Kidnapped by the Billionaire(12)

"I wanted you to take me to the hospital," she said after a moment, her  voice all sleepy and thick. "At least, that's what you were supposed to  do."

"You really thought that would work?" Christ, his own voice was sounding  a bit too rough for his liking. "You're lucky you didn't cut a tendon."

"The nail scissors weren't sharp enough." She wrinkled her nose. "But they were all I could find."

"You're a silly little girl." He tried to make it cold. "You don't know what the hell you're doing."

"I didn't need to know. I just wanted to make it bad enough that you'd have to take me to the hospital."

"And you'd escape from there? Was that the idea?"

"Yep." Her mouth curved. "Really screwed that one up, didn't I?" She  sighed, her body all warm and relaxed and heavy on him. "You're hot.  It's nice."

Definitely the drugs.

"You're a fool," he said roughly.

"Yeah, I know. But the pain's gone, it's all good." Violet raised her  uninjured hand and before he realized what she was going to do, she  touched the eagle on his chest, the stupid cliché of a tattoo he'd  gotten in the dark weeks after he'd found out about Marie's death.

He went utterly still, shock ricocheting through him.

Her hands were very gentle, her fingers tracing the lines of the eagle's  wings up to where it disappeared under the dressings of his gunshot  wound, then down to the heart it held in its talons, then the few drops  of blood dripping down his right pec. "This is interesting," she  murmured. "What does it mean?"

And he found he couldn't speak. Because it had been years, nearly an  entire decade, since anyone had touched him like this. So lightly,  gently. Sending shivers of  …  fuck  …  was that heat chasing over his skin?

Every muscle locked, his body going tight.

No. Hell no. Where had this reaction come from? He'd stripped himself of  every physical need, every soft emotion. The only things he had to have  were food and drink and ice-cold anger. That was all that sustained  him, that was all he needed until the day came to claim his revenge.

After that he didn't give a shit what happened to him. He didn't give a shit about anything.

And yet now, suddenly, Violet fucking Fitzgerald was running soft  fingers over his tattoo and although he knew he should brush her hand  away, shove her off his lap, he couldn't seem to move.

"It doesn't mean anything," he heard himself lie. "I got it years ago."         

     



 

"Hmmm." Her fingers smoothed over him. "You've never really liked me, have you? Why not? What did I ever do to you?"

He blinked, the question unexpected and taking him completely off guard. Just like everything else about this situation.

Why was he sitting here, letting her touch him? He should move, he really should.

Yet he didn't. He just sat there, holding her wrapped up in the blanket  as she ran her fingers idly over his chest. Those pretty gilt lashes of  hers had fallen closed and somehow she'd nestled herself even closer to  him. "Answer the question," she said sleepily, dragging her nails  lightly over him.

Sensation caught him by the throat, an electric shock of it. Like her nails had caught an exposed nerve.

He hadn't wanted a woman for years. At first grief had done its work  nicely and he'd had a good two years of not even seeing women as sexual  creatures. But then his libido had started firing up, grief or not, and  he'd had to take himself in hand both literally and figuratively. Even  the shit he'd seen working for Fitzgerald, the trafficking shit he'd had  to involve himself in, hadn't managed to cool his stubborn libido. Not  that he'd availed himself of any of the women on offer. He didn't want  to be with anyone other than Marie. Not ever. All he wanted was to take  his revenge and then let whatever happened to him afterward happen.  Live, die, he didn't much care which.

Over time, he'd gained a reputation for being ice cold, a reputation he  cultivated since it suited him. Plenty of Fitzgerald's associates had  tried to bribe him with women or money or drugs, but none of that ever  worked with him. He'd stripped himself of everything for precisely that  reason. Because if you didn't want something, no one could use it  against you.

That was what Fitzgerald had found so valuable about Elijah. He was  incorruptible. Loyal. And he was ruthless. He'd descended into the pit  with Fitzgerald and made himself into a monster.

He was okay with that.

