Of course, some might consider killing Grainger a sin as well.
Joel didn’t.
There was murder…and then there was justice. And the world would be a better place without that sick fuck in it anyway.
But still, Joel wondered, once Grainger was dead, would his sins keep him awake, screaming into the night, as the self-hatred took a deep hold on his soul?
Right now, he could ignore the voices of his conscience. Focusing on the goal made it easy to wear blinders.
After though—he didn’t know how he was going to cope after.
When he had started, none of that had mattered. Nothing had mattered except reaching his goal, completing the plan.
Until Tracy.
For twenty years, he had operated in a vacuum, unaware of anything that didn’t pertain to the mission, uncaring of the world around him.
Until he had seen her, seen the fear in her eyes, seen the fragile prize that Vincent Grainger kicked around like a puppy.
One look. That was all it had taken, one look into those large, dove gray eyes, looking so lost, so battered in the delicate features of her face.
One look—and the blinders he’d worn for twenty years were viciously, brutally jerked away, and he found himself wanting something other than vengeance.
Something other than justice.
Right now, she was what kept him awake at night.
Not screaming, but sweating and hard and aching…and furious. The bruises he saw on her silken skin, the ghosts he saw in her eyes, the fear and the way she cringed when Vincent spoke to her in that low, silky, deadly tone.
Joel hoped he wasn’t screwing up the plan, but he couldn’t take seeing one more bruise on Tracy Grainger’s lovely face. Couldn’t take seeing her move carefully, holding herself rigidly so nobody saw the pain each move caused.
Although Grainger was gay, he still fucked his wife. But rumor had it that he could only get it up with a woman when he was violent. And the more violent he got, the more he liked it.
Vincent was big into doing things he liked.
The first time Joel had seen Tracy, she had been slowly sitting up on the floor, tears rolling down her face as she smoothed her robe over her lower body. She hadn’t moved quickly enough to hide the small traces of blood on her thighs, and she hadn’t ducked her head quickly enough for him to miss seeing the busted lip or the bruise spreading across her face like an ugly stain.
That had been the first time Vincent had invited him to his elegant coastal mansion in Maine for a weekend of business and pleasure. Vincent operated mainly out of New York—the mansion was for play, and for the times he wanted more privacy.
Joel had since learned that it was also Tracy’s prison.
There had been plenty of females around, both professional and otherwise, if Joel had wanted to fuck.
But he hadn’t.
Not even when he saw the delicate, battered form of the brutalized woman lying on the ground. What he had wanted was to kill, to maim as Vincent smirked insolently down at her and slowly zipped his pants.
Joel had watched as Vincent licked the blood from his fist, and rage had torn through him—hot, potent rage, unlike anything he’d ever felt.
But then she had glanced at him, not at her husband, but at Joel, with those wide, frightened eyes, and for the first time in years, Joel had felt true guilt.
Because as she sat there, bruised and shaking from her husband’s rape, he had wanted her. Not because of the violence that hung in the air, but because of her. He had looked at her, and had wanted her…and had looked at Grainger and had hated him more than he had ever hated him before.
It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was, and as time passed, that hatred festered and grew until it was like a great, black sickness in his gut.
So had the need. A need to feel that soft, slender body against his, to ease the fear he saw in her eyes, to hold her and promise her that she’d never know another moment’s pain, another moment’s fear.
That had been close to two years ago, and over that time he’d seen repeats, or caught glimpses of her face before she turned away to hide more bruises.
He wasn’t going to see another mark on her. Not ever.
Allowing a slow, sardonic grin to curve up his mouth, Joel said, “Well? What’s your decision?”
* * * * *
Two weeks later
Tracy sensed them approaching and part of her wished she was swimming in the ocean, instead of the warmed indoor pool. In the ocean, in some toxic, polluted lake or the piranha infested Amazon—somewhere that she could just keep swimming, and swimming. Someplace away from Vincent.
At least she didn’t have to worry about him hitting her right now. Vincent had never hit her in front of another person—likely, he wouldn’t start now. He didn’t give a damn if anybody knew he beat her, if anybody knew he raped her, but he did prefer his violence to happen without prying eyes.
