are hushed whispers of hedonistic sex fueled by drugs and alcohol, but I haven’t been able to get anyone to confirm a thing. It’s important information because Warren King might not be a current member, but he was an early investor in the club.

  “Sounds like you’re pretty confident about the parties. Are you sure you want to waste a question on it?”

  Why is he pretending to be helpful after just demanding two pieces of clothing, in what was a total prick move? He’s not. He’s manipulating. I pause for a few seconds, but I can’t come up with a motive. “I’m sure.”

  “Since it opened its doors.” He holds out his hand. I get up and drop my watch into it, while he observes intently, his eyes never straying from me.

  I’m beginning to understand why he arranged the chairs some distance apart. It requires me to get up and go over to him, hand him my discarded things, and walk back in disgrace. I feel the blister of the brand on my back each time I retreat, but I’m getting the answers I need, so I force myself to quietly endure the humiliation.

  Sinclair deposits my watch on the table beside him, using great care not to scratch the crystal.

  I planned to stop the game after a few questions, but he’s talking, so I ask several more, until all I have left to give him is the shirt covering my undergarments, and the undergarments themselves.

  My stomach churns with an array of emotion coated in a viscous bile. But I’ve come this far, and he’s given me useful information. It might be enough to convince Colin to let me stay another week or two, maybe longer. I’m so close.

  I take a deep breath. “What type of illicit drugs are used during the parties?”

  He tips his head, and for a few seconds, I’m sure he’s going to end the game. But he doesn’t. “This is off the record.” It’s not a question, but I nod my acquiescence. He swallows hard. The knot in his throat bobs twice before he speaks. “Drugs are a membership perk. Members pick their poison. To each their own.”

  It’s more than just rumor.

  Sinclair leans back, legs out in front of him, hand outstretched. Waiting.r />
  This is the moment of truth.

  I search his face for mercy, but he’s aloof and callous. There will be no leniency.

  Slowly and carefully, my clumsy fingers untether each button, painfully aware that I’m wearing a turquoise bra from a big box discount store, one that’s old and a little stretched out. My face flushes when I remember the panties I put on after my shower. They were a gift from Fiona when the accusations about me stealing information from the police department first began. They have a smiley emoji on the back, with the words kiss my ass ... Oh God.

  I’m not a woman who has a chest full of sexy underwear from Agent Provocateur. I have two kinds of underwear: clean and dirty. I have no idea why I care about any of this right now, but it’s one of the errant thoughts swimming in my head while I slip the shirt off my shoulders and bring it to Sinclair, imagining his mocking thoughts when he gets a good look at my ridiculous underpants.

  I glance at him. His gaze is all-knowing. It’s as if he’s able to bore into the depths of my soul and read every emotion I’m experiencing, so he can play it expertly.

  He winds his long fingers around mine as I lay my shirt in his open palm. He squeezes, making it impossible for me to pull back my hand. My cheeks blaze as his eyes flicker over my bare skin, scorching the flesh everywhere they touch.

  He’s aroused and making no effort to hide it. I follow the outline of his cock against his leg. It grows longer and thicker from the attention. I avert my eyes, ignoring the ache between my legs, focusing on my racing pulse instead. The beats are coming too fast to count.

  “Look at me,” he demands, squeezing my fingers more tightly.

  Without a second thought, I immediately obey, as though I’ve been a follower all my life.

  There is something ruthless about him as he moves his hand from mine with a slow, deliberate slide. His fingers are nimble and strong, and he wields them masterfully.

  When he’s finished, I lower my gaze and go back to my seat, painfully aware that nearly every inch of flesh, every imperfection on my body, is on display for him.

  Breathe, Kate. Breathe. Think about why you’re doing this.

  I don’t remember meeting my mother, of course. But I’ve spent so much of my life combing through hers, gobbling up every detail from those who knew her, rereading everything she ever wrote until I know it by heart, and I never tire of admiring the photographs of her. I’ve been such a conscientious student that it sometimes feels as though I did know her. I see her face in front of me now. Her young, beautiful face—she never had the opportunity to develop the furrows and lines of a long life.

  “Kate.” I blink a few times. Sinclair’s voice startles me. It’s so out of place in my mother’s story—at least it was until now.

  “Are you done?” he asks.

  It doesn’t matter that I never planned on it getting this far. I’m like an addict, the more he feeds me, the more I need.

  After drawing a breath, I wrap my icy fingers around the seat, and summon some of the grit my Boston neighborhood is famous for. He’s nothing more than a pawn, I tell myself—a means to an end. Besides, he’s a total jerk. So what if he sees me naked? It’s not like I’m planning on having sex with him. I’ll get my story then leave. We’ll never see each other again. Two more questions, and I’ll be done with him forever.

  I repeat this several times while I decide which are the most important of the many questions I have left to ask. I cling to the seat, and choose two that will force the White House to reevaluate King’s nomination. “How often do members participate in ritualized sex?”

  “All the time.”

  The answer comes quickly. Too quickly. I feel the flush crawling, spiky limbs spreading like a cancer over my pale skin.

  Bra or panties? Which do I give up first? If we were having sex, it would be the bra. Second base before third. Or is it first? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. My feverish brain continues sputtering nonsense—the inner babblings of a fool.

