Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  “He wanted me to be his wife and, when I said no, he tried to force himself on me. He thought if he got me pregnant, I would have no choice. He already had one of my friends killed because he thought he was my lover. As loyal as Papa was to Mikhail Orlov, he loved me more. He also knew Yuri was unstable. It pained him to start gathering evidence against the Bratva, but it was the only way he could get us out.”

  “The cleaner of the mob is one of its most trusted members,” Grant murmured. “I can see why Orlov wants his pound of flesh.”

  “That’s where Liam Watts, formerly known as DEA Agent Lucas Myers, comes in, right?” Jake asked, opening the folder he had with him. Grant walked over to his desk and picked up a similar binder.

  She nodded. “Liam Watts was supposed to be Papa’s alias. When I killed Yuri …” Blaire’s face turned red, her eyes filled with tears. “Yuri broke into my apartment in Miami. There was a struggle but I managed to stab him in the ribs. His death wasn’t quick, but the wound was fatal. I called Papa. I didn’t know then that he was working with the DEA. He arrived with one of Orlov’s henchman and I thought …” Blaire inhaled on a sob. “I thought he chose the Orlov Bratva. My hurt was so deep, I couldn’t cry—I didn’t even say good-bye to him—I just looked at the ground and accepted my fate that I was going to die by Orlov’s hand.” Tears were streaming down Blaire’s cheeks.

  “Do you want to do this some other time, Angel?” Grant asked.

  She shook her head and expelled a ragged breath. “I was in shock. I had just killed a man and my father gave me up to the ROC. It wasn’t until I noticed we were driving out of Miami that I wondered what was going on. Was the Bratva’s soldier going to kill me and dump my body somewhere?”

  “It was Liam, wasn’t it?” Jake interjected.

  “Yes,” Blaire confirmed. “He’d been undercover with the Orlov Bratva for three years at that point. His expertise lies in determining who can be turned. It didn’t take him long to work on Papa, what with Yuri’s interest in me.”

  “Why do you still have all the evidence?” Grant asked.

  “Killing Yuri messed up the DEA’s plans. There was no evidence that could be used to prosecute Mikhail Orlov, only his inner circle … especially his assassins. Liam’s boss reneged on his deal with Papa. Liam got pissed. A few days later, his boss and Liam’s entire team were found dead.”

  “I heard about that,” Grant said. The news was about three years ago. DEA agents were found in a shallow grave in Ciudad Juarez.

  “I can shed light on that,” Jake interjected. He handed Blaire a file. “Appendix B. Liam’s team had been working in Mexico at that time. It appeared the ROC made a deal with the cartel to have them assassinated in exchange for more business. How about your father, Blaire? Are you certain he’s dead? There was no record of his body.”

  Grant wanted to smack Jake for his insensitivity. His head of security was nothing but thorough and speculations were just that until physical evidence was presented.

  “I think she’s answered enough,” he growled.

  “No, it’s okay,” Blaire whispered. Her eyes turned glassy again. She had just stopped crying, dammit. Grant glared at his security guy who flinched. “You have to understand, Jake, we’re talking about Florida. The swamps were used to get rid of bodies.”

  At that moment, Grant would take pleasure in dropping his head of security in a goddamn swamp.

  “Did you ever help your father clean up—”

  “That’s enough,” Grant barked.

  “Mr. Thorne—”

  “I won’t have her incriminating herself without a lawyer,” he cut Jake off. “There are certainly more details to be sifted through, but let’s focus on the issue at hand—the ROC has put a hit on Blaire and Liam because they don’t want the contents of the flash drive revealed and Orlov wants revenge for his son. That’s all they’re after, right, Blaire? Did you or Liam take anything else from them?”

  There was hesitancy on Blaire’s face before she shook her head.

  Alarm ghosted over his instincts, but he ignored it for now, not wanting to upset the tenuous bond they were trying to re-forge. He turned to Jake. “Find out about the ROC, what their weaknesses are, who their business associates are. I’ve got billions at my disposal—use it.”

