She didn't like him. And yet for some reason she couldn't ever quite put her finger on, she found him vaguely fascinating too. He was like a blade she wanted to test the edge of, just to make sure he really was as lethally sharp as she'd thought. Or a tiger she wanted to poke a stick at to see if he was as dangerous as he seemed.
But those urges had fled now. Because yes, he really was as sharp and as dangerous as he seemed, and if she wasn't careful she was going to get herself either cut or killed and eaten.
"That was a pretty fucking stupid move." His voice was so cold, like the rest of him, yet with an oddly rough, sensual edge that sounded like he'd spent one too many nights drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Except of course she'd never seen him do either. His idea of a fun night out was probably polishing his knives and checking over his guns.
"I had to do something." She sat up slowly, rubbing her trembling hands together, her palms stinging. "Can't blame a girl for trying."
He shifted, the fabric of the overcoat he wore parting and giving her a glimpse of bronze skin.
How odd. What the hell happened to his shirt?
"A girl could get herself killed if she's not careful." He gestured with the gun. "Get up."
"So, no rape then?" She had no idea why she was talking like this. She was clearly being stupid.
Something flickered over his impassive features. Yeah, definitely disgust. "I'm a cold, hard bastard and I'll kill you if you try that little stunt again, but no, I'm not going to rape you. That's not why you're here."
Perhaps it was the ice in his voice that eased the sharpest edges of her fear. Ridiculous when there was a gun pointed right at her and he was threatening to kill her. As if death was better than rape.
Slowly, she got to her feet, her heart thumping around inside her chest like a bird throwing itself against the unyielding glass of a windowpane. "Then why am I here? And what did you mean about Dad being dead? Why would you say that?"
"All in good time, princess. Right now I need you to do something for me."
"Why the fuck would I do anything for you?"
"Because if you don't, I'll put a bullet through you." He reached over to the door frame and hit a button on the control panel next to it. Some lights on the panel flickered. Then he lowered the gun and smiled, a terrifying, cold smile that only seemed to make the black holes that were his eyes even darker. "Now, before we get to anything else, you have to understand that there is no way out of this apartment. You can only open this door with the code and only I have the code. The windows are bulletproof, so there's no way you can smash them. Are we clear?"
The brief thoughts she'd had of somehow rendering him unconscious, grabbing his gun, and smashing her way out of the apartment died stillborn.
Not that she would have gotten far anyway. Apart from those self-defense classes, she had no fighting skills to speak of and she'd never even touched a gun let alone fired one. She'd probably end up shooting herself rather than him. Not to mention the fact that he was a trained bodyguard who probably knew how to kill people with his bare hands.
A bodyguard with an apparently deep bank account.
She didn't take her eyes off him, but she'd caught a glimpse of the apartment as he'd shoved her inside all the same. Lots of exposed brick and wood floors, a high ceiling crossed with heavy, dark beams. A West Village loft this size had to be horrendously expensive, which was surely well above his pay grade. Then again, who knew? Her father was a man of many secrets and maybe he paid Elijah shitloads of cash.
"We're clear." She tightened her jaw against an incipient wave of panic. "Am I going to get any explanations then?"
"Not yet. You're going to do that little task I mentioned first." He inclined his head. "Behind you. Head through the door and into the bathroom."
"Why? What do you want me to do?" She was being an idiot continuing to push him. What the hell was she thinking?
Maybe that you don't have anything to lose?
But no, that was stupid. She had plenty to lose. Her life being the main thing, but also the first lead she'd had on Theo since she'd gotten back to New York two months earlier.
Sixteen years ago her brother had disappeared, ostensibly a suicide into the Hudson, his body never found. A verdict she'd never accepted, no matter what the coroner said.
And then fifteen years later, while she'd been living in Paris, she'd gotten the first sign that maybe she'd been right all this time. That Theo hadn't died. That he was alive. She'd scoured Paris trying to find information-any information-as to his whereabouts, and yet had come up with nothing.
So she'd come back to New York to see if she could turn up anything there. And today, just before she'd gotten on that wretched subway, she'd finally found the lead she was looking for.
The high-security storage facility where Theo had stored some of his belongings before his supposed death had gotten in touch with her, informing her that someone had accessed his storage locker. She'd left instructions and a hefty bribe with them years before, when she'd tried to access it herself and been refused, that should anyone come and try to get in, they were to let her know.
And now they had. And there could be only person who'd accessed it.
Theo himself.
At least that was the only person who'd had authorized access according to them. Only the owner of the locker was allowed in, not even family members.
She didn't know what was in that locker or why he'd taken out storage in such a high-security facility-especially when all the rest of his stuff had been stored elsewhere by their mother-but she was sure only she knew about it. And some instinct had told her not to tell anyone else. So she hadn't.
But someone had accessed that locker, and it had to be Theo. Which meant he was alive and she wasn't going to rest until she'd found him. She just had to get away from Mr. Elijah Hunt first.
"You'll find out," Elijah said. "Come on. I haven't got time to piss around arguing with you."
Swallowing, Violet pushed down the fear and the grief, and turned around.
Ahead of her was a walled-off part of the echoing apartment with a door in the middle of it. The bathroom space clearly.
She walked over to it and pushed the door open. There was a hallway beyond, painted stark white, and then another door.
"Through there," he ordered.
Obediently she went through the second door into a stainless-steel and white-tiled bathroom. A massive freestanding tub faced one of the huge windows, a glass walled shower area that could have fit in a whole baseball team off to the right of it.
There was a vanity unit near the door, as minimalist and bare as the rest of the space, white porcelain and stainless steel, an unframed mirror hanging above it.
Elijah went past her and reached into a cupboard under the unit, bringing out a big white plastic box. Setting it on top of the vanity, he took the top off and began to pull out what looked like some first-aid stuff, all the while keeping the gun trained on her.
Briefly she debated seeing if she could take him by surprise and try to knock him out somehow, then discarded the idea. She'd probably only get herself hurt. If she was going to get out of this, she'd have to think of another way.
"What are you doing?" Her voice echoed weirdly off the hard surfaces in the room.
He didn't reply, shrugging out of the overcoat he still wore.
Violet swallowed again.
She'd been right about the glimpse of bare skin she'd seen earlier. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Or at least the remains of a dark gray business shirt that had been torn up and used as a bandage were still wrapped around one massively muscled left shoulder. Blood streaked the sharply cut and defined lines of his chest and abdomen, staining the waistband of the business trousers that sat low on his lean hips. The blood also partially obscured the tattoo inked into his skin just above his heart. A rose with a thorny stem, red ink drops of blood mingling with his real blood.
It seemed a strange image for a man so cold. Did it mean anything? Was it for anyone?
What the fuck are you thinking about his tattoo for?
He was now unwinding the remains of the shirt from around his shoulder, revealing the source of the blood. Holy shit. He'd been shot.
The cold bite of fear returned as she glanced from the bloody wound to his face, suddenly becoming aware of what she'd only half taken in before. That his face was bruised. He had the beginnings of a black eye and there was a raw gash in his lip, more bruises along his jaw.
He looked like he'd been in one hell of a fight and hadn't come out the winner.
Your father is dead.
Elijah Hunt was his bodyguard.
Oh fuck. What the hell had happened?
He looked up, his black gaze catching hers. "Come here."
"Why?" The fear was rising in her chest, making her feel sick. "What do you want me to do?"