  I have misgivings, but I’m not a coward or a cheater. Just pull the bra off quick, like a bandage. Don’t think about it. Then ask the question about sex trafficking, get dressed and get out. My arms reach behind me, but before my fingers get anywhere near the hooks, Sinclair’s voice booms.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he barks, stalking toward me with my clothes in hand. “Put your goddamn clothes back on.”

  It takes me several seconds to wrap my head around what’s happening, and even then, I’m not exactly sure. He drops my things into my lap, towering above me. I feel the anger vibrating from him. Or maybe it’s disgust. I begin to shrink inward, getting smaller and smaller until he finally steps back.

  “Do you think that gun sitting there is going to help you without these?” He takes the bullets out of his pocket and dumps them on the table beside the gun. I see the shells, but they barely register. “And even if the bullets were in it, do you think you would be any match against me? I could wrest that gun from your hand without any effort. But that would have never happened, because I wouldn’t give you the chance to get anywhere near it.”

  My stomach seizes as the realization hits. It’s stark and bitter, and the pain is agonizing. I’m going to vomit. I cover my mouth with my wrist and focus on taking even breaths. “Nothing you told me was true, was it?”

  “Of course not. My job is to protect the privacy of club members and the owners. Did you think I would trade my loyalty to see your tits?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I was so desperate for information, I allowed myself to be played. Of course, they were all lies. A part of me knew it was a real risk all along, but I so wanted it to be different, I refused to consider it seriously. The tears are forming. Tears of anger and humiliation. Tears of a woman who is fresh out of time.

  “The bathroom is the first door on the left. Get dressed.”

  I’m not just shaking inside, my hands are trembling, too. I hug my clothes to my chest, wrapping my arms across my body, gripping the clammy skin tightly to stop the shaking.

  “I should call your cop brother and have him come get you and take you home to your father. But I won’t, because they have enough on their plates without worrying about a little girl who is stupid enough to get herself caught in this kind of trap. I could have easily raped and killed you, disposed of your body in such a way that no one would ever discover it.” He pounds his fist on the table, rattling my watch and jewelry. “And you knew that, but you decided chasing the story was more important than living to write it.”

  Call my cop brother. It’s déjà vu. It can’t be happening again. It’s not possible.

  I’m embarrassed, but I’m also so angry now, I can hardly see straight. “For your information, I assessed the risk. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Bullshit. You were pale and scared. Fidgeting and yapping nonstop in the car on the way over here. You had no way of knowing what I would do.”

  I march right up to him. He’s taller than me, but I stand on tiptoe and do my best to get in his face. “I’m an adult. Stop lecturing me like I’m an irresponsible teenager. I have a right to take my clothes off for whomever I want to take them off for. My brothers and my father don’t get to make those decisions for me. I gave you a lot of slack today because I needed the story. But I was just a problem to be disposed of—like stinky trash.”

  I’m shaking uncontrollably. Tears that I have no intention of letting fall are threatening, but I will have my say. This bastard is going to hear everything. “Did it ever once occur to you, just once, that I’m a human being? That I’m only trying to do my job? No, of course not, because you’re a first-class jerk—no, you’re a complete asshole without a drop of honor or decency to your name. I’m sure you and your friends the Wilders will have a good laugh about this.”

  Without a single thought, I pull off my panties and fling them in his face. “Here’s a little souvenir for you. Something to remind you of how despicably you treated me.”

/>   7

  Smith

  Somehow, I find the decency not to check out her ass while she stomps off. After she slams the bathroom door, I pick up her panties off the floor and stuff them into her bag.

  I can be a dick. But I’m normally not a hothead, and I rarely let anyone get that far under my skin. When I act like an asshole, it’s usually calculated to make someone nervous, but inside I’m fully in control. Although, lately I’ve been flying off the handle left and right, and none of it’s been an act.

  Then today, when that woman showed up—that kid—with her damn smiley face underpants, and behaved in ways that put her safety at risk, I wanted to toss her over my lap and slap some sense into that tight round ass—while I fingered her. Fuck.

  As I’m putting the chairs back, my phone vibrates with a text, but I don’t bother to look. It’s probably Gray wondering where the hell I am. Our plan was to meet at JD’s place after I took care of Kate McKenna. I took care of her all right. Used a damn nuclear bomb when a small hand grenade would have done the job.

  If some asshole pulled the shit on one of my sisters that I just pulled on her, I’d fillet them like a tuna and throw their guts overboard for the smaller fish to feed on.

  She got the brunt of my pent-up frustration. Sure, she’s a pain in the ass, but she didn’t deserve to be humiliated to that extreme. I’m better than that.

  The bathroom door creaks, and Kate comes into the living room, messy red hair spilling over her shoulders. One look at her swollen washed-out eyes and I feel like a total shit.

  When she arrived at Tallulah’s, her eyes were a vivid green with deep copper specks at the center, alive with expression—they hid nothing. But right now, they’re so lifeless, I can’t read them. Anger? Disappointment? Sadness? Disgust? Part of me wants her to feel all those things, and pull her tail between her legs and scoot back to DC, or Boston, or wherever she came from, and leave the Wilders the hell alone. Leave me the hell alone. Another part … I don’t let myself think about what that part wants, because that part is always looking for trouble, and I refuse to let it rule my life.