But as she approached the shallow end of the pool and started up the steps, a hot flush spread up her face.
It was Joel Lockhart, her husband’s newest partner, or would-be partner. So far, from what she knew, Joel held out, refusing the subtle gifts, and the not so subtle bribes with a disinterest that only strengthened Vincent’s desire to forge a partnership with the man.
Moving out of the pool, she dutifully crossed to Vincent, kissing his cheek and accepting a towel from him. Her robe lay just a few feet away, but she didn’t dare move to get it, not yet.
There was something in the air…something odd, something she didn’t like.
Vincent turned away from her and she breathed a silent sigh of relief—maybe it was nothing.
But then tension crawled up her spine as Vincent faced Joel and said, “I assume you already like what you’ve seen of the package. But let’s let you see the rest of it.”
When Vincent turned around and stared at her, Tracy would have given anything, anything to have just never been born. “Take off your swimsuit, Tracy.”
“What…?” she asked slowly, licking her lips, flicking her eyes nervously from Vincent to Joel. This was some sort of joke. Although she knew of her husband’s personal sexual preference, he always displayed an insane jealousy anytime somebody seemed to notice her as a woman.
And he was telling her to strip? In front of Joel?
Interest from men like Joel always inspired the worst jealousy in Vincent, spurring beatings and bruisings that would have her hobbling around for weeks. Joel was pure male, strong and arrogant, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped with that loose, lazy stride that seemed to proclaim he owned every last inch of the land he walked on, wherever he went.
She’d seen the hot male interest in his eyes on more than one occasion, just like she had seen the anger in his eyes the few times he had seen her with a bruise on her face. But he had never once moved in her direction—and now Vincent wanted her to strip for him?
Vincent narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Fear fluttered in her belly. Slowly, she reached up, peeling one black strap down, then the other, but before she pulled the suit down, she looked back at Vincent, her face hot. “Vincent, what’s going on?” she asked thickly.
“Joel has agreed to become my partner in several future endeavors. In exchange, all he wants is you,” Vincent said, smiling. Smiling, like they were talking about getting a new car or something.
Humiliation bloomed in her. Her skin went hot and tight and nausea roiled in her belly. He had fucking sold her? That was what this was…her, in exchange for the money and power that Joel could bring him.
Tracy shook her head, slowly backing away. “No,” she whispered, almost soundlessly, unaware of how frightened, how tormented her eyes looked.
Vincent moved toward her and she cowered as he raised his fist, but the blow never came.
When Joel spoke, she finally dared to open her eyes and she saw him holding Vincent’s wrist in a grip so tight that Vincent’s fingers were going bloodless. “Mine, Vincent. Remember that, and while she’s mine…there will be no marks on her, no bruises, no rapes.”
Vincent jerked his hand, but Joel never once let go. “I can fuck my wife when I chose—and I don’t remember me not touching her being part of the deal.”
Joel dropped Vincent’s hand, and as he moved a little closer, she saw something in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Hate. He hated Vincent. What game was he playing?
“You want to fuck, go fuck Jamil. Tracy’s clean…now. You both took the blood tests.” At that, Tracy’s face flamed red, remembering when the doctor had woken her out of her sleep thirteen days ago and jabbed a needle in her arm, all without saying a word. And Vincent hadn’t touched her since…how long had they been talking about this? “As long as she’s mine, you won’t touch her. I want to fuck her, not everybody else you’ve fucked.”
“You can’t fucking tell me what to do with my wife!” Vincent shouted.
“I can. You gave her to me. And if you think you can back out…try. I’ll fucking gut you. I get what I want, Vincent. Remember that.”
Vincent’s face flushed an angry red, but then the color drained out of his face as he stared into Joel’s face. He meant it. And he was too fucking afraid of Joel to do what he normally would have done to somebody who threatened him. He’d tried, several times, to kill Joel. And each time, it had cost him men. Lots of men.
Tracy didn’t know what in the hell to think as Vincent gave one terse nod before turning to face her. He couldn’t touch her…but that meant…Oh, God, she prayed. This wasn’t exactly what I meant when I asked for a way out!
