Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  He swallowed, then nodded slowly. He understood her hesitation. She'd had enough horror, why add that violation to the pile? "Eventually you remembered some things. Was that only recently? Before you came to Texas and found me?"

  For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then she lifted her head and faced him. "No." The word was flat. Even. "I worked with Enrique for months after I found myself in that hospital. He took me away to his private facility. And we had long sessions. I--well, it was hard. But he was kind and eventually I started to remember."

  "The attack?"

  She shook her head. "No. Well, not enough. Just what I described to you. And the fear. I remembered the fear." Once again, she looked down at her hands. "And I remembered them killing Diana. They killed her in front of me. Then they--they tossed her out of a van."

  Her voice broke and her body was stiff with an effort at control. Moments passed as she simply breathed. Then she faced him, her chin high. "That's when I remembered you, too."

  He frowned, confused. "When was this?"

  "About a year and a half after I came back to myself."

  "That means . . . wait. You remembered me over seven years ago?"

  Her throat moved as she swallowed. "I didn't tell anyone, not even Enrique. Not for a long time. I was so angry. I blamed you for everything. I remembered losing Diana and I wanted to die. I thought of you, and I wanted you to be the one who died."

  He flinched, the emotion in her words more familiar than he cared to admit. But he forced himself to stay level. He needed information to move forward, because none of them could move back. "And all the years between now and then? Where have you been?"

  "With Enrique," she whispered. "I lived with him. It was a marriage in everything but the law, because in my heart, I knew I was still married to you. He was a father to Ricardo even though you--well, it doesn't matter. Ricardo believes that Enrique was his dad. And--and despite everything, I was happy."

  "And you didn't tell anyone? Not even your mother?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "At first I was too angry. Too lost. I was practically non-functional for years. I wanted to hurt you. And then, when I told Enrique about you and about Diana, he helped me realize that you weren't any more at fault than I was. And by then . . . well, by then I was happy." She pressed her lips together as she looked at him. "I'm sorry, Noah. I'm so sorry."

  Her apology washed over him, and he tried to decide if he was angry or fine or just plain numb. How could he judge her choices after the hell she went through? And at the same time, how could he forgive her for keeping him in hell for all these long years?

  He avoided the question altogether by asking, "What happened to Enrique?"

  "He died six months ago," she said, and for the first time, tears spilled from her eyes. "His family took everything, and because we weren't legally married, neither Ricardo nor I got anything. His will--he was young. He never got around to putting us in his will."

  "And so you came to me . . ."

  "Maybe I don't have any right. It's been so long. But you're still my husband, Noah." Slowly, she reached for his hand. "I'm the mother of your son. And, and I--I'm not angry any longer."

  Noah closed his eyes, fighting back a shudder. Fighting back the memories of a day long ago, when she'd told him she was pregnant.

  Then, as now, he knew what he had to do.

  24

  It's just before two when I reach Noah's motel. It's a long strip of rooms with parking in front of each door and an office at one end. The paint is faded from the sun, and the angles seem slightly off, as if a tornado tried to pull it up, but then changed its mind.

  It's tidy, though, with potted plants and clean signage, and not a scrap of litter in the parking lot. It's almost friendly. Despite its design, it doesn't have a Bates Motel vibe at all.

  I'm hoping that's a good omen. Because I came here searching for a happy ending.

  Unfortunately, my hope fades when my knock at number twelve goes unanswered.

  I try again. "Noah? Noah, it's Kiki. Can we talk?"

  It's futile, of course. I can see that there's no car anywhere near number twelve. Or number eleven or thirteen. None except the rental I grabbed in Oklahoma after my flight landed about an hour ago.

  In other words, he's not here.

  I draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to decide what to do. I can wait. Or I can go to Darla's house.

  I have the address. Bless Ryan and Dallas, they've both been helping me with this secret mission. In fact, Ryan was the one who not only gave me the address of this hotel, but called the office and told them I was supposed to be a registered guest in the room.

  So that's my other option. I can go get my key, then wait in the room.