  “I want to point something out,” Blaire spoke up. “We’re not simply talking bodyguards here, Grant. They were able to trace your phone last night.”

  “I figured that,” Grant said, motioning to Tyler. “We’re upgrading our phone’s security with the highest encrypted channels.”

  “You’ll also have to review cyber security at your company.” Blaire chewed her bottom lip. “ROC is dealing with drugs, game fixing, and prostitution, but they’re increasingly employing hackers to hold company data hostage. They’re only going after small businesses for now, for protection money, a way to fund some of the gangs who are also their distributors.” Blaire shook her head from side to side as if weary and defeated. “The more I think about it, the more I wished I was back in my cabin in Colorado.”

  Grant glanced at her sharply. “Don’t turn chicken shit on me now, baby.”

  For some reason, his woman smiled at his provocation.

  “Mr. Thorne, as much as we want to keep everything under wraps, Ms. Callahan’s past with the ROC may, in some way, affect security for the senator. We need to alert his men about what’s going on.”

  “I know, Donovan,” Grant looked at Blaire and held out his hand. “Come here, Angel.”

  When her hand curled into his, he gave it a tug to bring her close. “Should I call you Paulina?”

  She grinned. “No, I’m used to Blaire. Liam and I agreed to use our new identities. The process the DEA used was similar to witness protection.”

  Grant pressed a kiss against her temple. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.”

  “I trust you,” she said, smiling up at him.

  A twinge of unease pricked his chest. On this, he would agree with Donovan—he couldn’t procrastinate in informing his father about Blaire’s association to the Russian mafia. It would be selfish and dangerous should he delay.

  It could be deadly.

  15

  Blaire

  The air between Grant and me sizzled when our security team left us alone. The events of the previous night, and the relief that we came out of that alive, temporarily put our other issues on hold. But judging from the working muscle in Grant’s jaw, and the awareness needling my skin, my reprieve was over.

  I gave him a tentative smile, but his hewn expression was unflinching as he fixed his gaze on me.

  “Had you always planned on leaving me?” Grant asked.

  The truth was going to hurt, but lies would come out eventually. “I conditioned myself that we were temporary.” My voice faltered when Grant’s face morphed from stony to furious. He clenched his fists and I imagined them around my neck.

  “Was any of this real?” he asked, his tone guttural. I stepped toward him but he backed away with distrust in his eyes. “Tell me, Blaire. Is this”—he pointed between us—“even real then?”

  “What do you think, Grant?” I whispered. His lips twisted into a sneer but I soldiered on. “The plan was to live in the moment, to be happy with whatever time we had, but then I started falling for you and I found myself aching for a future.”

  Surprise lifted the fury from his face to a certain degree. In its stead was wary hope. “Are you saying you feel something for me?”

  “I fought hard against it,” I admitted. “Each day I was plagued by regret. I’d feel the high of being with you and then I’d feel despair knowing that any moment it could be ripped away.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t have to be if you had just told me the truth!”

  “Would you have stuck it out with me?”

  “I guess we won’t know now, will we?” he replied disparagingly. “You never gave me that chance. You were prepared to think the worse of me �
� that I’d get tired of you. I’ve shown you for months how much you meant to me. And what did you do? You left me!”

  “I cared for you enough to leave you.”

  “You’re saying you left me because you cared for me? That’s fucking bullshit.”

  “Is it? Look at all the security changes you have to make because of me.”

  “Let’s back up a bit,” Grant said, the tension in him easing slightly. “I’m not without fault. I should’ve anticipated the abrupt changes in my dad’s campaign schedule, but you shut me out for weeks after that political dinner.”

  “You shut me out too. After you nearly attacked Claude—”

  “Do not mention his fucking name—”

  “I bet you had a file on him even before you showed up at the art studio and claimed me like some freaking caveman.”

  The barest flicker in his eyes told me my statement was true.

  I puffed a short laugh and shook my head in disbelief. “You did.”

