Bound by Lies: Bound #1 (Adult Romantic Suspence) (14 page)

I keep yelling, “‘Be good, kitten’. ‘Be good, kitten’, say
it!” but he can’t hear me now. Through the glass I see him pause at the suite
door and take one last look at me. Before he disappears.

I find the right thing to pull. My binding comes loose.
Before the tie has a chance to flutter to the floor I kick off my heels and
lunge for the balcony door. I yank my dress down as I bolt through the suite.

I run out the door. I can’t see him in the corridor. The
elevator. I speed down the corridor towards it, smacking my hand against the
down button as I come to a stop. “Come on, come on, hurry up.”

I glance over to the fire escape. Should I run down? Will
the stairs be quicker? Fifteen flights of stairs. Fifteen flights. Which way is
quicker? Which way? Shit.

The ding of an elevator arriving takes me out of my
indecision. I rush into it, hitting the ground floor button several times.
Thank God it’s empty. It seems like it takes forever for this damned elevator
to travel to the ground. I am lucky that no one dares to come on from another
floor.

When the doors fully open to the lobby, I tumble out. I can
see him through the glass entry doors, getting in the driver’s seat of a black
car.
No, stop!
If Caden leaves, I have no way of finding him. I bolt
through the hotel entrance screaming for him to stop. My wrists jar as I slam
open the entry doors, startling the doorman. The black car accelerates away
from me as I tumble onto the asphalt. The sting of the exhaust in my face is
all he leaves behind.

He left.

“Goodbye, kitten.”

No, I can’t believe it. He can’t have gone forever. He’ll be
back. He’ll be back, won’t he?

I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the glass doors. Oh
God. I look crazy. Mascara running tracks down my face, shoeless and screaming
at the tailgate of a black rental car.

“Madam?” The concierge is staring at me with such concern.
“Are you alright?”

“We had a fight. But he’ll be back, right?” I look at his
face and my stomach twists when I see pity in his eyes.

“Of course, he’ll be back. You just had a fight.”

I nod. But I don’t believe him. Lies.

“You should get back to your suite. Have a long, hot soak in
the tub and a good night’s sleep. Let him blow off some steam and you’ll both
feel better in the morning.”

But I can’t even imagine sleeping, let alone sleeping in
that big empty suite that was meant for both of us. He would be inside me right
now if I had just accepted the way things were. And later, I would be sleeping
next to him if I hadn’t opened my big stupid mouth. But instead, I tried to
change us and I tried to change him. I played this game and I lost.

Oh fuck. I lost.

I feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyelids. The
concierge is holding me gently by the arm and is leading me inside. “We’ll just
get you back to your suite.”

No, I don’t want to go back.

But my shoes and my bag are still up there. And I don’t have
a key to get back in. I left without a key. “I forgot my key when I ran out,” I
mumble.

“That’s okay. We can get you in.”

I nod, numbly.

Within minutes we are standing in front of suite #1501 and
the concierge is unlocking the door for me. He turns on the light and lets me
in. After my reassurances that I will be okay, he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind me and I am alone.

The suite looks almost untouched. It doesn’t even look like
a crime was committed here, but one had been. I died here.
I died when you
left me, Caden Thaine.

I can’t stay here.

I pick up my bag from the couch. My shoes. Where did I leave
my shoes? My underwear? Of course, outside. I swallow and force myself to brave
the balcony. A single red silk tie is caught on the railing, fluttering in the
breeze like a flag, marking the spot. The other is nowhere to be seen. I pick
up my left heel closest to the door. I pick up my underwear and tuck it into my
bag. Then I find my right heel. I bend down to pick it up when something small
and black catches my eye.

It’s a matchbook. It’s black with gold lettering that says
Cha Cha’s. It isn’t mine. It can’t have been left here from the previous
guests. The cleaners wouldn’t have let something like this slip their
attention.