But what he was not okay with was being touched as if he were  …  some  kind of fucking animal. Petted like a cat or a dog. As if he were  harmless. And there was no way in this fucking world that he was  harmless-there were plenty of people now dead who could attest to that.

Yet still Violet Fitzgerald snuggled herself up against him as if he  were safe, as if she trusted him. Touching him like she had the perfect  right to do so, as if he was hers.

Like Marie did.

His throat had gone dry and that tight, shifting thing in his chest  wouldn't budge; that she was high as a kite on Vicodin made not the  slightest bit of difference.

He found himself looking down at her, studying her face the way he had  the day before, when she was curled up asleep on his bed. She'd made him  feel strange then too, and he hadn't been able to work it out. Because  what was she to him? A stupid little innocent who hadn't even realized a  monster had fathered her. He'd spent years protecting her and that cold  bitch of a mother, and he'd never found her particularly interesting.  Just your typical rich girl, spoiled and entitled and doing her teenage  rebel thing about ten years too late, wafting around and relying on  Daddy's dirty money to do exactly what she pleased.

Yet hadn't he thought only yesterday that probably wasn't her? Certainly  the woman he'd captured hadn't turned into the crying, desperate mess  he'd expected.

She'd been prepared to slit her wrists in order to escape, and he didn't  know whether that made her stupid or whether that made her brave.

The blue sapphire in her nose glittered, the finely drawn lines of her  face relaxed. Her lashes had fanned out across her cheeks and finally  there was a bit of color in them. Her fingers had stopped stroking him,  thank fuck, and now they were just resting there.

She looked like she'd fallen asleep.

And he realized something.

One edge of the blue blanket had fallen away, revealing the pale curve of one breast and the soft shell pink of her nipple.

His breath locked and he stared, transfixed.

He'd seen plenty of naked female breasts in the course of his employ  with Fitzgerald. On strippers and hookers and the poor trafficked women  Fitzgerald used like currency. They had never moved him, never made him  want. Pretty easy when they were attached to women who were desperate  with fear or desperate for drugs, or money, or any one of a thousand  things that Fitzgerald could give them.

But this was different. Violet wasn't desperate or afraid-at least not  right now. She was relaxed and warm in his arms, her fingers lying still  on his skin. And he could feel the heat radiating out from them,  curling through him in a way a woman's touch had never done so before,  not since his wife's death.         

     



 

The curve of her breast was perfect, the pink of her nipple so delicate.

He couldn't look away. And he found himself breathing out, gently, a  soft stream of air over her skin, watching as her nipple hardened in  response.

A surge of intense heat went through him, something rough and primitive grabbing him by the throat.

He shifted his hold on her, the blanket falling away further, revealing  more of her breast. It was beautifully shaped, small and high, her  nipple now flushed a deeper pink.

She sighed, arching a little in his arms, sensual as a cat.

Let her go. Move the fuck away from her.

Yet he couldn't seem to do it. He could feel the softness of her ass and  thighs across his lap, the weight of her pressing down against his  groin. Jesus Christ, he was actually getting hard.

When was the last time he'd gotten a hard-on in response to a woman? Not  since Marie. For the last seven years he'd gotten erections in his  sleep in response to dreams, and that had been fine. His hand had been  the only release he'd needed.

But fuck, this was a flesh-and-blood woman. His little insurance policy.  His bait. Evelyn Fitzgerald's goddamn daughter and he was getting hard  for her, which was wrong on just about every level there was.

Still he didn't move. His hand came up as if of its own accord, his  fingers lightly tracing that tantalizing curve. She felt so fucking  soft, so fucking warm, his heart just about stopped. A line of goose  bumps rose over her skin as she gave another sigh. Lifting her arm, she  put it over her head, half turning on his lap as if seeking the touch of  his hand.

Holy Christ.

Let her the fuck go. This is wrong and you know it.

It was and yet he found himself reaching out to touch her all the same.  How long had it been since he'd felt something this soft? This smooth?  How long had it been since he'd touched something purely because he  liked the sensation against his fingers?