  But if I do that, then I run the risk that he'll have already talked to Darla.

  Go to her house, though, and I think I'm crossing some invisible line between stating my case and interfering in the part of his life that doesn't belong to me.

  Well, hell.

  Ultimately, I decide to pretend like I'm a grown-up. I get the key, I go inside the room, and then I start to pace a hole in the carpet. Because if I stop moving, my mind's going to spin even more. And I'll worry about what they're saying. And then I'll get in my car and race to her house, and I know I shouldn't do that because--I freeze at the sound of a key in the lock.

  The door opens, he steps in, then stops dead when he sees me. "Kiki?"

  His expression is flat. Unreadable. And my stomach clenches tight with worry.

  "You're an idiot," I blurt, then watch as his eyes go wide and a grin spreads across his face.

  "If you mean because I've spent most of the last decade feeling guilty about something I had no control over, then yeah, you're right. I'm an idiot."

  "Oh." I hesitate. That wasn't the response I was expecting. "Actually, I meant that you're an idiot for not pulling me into your decisions. You tell me you're going to put a ring on my finger, and then you just leave because you think it will be hard for me to handle? Screw that."

  He says nothing, and since I'm on a roll, I continue. "For that matter, I'm an idiot, too. Because I just sat back and let it happen. Well, no more." I take two long steps, then stop right in front of him. "You're mine, dammit. And you are not getting back with Darla. Not without a fight, that's for damn sure. And for that matter, I--what?"

  I step back, my eyes narrowed. "You want to tell me why you're grinning."

  "This is why," he says, then pulls me close, one arm going around my waist as his other slides into my hair. Then he takes me in a kiss so deep and consuming that I feel the force of it burn through me, making my knees go weak and my core wet and slick with need.

  When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm breathless. "Oh," I say. "I should put up a fight more often."

  "Everything you said--every single word--all I can say is yes. I love you, baby. I can't do this without you. I don't want to, and I shouldn't have tried."

  "You're not getting back together with Darla?" I have to lay it out there. I have to make him say the actual words. Because if I'm wrong--if I'm misunderstanding this conversation . . .

  "I'm not with Darla. I'm with you."

  "Oh." My legs are like rubber, and I park myself on the edge of the bed. "Thank God."

  "She wanted me to," he says, and my stomach clenches. "I told her no. I told her my fiancee wouldn't approve."

  "Fiancee," I repeat. I look at my naked left hand. "You sure about that?"

  He takes both my hands in his. "It seems ridiculously fast, but if you think about all the years put together, it's actually ridiculously slow. And I know I said that we weren't ready yet, but I was wrong. I am ready. I realized it the moment I got here and you weren't by my side. Please, Kiki," he says, sliding off the bed and onto one knee. "Will you marry me?"

  I launch myself off the bed and into his arms, then answer him with a bone-melting kiss.

  "Is that a yes?" he
asks when we come up for air.

  "A very enthusiastic one," I confirm. "I love you, Noah Carter. I have for a very, very long time."

  He pulls me close again and considering the heat in his eyes, I have no doubt as to his intentions. And even though I want nothing more than to feel his body pressed against mine, I need to know one more thing.

  Gently, I press my palm against his chest. "What about your son?"

  "He's not my son," Noah says, his brow furrowed. "And I don't think Darla realizes that."

  "Are you sure he's not? How do you know?"

  "He has brown eyes. Mine are green. Hers are blue. There's no way I'm that kid's father."

  My heart wants to leap, but then I realize what that means. "If she got pregnant that close to the kidnapping . . ."

  He nods. "She doesn't remember being raped. And I think she's blocking the realization of what his eye color means. The man she lived with in Mexico was a doctor. A shrink. But, still, he must have known."

  "The man she lived with?" I ask, and he tells me her story. A heartbreaking story of loss and pain and guilt.

  "She adores the kid," Noah says. "Honestly, I like him too. Acknowledging the truth is going to be hard for her."

  "What do you want to do?" I ask.

  "Help her," he says, the words sounding both simple and extraordinary.