It must be Caden’s. Fallen out of his pockets maybe? However
he dropped it, he didn’t realize it was gone when he left. But Caden doesn’t
smoke. Does Harper Lexington smoke? An uneasy feeling begins to settle in my
stomach. I drop my shoes. When I pick up the matchbook, my fingers are shaking.
I open the flap. Inside, all the matches are there, but what has my heart
skipping a beat is the phone number written across the cream inner flap in blue
ink.

Whose number is this?

Another woman?

No, Cade would never cheat on me.

You don’t even have a real relationship. It wouldn’t even
be cheating.

No, he would never. I can see it in his eyes and the way he
touches me and looks at me. He cares about me. Maybe even loves me.

It must be a colleague… Or a new friend? Whoever he or she
is, it doesn’t matter.

I should call it.

No. I can’t. I have already messed things up enough. I can’t
keep prying. I trust Cade. I trust he will contact me again once he has had
some time to cool off. I trust that it doesn’t matter who this number belongs
to and why it is written on a matchbook for a bar. He’ll come back. I know it.
He will.

I close the matchbook and brush the smooth surface with my
thumb. It makes me feel better having it. It is my only tangible link to Caden.
I slip the item into my bag and slip on my heels. I leave the silk tie on the
balcony and I exit the suite without looking back.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.

It has been three weeks and four days since I left that
hotel room and I haven’t heard from Caden. It’s the longest I have gone without
hearing from him. I check my mailbox several times a day just in case. I am
pathetic.

That matchbook has been burning a hole in my nightstand
drawer next to my gun and the stack of all his notes that I keep. Sometimes at
night I take the matchbook out and just hold it because it is one of the few
things that I have of his. Other times, when I am feeling especially sadistic,
I take out the pile of his notes and read each one and remember each time we
met, causing the ache inside my soul to burn. Burn, burn, burn me alive. I’m
not afraid of dying anymore – I am already in Hell.

Since Caden left, the only time I cry is after I come. When
my body shudders with release it is like a dam is broken inside me and the
tears flow. I’ve stopped touching myself when I miss Caden. This constant ache makes
me speedy and jittery like I’m on caffeine, but I am just so sick of crying
that I can no longer handle the repercussions of satisfying the need.

Dixie and the gang at work don’t know anything. I have
gotten so good at hiding all the crap I feel inside. But Mick knows something
is up. I have been training almost every chance I get and I smash myself until
I am numb and I collapse. But Mick doesn’t ask. Sometimes he gives me a small
squeeze on my knee. “I’m fine,” I snap at him. Mick just nods at me. He
understands not to ask. His concern should make me feel better, but I hate it.
I don’t want anyone’s goddamn pity. I don’t want my own goddamn pity. But damn,
do I have it in spades.

Fuck, I’m pathetic.

Earlier tonight I went out looking for a distraction for the
first time in over six months. I slipped on a small red dress and put on one of
my old pairs of heels.

But everything felt wrong. The dress felt borrowed and itchy
and my heels pinched my feet. I made it just inside the door of Bound. My gaze
flicked over to the wall where I first saw Caden. He wasn’t there. I felt sick.
And I had to turn around and go.

Like I said, pathetic.

Right now, I’m lying on my bed, turning the matchbook over
and over in my fingers. I’m glad that I have a shift starting in a few hours as
it’ll give me something to take my mind off Cade. All I am doing is trying to
make it through the times when I have nothing to keep my mind off him. The
times between sleep and work and working out.

I replay the night he left over and over, wondering if I
could have said anything different. Wondering where he is right now. Wondering
if he is hollow like I am without him.

He can’t really be gone. He can’t. We are bound. We are tied
together forever. But the knot in my gut grows tighter with every second that
passes and I don’t receive a note.

I start to flick open and shut the flap of the matchbook.
The phone number winks at me like a blue-inked pupil. I decide I am sick of
doing nothing. I have to call this number. It’s my only link to him. I can’t
just lie around like this. Perhaps whoever’s phone number it is can tell me a
way to reach him.