  “The only man you should be staring at naked is me,” he replied, all surly and grumbly and completely unrepentant.

  “I’m an artist!”

  “We’re getting off topic but, before we leave this subject, it’s not gonna happen again. Got me?”

  “Grant!”

  “Now, in regards to me shutting down, it’s because I say shit when I’m angry but I did not shut you out to break up with you. And after everything we’d been through, I didn’t expect you to put me in cold storage for weeks.”

  “After our pictures appeared in the tabloids I knew our time together was over,” I explained. “Liam got delayed in getting me out. The longer I stayed, the harder it got to pretend that everything was okay, so I avoided you.”

  “You stopped having sex with me and that drove me crazy. We quit talking. You locked yourself up in the art studio,” Grant said. “I thought all you needed was space after the political dinner spooked you.”

  “That wasn’t anybody’s fault.” Not even Gus, who was only doing his job. And yet there were no words to describe the heartache I felt that day when I made the decision to extricate myself from his life.

  “A takeover bid took away my focus, but I thought I had time,” he muttered. “I thought if I took you back to Colorado, we could recapture our connection that we’d somehow lost these past two months.” His tone took on an edge of frustration. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to leave before.”

  “We thought you would lose interest and be the one to break up with me.”

  “I should be mad at you,” Grant said quietly, taking one step forward. “I felt you holding back, you know. At first, I tried to convince myself that you needed time, but weeks turned into months …” he broke off, gave one shake of his head and looked at the floor.

  “You were losing patience,” I concluded.

  “Yes. And in all that time I gave you reasons to stay, you were planning to leave me,” he glared at me. “I should be mad at you,” he reiterated. He leaned in, yanked me into his arms, and pinned me to the hard length of him. “I don’t know what I feel about you right now. One minute I’m pissed, the next minute I’m hopeful, and then in another minute, I want to fuck some sense into you.” His hands dug into my ass and I yelped. “I’m going with wanting to fuck you.”

  He backed me into the dining room and laid me on the table. He divested me of my pajama bottoms, leaving my panties on, and dragged my butt to the edge of the table. He kissed me, his tongue driving in to tangle with my own. I pushed his chest at the same time wrenched my mouth from him. “Grant, we need to talk.”

  “No, I need to fuck you,” he growled. “I can’t think clearly when my cock is begging to get inside you.” Two fingers slipped past my panties and penetrated my pussy. I gasped at the sudden intrusion, yet I felt myself gush all over him. “Fuck,” he hissed. He continued to pump inside me, angling his knuckles as he spread me wide, his mouth hovered against mine with just enough space between our faces to pant against each other. My eyes grew heavy-lidded and I saw his smile of triumph before he devoured my lips again. His kiss was hungry, desperate, his chest rumbled as he moved to the side, our mouths still locked. I nearly protested until I heard my panties rip as he tore them off my legs. He broke our kiss then and sank to his knees. My thighs were shoved apart and a flat hot tongue stroked up my slit. He lapped at my entrance, spearing in, tasting more. Greedy, sucking mouthfuls sent me soaring into my orgasm.

  His fingers took over and I heard his voice. “I’ll take your body now, Blaire, but I’ll be taking your mind, your fucking heart. All of you,” he growled as he sucked hard on my clit. I hadn’t fully come down from my crazy release when he hauled me off the table and my back slammed against the wall. My legs came around him, but he was pushing up inside me even before I could register that he had released his cock. His up-thrust was harsh, almost vicious.

  “Grant …” My head shook from side to side as I was still throbbing. I didn’t think I could take his pounding and breathe.

  “No mercy, Angel, I’m gonna fuck you until you feel me for days,” he snarled, driving so deep I felt him bottom out inside me. “Look at me!” he demanded and my eyes popped open to his heated ones. “You will never leave me.” Thrust. “Even if you do, you’ll remember my cock inside you like this.” Thrust. Thrust. “Marking you, stretching you …”

  “Yes … yes …” I moaned, feeling another wave building.