  "How?"

  "I have some ideas. Financial. And emotional. She's going to need therapy, I think, when she has to let go of the fantasy that I'm Ricardo's father. I thought you and I could talk about all the options. Figure out together what would be best to do for her. And for Ricardo."

  Tears prick my eyes. Not just because he wants to help Darla, but because he also wants me at his side, helping him work through this. "Of course," I say. "We'll do it together."

  "But not now," he adds with a grin.

  "No?" I smile innocently. "Why not?"

  "There's something else we're going to do now."

  "Oh, is there? Making decisions for me again, Mr. Carter?"

  He flashes a wicked smile. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am."

  "Is that so?" I lift a brow. "Then I guess you need to tell me what to do."

  "Kiss me," he demands, and I don't hesitate. I turn so that I'm facing him directly, then hold onto his shoulders as I kiss him deeply, my mouth open, my tongue tasting all of him, this man who is truly mine now. To tempt and explore. Love and hold.

  His arms go around me, and he pulls me close, then settles me on his lap so that I'm straddling him, my legs on the bed behind him and my crotch pressed hard against him.

  He wrests control from me, deepening the kiss. Claiming me. Marking me.

  It's wild. Raw. An assault on my senses, and I feel it all the way down to my core.

  "I want you," I murmur, squirming to emphasize the point.

  "That's convenient." He gently bites my bottom lip. "Because you have me. Now, and for the rest of our lives."

  And that, I think, sounds just about perfect.

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  "It's mine? Really? You mean it?" Ricardo clutched the acoustic guitar tight and looked up at Noah with a smile so wide it showed off all his teeth. "I get to keep it?"

  "It's yours." Noah laughed as the kid squealed "Yes!" then started to strum the guitar while belting out a chorus of thank you and gracias, slipping seamlessly between his two languages just as he did in regular conversation.

  "Hey, hold on." Noah reached for the boy's shoulder, stopping the insanity. "I'm not the one you have to thank. I only asked your mom what you might like for your birthday. She's the one who said a guitar. I didn't even know you played."

  "I'm gonna be in a band when I grow up," Ricardo announced. "Just like Kiki." He looked around the yard of the small Tulsa rental house. "Where is she? I need to thank her."

  "Come on." Noah nodded toward the front door. "I think she's inside with your mom making sure your abuela likes her new bedroom."

  The boy raced ahead, and Noah followed, moving swiftly through the three-bedroom house, tidy despite the stacks of boxes.

  He found Ricardo in the kitchen, where he was embracing Kiki in a bone-crushing hug, still singing his thank you song.

  "Let up there, kid," he chastised. "That's my fiancee you're accosting."

  "It's the best present ever," he said sincerely.

  "We figured you'd like it," Kiki said, moving to Noah's side and taking his hand.

  "Why don't you go sing something for Grandma," Darla said, returning from the back bedroom. "She's resting, and I'm sure she'd love that."

  Ricardo nodded, then took off down the hall as Darla smiled at the two of them.

  "And now you get my thanks, too," she said.

  "Stop it," Kiki said. "You've thanked us so many times I've lost count."

  "This house. My tuition. A living allowance. The trust for Ricardo. The doctors, too." She blinked back tears, her eyes going to Noah. "It's too much. And more than you had to do."

  He knew what she meant. Ricardo wasn't his son, and they both knew it now. But that didn't mean he was going to back away. Not from her, and not from her son. "We didn't have to do anything," he said gently, squeezing Kiki's hand. Because every dime they'd spent, every decision they'd made, had been done together. "But we wanted to."

  Noah had hired attorneys to bring Darla back from the dead, on paper, at least. Then they'd helped her get enrolled at the University of Tulsa, where she was going to begin in the fall, studying toward a degree in early education.

  As for the rest--the medical bills so that she could see a counselor, the allowance so that she could go to school without having to work, the trust to ensure Ricardo's future, and the rental house while she finished school--all of that seemed like a no-brainer. She and Noah might not be married anymore, but she was still his family.