I don’t have a home phone line, but I have a prepaid cell
phone. But I don’t want to call the number from any number that could be
traceable to me. So I walk a long way to work through an area I never frequent.
The matchbook is searing a hole in my palm as I hold it in my hand inside my
pocket. I have worn my hair tucked into a dark cap and sunglasses just in case.
I am being paranoid. But paranoid has served me well so far.

I find an empty grey phone booth on a busy street. I close
the glass door of the booth and pull out the matchbook. I have stared at this
matchbook for so long that I have memorized the number. But I hold it now
between my fingers just to make sure. I pick up the phone and squeeze it
between my head and my shoulder. The sounds of passing cars outside are muffled
and all I can hear clearly is the click of the buttons as I press them. The
dial tone sounds like a warning toll and my heart starts to speed up.

“Hello, Valentine here?”

My blood freezes. It’s a woman’s voice. A woman. Caden took
a woman’s number that he met in a bar. My stomach twists. A woman named
Valentine.

“Hello? Who’s this?” she repeats. She sounds sexy and busty.
I’ll bet the bitch is blonde. “Hello?” She lets out a sigh. “Whatever, loser.”

And hangs up.

The dull tone of the disconnected line may as well have been
the flat line of my heart.

I have never been to Cha Cha’s. I have never been there, but
I know from my internet search that it is on the other side of town from where
I live and work. In Little Italy. I usually stay clear of this area of the city.
It feels too much like Jacob territory. But this time I am making an exception.

The next day at dusk, I stand on the other side of the
street from Cha Cha’s, the sign is large and red across the entrance. On the
outside, the walls are painted black and the windows tinted heavily so that I
can’t see inside. They can see me, but I can’t see them. This knowledge is the
only thing propelling me away from this sidewalk and towards the plain black
door entrance. At the door, I fidget at my bottom lip with my teeth and pause
for the briefest of moments – will Cade be inside? I’m not sure whether I do or
don’t want him to be there. I push the door open.

Inside I’m forced to take off my sunglasses because of the
dim light. Cha Cha’s is a restaurant of exposed brick, the kind that has a
wrap-around bar in the center and is trimmed with brown leather booths.
Downward-facing lights on the walls spotlight off photos of Italian movie stars
and famous people who have visited.

“Are you here for dinner?” a maître d’ in a black vest and
button-up shirt asks me.

“Just a coffee, thanks. Can I take that corner booth?”

“Of course, madam.” He leads me to a dark booth in the
corner to my right which has a good view of the restaurant. I slide into the
seat facing the room and order a latte. Only then do I look around properly. At
the moment there are few people in here, just an older guy drinking at the bar,
a couple gazing over menus, and a booth full of Asian tourists armed with
cameras. Apart from the maître d’ there is another man serving and a woman
behind the bar.

The woman is blonde. I frown at her. Is she the one who
answered the call before? Is that her number on the matchbook? I stare at her
as discreetly as I can until my latte arrives.

I stir a sugar into it before taking a sip. Only then is my
eye caught by the framed pictures on the wall beside me. The closest is a still
of Sophie Loren, a gorgeous Italian movie star, from a movie titled
Man of
La Mancha
, signed across the empty space in black ink. My eyes glance to
the next photo.

It is of three men, a father and his two sons dressed in
suits and smiling for the camera. They are standing behind the yellow ribbon
that drapes like a winners line across the front of Cha Cha’s, and the father
is holding scissors. This must have been taken when they opened the restaurant.
I stare first at the father. Something about his face looks familiar. Something
about his eyes. A curl of fear starts to lick at my bones. Oh my God.

My gaze flicks to the face of the son to the right of him.
He too looks familiar. My eyes snap to the final face, the son on the left. My
heart stops when I recognize him. It’s a face I haven’t seen for almost three
years with eyes that still haunt me in my dreams.

Jacob Tyrell.