But there was no answer, divine or otherwise, just her husband moving up to take her swimsuit and ease it down over the mounds of her breasts. “How…how long?” she asked, her voice a tight, nervous whisper, jerking her eyes to meet the dark blue gaze of the man standing behind her husband.
With his long legs splayed and his arms crossed over his chest, Joel stared at her. Those midnight blue eyes were hungry, hot as blue flame as he watched Vincent strip the black tank suit down her belly, over her hips, and push it down until it fell into a puddle around her ankles.
A harsh sound left him and she stared at him, half terrified, as he seemed to feast on her with his eyes. They almost seemed to gleam with hunger—Joel’s dark eyes rarely showed any emotion—seeing that emotion in them, directed at her, suddenly made her feel weak. “For as long as I want you,” he whispered, moving closer as Vincent backed away. “Damn it, you’re lovely.”
Automatically, she started to bring her hands up to cover herself, but he caught them, holding her wrists gently in his as he sank to his knees in front of her, nuzzling the damp valley between her breasts. Her skin crawled—jerking her gaze up, she realized Vincent was staring at them, his eyes hot with lust, but it was Joel he was focused on.
Not her.
Hell, if Joel saw that look…but all thought fled from her brain as Joel closed his mouth over her nipple and started to suck. Not bite. Not pinch. Just suck, slow lazy motions that had needs she had forgotten she had suddenly springing to life. A soft cry escaped her and her legs wobbled.
As she started to crumple, he stood quickly, catching her against him as he whirled around, bracing his hips against the low stone wall that ran along the edge of the pool.
“Touch him, Tracy. He’s paying handsomely for this—make sure he gets his money’s worth.” She stared at Vincent as he spoke, her face flaming, confusion raging in her. Damn it—what in the hell was this? The heat spilling in her belly was too new, too hot, she couldn’t think…
“I said touch him,” Vincent said quietly. She met his eyes as he purred, “However he wants, wherever he wants. You’ll give him his every desire. Be his pretty little whore, and make sure he gets what he’s paying for.”
She flinched at Vincent’s words, tucking her chin as tears of shame burned her eyes. Joel’s head lowered and he whispered against her ear, “This isn’t about money, Tracy. You’re mine now…”
As he took her hands in his, placing them against his chest, Tracy kept her face lowered. But she couldn’t help but watch. She’d noticed him, noticed him watching her, noticed that strong body under the suits he wore…and for once, a man was touching her without trying to hurt her.
For one panicked moment, the thought circled through her head…I can’t do this!
If she backed away from Joel, her gut told her he would let her go. He didn’t have that sadistic streak in him that would make him want to hurt a woman. She could back away from him and he wouldn’t force himself on her.
But her husband was staring at her, watching them greedily, and he would hurt her. Tracy had learned long ago to adapt to her situation. Otherwise, she’d die.
This was one of those times.
That made it just slightly easier to admit that she was curious about how he felt, what he looked like under those Armani suits.
Hard, strong… Tracy had learned the hard way to fear a man’s strength and some panicked voice inside her whispered, He’s a man…he’ll hurt you sooner or later. Even though every other instinct in her shouted that he wouldn’t hurt her.
Slowly, she loosened his tie and tugged it off, carefully placing it aside before reaching for his shirt. As she unbuttoned it, he shrugged out of his jacket. His movements brought him closer and she gasped as she felt the hard ridge of his cock brush against her naked belly. Even though blood rushed to her face, she never once looked up, just kept unbuttoning his shirt until she could spread it open.
The open shirt framed a hard, muscled wall of skin that gleamed a soft gold, a thin line of dark hair that ran like a silken ribbon between the dark copper of his flat nipples, curling around his navel. His abdomen was hard and lean, and as she stared at him, the muscles in his belly quivered just a little.
Almost as if he liked the way she stared at him.
Tracy found herself wanting to touch him, curious to see if his skin felt as hard and tough as he looked. Before she could lay her hands on him to find out, he shrugged out of his shirt and hauled her against him.
She stiffened at the hard feel of his body against hers, the taut, strong muscles that banded her to him. Her breasts were pressed flat by the wall of his chest. She could feel his heart slamming against her chest and his hands—his hands held her tightly to him, and she could feel the reined power in them.