  As if following his train of thought, Kiki leaned against him. "We're just glad we can help," she told Darla. "We're all family now. We're happy to do it."

  Darla's lips curved up. "Family," she repeated, then reached out to take each of their hands. "It's crazy, but I guess it's true."

  "Mom! Come here," Ricardo called, and Darla rolled her eyes.

  "I've been summoned. Back in a sec."

  "I think crazy's perfectly okay," Kiki said as Darla disappeared down the hall. "I'm crazy about you, after all."

  "Are you?" he asked, as she twisted in his arms.

  "Mmm-hmm." She lifted herself up on her tiptoes. "I'll prove it," she said. And then she closed her mouth over his, capturing him with the kind of kiss that made the world disappear. That made him forget everything except the feel of her in his embrace.

  Most of all, it was a kiss with the power to make him certain that no matter what else happened, he was going to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved.

  For immediate release:

  Hardline Entertainment is pleased to announce that Pink Chameleon, the Grammy Award winning band of such hits as Back to You and Turnstile, will kick off its North American Back to You tour with a fundraising performance at the historic Paramount Theater in Austin, Texas.

  According to lead singer Kiki King and Hardline CEO Matthew Holt, all proceeds from this first stop on the tour will benefit the Stark Children's Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping abused, traumatized, and disenfranchised children.

  Noah Carter, the president of Stark Applied Technology Austin and an SCF Youth Advocate, announced that one hundred children currently enrolled in the SCF program will be provided transportation to and VIP seating at the concert, as well as backstage access.

  Carter and King recently celebrated their one year wedding anniversary. The couple splits their time between Austin, Texas, and Los Angeles, California.

  Don't miss the first tempting book

  in the Stark World series.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Available now from

  Headline Eternal

>   Prologue

  I'd thought he was out of my life forever. That all that remained of him was a memory, sharp and forbidden. Terrifying, yet tempting.

  The one man who changed everything.

  The one night that destroyed my world.

  I told myself I was past it. That I could see him again and not feel that tug. Not remember the hurt or the shame.

  That's what I believed, anyway.

  Honestly, I should have known better . . .

  1

  He was surrounded by naked women, and he was bored out of his mind.

  Wyatt Royce forced himself not to frown as he lowered his camera without taking a single shot. Thoughtfully, he took a step back, his critical eye raking over the four women who stood in front of him in absolutely nothing but their birthday suits.

  Gorgeous women. Confident women. With luscious curves, smooth skin, bright eyes, and the kind of strong, supple muscles that left no doubt that each and every one of them could wrap their legs around a man and hold him tight.

  In other words, each one had an erotic allure. A glow. A certain je ne sais quoi that turned heads and left men hard.

  None of them, however, had it.

  "Wyatt? You ready, man?"

  Jon Paul's voice pulled Wyatt from his frustrated thoughts, and he nodded at his lighting director. "Sorry. Just thinking."

  JP turned his back to the girls before flashing a wolfish grin and lowering his voice. "I'll bet you were."

  Wyatt chuckled. "Down, boy." Wyatt had hired the twenty-three-year-old UCLA photography grad student as a jack-of-all-trades six months ago. But when JP had proved himself to be not only an excellent photographer, but also a prodigy with lighting, the relationship had morphed from boss/assistant to mentor/protege before finally holding steady at friend/colleague.

  JP was damn good at his job, and Wyatt had come to rely on him. But JP's background was in architectural photography. And the fact that the female models he faced every day were not only gorgeous, but often flat-out, one hundred percent, provocatively nude, continued to be both a fascination to JP and, Wyatt suspected, the cause of a daily cold shower. Or three.

  Not that Wyatt could criticize. After all, he was the one who'd manufactured the sensual, erotic world in which both he and JP spent their days. For months, he'd lost himself daily inside this studio, locked in with a series of stunning women, their skin warm beneath his fingers as he gently positioned them for the camera. Women eager to please. To move however he directed. To contort their bodies in enticing, tantalizing poses that were often unnatural and uncomfortable, and for no other reason than that he told them to.