Five years ago

A package arrives at my college dorm from my grandparents. I
make the mistake of admitting to Trisha, my nosy roommate, that it’s my
birthday this weekend. Trisha and I get along well enough, but we’ve only been
living together in our college dorm for seven months or so. I suppose you could
call us friends, but we don’t really hang out in the same circles. Which is why
I’m a little surprised when she insists that we celebrate. She doesn’t let up
until I agree to let her dress me up and take me out. Which is how I end up
here.

“It’s your buuuuuuurthday!” Trisha shrieks in my ear. I nod
and try to hide my grimace. We’re at the bar of some fancy club and she’s just
had her fourth or fifth shot. Her breath now smells like the foul liquid she is
drinking. Oh God, that stuff could strip paint. She points to my near-full
birthday drink she insisted on buying for me. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I am.” I grab the drink. “I’ll be back,” I yell.
“Bathroom.”

She nods, or is she nodding to the music?

On my way to the toilet I slip my unwanted drink onto a
table. I happen to look up and I catch a pair of dark eyes in a booth staring
at me. For a moment I stare back. The owner of the eyes reminds me of a panther.
Sleek and beautiful but with something inherently deadly about him. The man
smirks and raises his glass at me as if he is amused at my behavior. I keep walking.
And forget about him.

On the way back I get lost. Stupid club. Every damn level
looks the same – a mass of wriggling bodies and lights that make everything
look like an Andy Warhol painting on speed. When I finally get back to the spot
near where I had left Trisha she isn’t here. I turn a few times before
realizing how lost and vulnerable it makes me look. I straighten myself up and
walk with purpose to the bar. I lean against the counter as I gather myself,
hoping to look less conspicuous as I glance around.

I can’t see Trisha amongst the faces around the bar nor can
I recognize her amidst the bodies on the dance floor. I turn and scan the
booths that line the edge of this section of the club. They are filled with
beautiful people wearing suits and skimpy dresses. Ice buckets of large
frosted-looking bottles of booze decorate the tables like bouquets. I notice
one of the guys in a booth looking my way. It’s the same guy from before. I
ignore him and keep scanning. But I can’t see her there either.

Damn Trish. I knew coming out with her was a bad idea. I
sigh. Leaning against the bar I wave away one of the bartenders and send Trisha
a text on my phone.

Where r u?

I look around again and thumb through the cash in my purse,
mentally calculating whether it is enough for a cab. I am out of luck. Dammit.
Trish and I were supposed to split the fare, but now that I’ve lost her I don’t
have enough money to get myself back to the dorm alone. And these stupid heels
that Trish made me wear are already killing me. I can’t walk home unless I want
to walk barefoot, risking tetanus, broken glass and needles. Ugh. No thank you.
Besides, I don’t really know where the bloody hell I am.

I run my tongue across my teeth. I look down at my phone
that I am clutching in my hand, mentally urging it to buzz with either a call
or a text. Nope.

I turn around and catch the eye of that same guy again. I
glance away immediately. The last thing I want is to encourage the attention of
some idiot whilst I’m alone. I turn back around to the bar as I mentally try to
sort my way out of this. Perhaps I’m early enough to catch a bus. Maybe I can
get a cab to drop me off as far as my limited cash will go and I can walk the
rest of the way?

Some jerk takes up the space right next to me. He stands too
close even though there is plenty of space along the bar. His presence feels
menacing and he’s at least a foot taller than me. I try not to cower away. Stay
strong. Don’t be intimidated. I can feel his gaze burning into my profile as he
stares at me, but I won’t look at him and give him the satisfaction of knowing
I have noticed him.

The man leans in, his breath smelling sharp from some kind
of liquor. “Excuse me, miss.” His voice is oddly soft. “My boss wants a word
with you.”

His boss? Who the hell talks like that? I turn towards him
so I can retort, but the words die on my lips when I see him. He’s huge with
milk chocolate skin and a thick neck. He has a black patch over one eye and
long dreadlocks that drape over his shoulders to his nipple line.

“Did you hear me, miss? My boss wants a word with you?”

I blink. He is definitely talking to me. I frown. “Your
boss?”

Dreadlocks nods his head in the direction of one of the
booths and I know before I confirm with a look that he is nodding to the man
whom I had caught staring at me.