  “You’re mine,” he declared raggedly and his voice broke off as he swore, canting his hips to hit me just where I ached the most.

  He came on a roar as I blissfully quaked and moaned in the aftershocks. We collapsed in the middle of the living room on the plush area rug with his cock still inside me. He kept us connected, letting his cum seep into me. We were both sweaty, exhausted, and sated.

  Our bond was damaged these past two months, but our physical attraction smoldered just as strongly. Whether our passion was hot enough to reforge the frayed strands of our connection remained to be seen, but Grant was right. Knowing we still burned for each other had left me with a clearer head.

  16

  Blaire

  Grant’s parents had a house on the Back Bay area of Boston. A historic townhouse that was recently renovated with an elevator that serviced all six levels, it still maintained the stately charm of a Victorian brownstone. Sensible shoes for the cobblestone sidewalks were a must. The first time I had dinner at Senator and Mrs. Thorne’s house, I wanted to make a good impression and wore three-inch heels with my dress. Grant didn’t think to inform me that I was navigating a bumpy path. He also thought parking for an easier exit was ideal and chose not to park at the three available spaces behind the house, because it meant two extra right turns and needing to get around the block to get back on the main road.

  Men.

  So, on top of the anxiety of meeting his parents for the first time, I had to worry whether I was going to break a heel or my ankle before introductions were made. Grant, to his benefit, was perceptive enough to hold me up while I teetered over the uneven surface.

  He kept mumbling apologies and, from the set of his jaw, he was kicking himself for his lack of foresight when it came to women’s footwear. I must also stress that living in the mountains for so long, I’d lost practice strutting in heels, so it wasn’t entirely his fault. But Grant was a quick study and for successive dinners at his parents’, he reminded me about shoes, which really wasn’t necessary since I’d learned my lesson the first time. He’d also started parking behind the townhouse.

  That night I wore loafers, light wool slacks, and a flowy blouse with ruffles at the neckline and sleeves. There was a chill in the September breeze, hinting of the end of summer, so I wrapped a shawl around me.

  Grant opened the door and held out his hand to assist me out. “You look beautiful.”

  “So you told me earlier,” I grinned.

  “Never get tired of telling you, Angel.”

  Le Sigh.

  I should
really bask in this perfect moment. Grant shut the door behind me and gathered me close, giving me a kiss. “No matter what happens tonight, know I’m on your side, okay?”

  I nodded.

  I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I would be. I think I was feeling relieved that I could finally let go of my secrets and my life could move forward.

  Far from an intimate family gathering, it appeared to be a dinner party of about twenty people. Grant swore under his breath as he tightened his hold around me.

  People gasped when they saw Grant. His right eye was still slightly swollen and the bruises had grown noticeably darker. Marcus Thorne’s eyes narrowed when he saw his son and stalked toward the foyer to greet us.

  “Now what did you do to my son, Blaire?” the senator teased. The amusement in his tone belied the grim look in his eyes.

  He couldn’t know how close to the truth he was. My expression must have mirrored the guilt I was feeling and effectively wiped any trace of humor—contrived or not—from the senator’s face.

  “Well, damn, I was just joking, sweetheart,” the senator said. I wished I was a better actress but I wasn’t.

  “Blaire saw me soon after it happened,” Grant explained. He left it hanging there because any other excuse would become a lie later.

  “Sorry, I overreacted.” I forced a smile.

  “At least you got the bastards.” An unusual savagery crossed the senator’s features.

  “We’ll talk later, Dad.”

  The senator gave a quick nod, slung an arm around his son, and led us further into the house.

  Senator Thorne mixed a most yummy cocktail. I sipped a red-orange drink of Drambuie with a hint of Campari and lime. As with all the times I’d had dinner here, the Thornes were hands-on hosts. The senator mixed some of the drinks himself and Mrs. Thorne was all Southern hospitality in the way she minded the kitchen and made her guests feel at home.