“Look,” I say slowly. I don’t want to insult someone the
size of a damn tank. “Tell your boss thanks, but I’m not interested.”

Dreadlocks frowns at me. “But the boss wants to speak with
you.”

“Well, it seems we are at an impasse because I don’t want to
speak to him.”

“But…” now Dreadlocks seems a bit flustered, “he’s the
boss.”

I fight the urge to laugh. Seriously? Who does this “boss”
think he is?

“He might be your boss, but he isn’t mine.” I wave my hand
to a group of three women nearby who are giggling and grinding on each other
with their skirts up around their crotches with one eye open for the men who
are watching them. “I’m sure one of those lovely young ladies would be happy to
speak to your boss instead.”

Dreadlocks doesn’t answer. He walks away and I sigh as a
rush of relief floods over me.

My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Trisha.

Gone w hot guy. I mean HOT. Can u find ur own way home?
Thnx!

I blow out a lungful of air through my lips. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Now what?

I feel his presence at my side again. I sigh. Great. Not
only do I have to deal with finding a way home but this numbnut has to be
persistent.

I don’t even bother looking at him when I speak, “Look, just
tell your boss that I’m a raging lesbian if you don’t want to bruise his
precious ego.”

He laughs and it’s deep and rich and thick enough to cut
through the noise around us like freshly brewed coffee. That’s when I realize
it’s not Dreadlocks by my side. Oh shit. I get an odd feeling. I slowly turn my
head to look. Double shit. It’s
the
guy who was staring at me. The boss.
He actually came back himself. I swallow hard.

He isn’t as tall or as wide as Dreadlocks, but he still
looks like he is strong and well-defined under his tailored suit and black
shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal the top of dark chest hair. Up close he
is handsome in a very exotic way, dark hair and even darker eyes framed by
thick, stern eyebrows. He is smacking his teeth with his tongue behind thick
closed lips. His arrogance fills out his muscled shoulders and pushes out at
his pecs, making him seem bigger than he is. I try to ignore the curl of
interest tickling my insides.

“You wanted me to come get you myself. So here I am,” he
says. His voice is rolling and there is a slight accent in there that I can’t
pick up.

“Excuse me?”

“Granted Garfield isn’t the most approachable-looking of
people. But you should be glad I didn’t send Snake. Snake is most definitely
not a people person. If I didn’t like you, I would have sent Snake.”

Snake? Who the fuck names their kid Snake?

I realize a second later that Garfield must be the man with
the dreadlocks who approached me first. “I never told Garfield to have you come
over yourself.”

“You didn’t have to say it for me to know what you want.”

I laugh. Is this guy for real? But he doesn’t seem
perturbed. He whistles at one of the bartenders and it makes me flinch. Who the
hell whistles at the bar staff like they are dogs? But I notice the bartender
ignores the next few people who are waiting in line and rushes over to the Bossman
and me. I frown. Who the hell gets that much priority?

“A bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee and two glasses,” the Bossman
says to the bartender, but he keeps his eyes on me as he says it. His gaze is
probing and uncomfortable and it makes me squirm inside. He has such beautiful
dark eyes. The bartender fusses about behind the bar.

“Please,” I say before I can think about it.

Bossman frowns at me. “Please what?”

“You didn’t say ‘please’.” His frown deepens. “When you
ordered,” I clarify.

He breaks out into laughter and the sound matches him, loud
and thick and confident. An open bottle of champagne stuck in an ice bucket –
silver with a crest on it – and two flutes are deposited in front of us.

He pours two glasses and holds one out to me. I notice that
he hasn’t paid the bartender nor has he said, “Thank you.” I fold my arms to my
chest. “And now you haven’t even said ‘thank you’. I don’t make a habit of
talking to people who have no manners.”

He stares at me for a moment then raises an eyebrow. I don’t
give in. He sighs, puts the two glasses down on the bar and whistles at the
bartender again.

“Can I help you, sir?” The same bartender is back. I can’t
help but notice the beads of sweat on his forehead when he looks at Bossman.

Bossman clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable. “I just
wanted to say thank you. For the champagne.”

The bartender blinks and it’s a war between them as to who
is more uncomfortable. “Oh, er, that’s fine, sir.”

Bossman nods and snaps his attention back to me. His
mesmerizing eyes have hardened again with confidence. He grabs the two glasses
and holds one of them out to me. I take it only because I feel like I should
reward his good behavior. He lifts up his glass in a toast and smiles. I can’t
help but notice how good he looks when he smiles. “Cheers to you, princess. I
can tell already that you are going to keep me on my toes.”

He clinks the glass to mine and knocks back the whole thing.
I take the smallest of sips. I’m not in the habit of accepting alcohol from
strange men. To be fair, I am not really in the habit of accepting anything
from any man. He begins to pour himself another glass. He frowns when he sees
my glass is still full.

“You don’t like it?”

“I, um, no. It’s fine.”

He snorts. “‘It’s fine,’ she says. Krug is one of the most
expensive champagnes in the world and, ‘it’s fine,’ she says.”

I gawk. Who the hell buys a stranger a bottle of expensive
champagne?

“Listen, buddy. Don’t make out like I owe you anything. I
never asked you to buy me champagne. Jesus, I don’t even know who the hell you
are.”

He purses his lips and I can’t help but glance at them when
he does. They look thick and kissable and I wonder if he would be as forceful
with his kiss as his current imposition on my time and space. For a moment I
think he might yell at me. But he doesn’t. The anger dissolves and is replaced
with a soft smile that I’ll bet is the one he uses when he wants to disarm
someone.

“You’re right, princess.” I start to protest his nickname
for me but he silences me by taking the flute out of my right hand and
replacing the flute with his fingers. He brings my hand up close to his mouth.
“I’m doing this all wrong. Forgive me, I’m out of practice. I don’t think I
have ever met any woman who has made me work as hard as you, just to get you to
have a drink with me.” His eyes remain on me as his lips devour my knuckles and
I feel the small touch of his tongue through his parted lips as he tastes my
skin for the first time. I fight the shiver that rushes down my spine.

“I am Jacob Tyrell.”

I try to take my hand from him, but he won’t let me go and
he won’t stop licking the sensitive space between my knuckles. A flicker of
heat sparks in my belly. He really does have beautiful eyes.

“Look, Jacob,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I
can’t let this guy know that he unnerves me. “This is all very nice with the
champagne and everything, but I’m not that kind of girl. And I’m not saying
this just to you, I’d say this to any man who approached me tonight.”

“Maybe I just want to talk to you.”

Now it is my turn to snort. I roll my eyes over his assured
smirk and his open-hipped stance and his shiny designer shoes. “No offense, but
you don’t look like the type of guy who just wants to talk.”

“Maybe I could be different with you. Let me try, princess.”

I shake my head and turn my body away from him. This time he
lets my hand go.

He leans in close. “What if I promised you that I won’t even
try to kiss you tonight? Would you come and sit and talk with me?”

I turn my head and raise my eyebrow at him. “You just want
to talk.”

He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

I laugh a little. “You were never a scout.”

He pouts and pretends to look hurt. “How can you accuse me
of lying to you?”

I pull at one of his fingers and unfold it so that he is now
holding up three. His hands are warm, and touching him creates a little buzz
under my skin. “You need three fingers for the scout’s honor.”

He grins. “Okay, fine, you got me. I was never a scout. But
I promise you that if you give me a little of your time just to talk, I shall
make sure you get home safe, unkissed and with your virtue intact.”

I pause. Did he just offer me a ride? As much as I don’t
think it is smart to let this stranger know where I live, I don’t really have
much of a choice at the moment. Besides, the university campus is huge. I can
make him let me off at the campus gates and he would still not know which dorm building
I live in.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Jacob rewards me with a dazzling smile. “Please.” He holds
out a hand. “Shall we sit in my private booth?”