Kidnapped by the Billionaire (17 page)

He couldn't take it. Tugging up her panties and pants, he smoothed them into place then pulled down her silky green top, covering up all that painfully bared skin.

He couldn't understand why this mattered to him. Why the sight of her shattered like that made him feel weak. It disturbed him on a deep level he wasn't aware he still felt these days. Because surely he'd smashed that part of himself into oblivion? Apparently not.

She didn't move as he touched her, standing there as if she needed the wall for support. And then as he stepped back, she swayed and he realized that shit, she
did
need that fucking wall.

He caught her before she slid down the rough brick and into a heap at his feet, his arm around her waist, drawing her into his body. She was so warm, and her feminine scent hit him again like a rock to the back of the head.

Jesus fucking Christ, he had to get himself together.

And then she turned her head into his chest, as if she was seeking comfort and reassurance.

This time it didn't feel like a rock to his head but a knife between his ribs.

What a fucking joke. Doesn't she know what you are? What a monster you've turned yourself into?

He wanted to push her away, finish the lesson he'd been trying to teach her, but for some reason he just couldn't bring himself to do so. And then he caught a glimpse of blood on her cheek, a scrape from where he'd shoved her against the wall. The tightness in his chest clenched even harder and he found himself wanting to touch that scrape, wipe the blood away.

“We have to go.” He forced the words out, rough and sharp as broken glass, keeping his hand exactly where it was.

She was leaning against him, her eyes shut. “Gimme a minute.” Her voice didn't sound any better than his.

But he didn't want to wait another minute, not with her standing close to him. Not with her scent everywhere and her heat right up against him. So he moved, bending to scoop her up into his arms, then turning and striding forward to the alleyway entrance.

She weighed almost nothing, so slight and insubstantial.

“Don't.” She made a cursory protest, wriggling and pushing at his chest. But he ignored her, holding her tighter as he stepped onto the sidewalk, continuing on to the apartment just up ahead.

There was no one around, and the few people that were didn't even turn to look at them.

One good thing about New York. Nothing much drew people's attention.

Violet had stopped protesting, lying still in his arms as he got to his building and stepped inside. She had her face turned away and her eyes were resolutely shut. She kept them that way as he took her upstairs and into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

And only once it was closed did she twist out of his arms. He let her go, not knowing what the hell else to do. His wound ached, probably due to that sprint after her and yet, despite that, his cock was semi-hard because apparently once wasn't nearly enough.

No fucking way. Not again. He wouldn't lose it like that a second time. He'd be goddamn ice.

Violet didn't turn to look at him, starting in the direction of the hallway.

No wonder. She probably wanted to wash him off her.

Let's not forget the fact you had unprotected sex too.

Fuck. This wasn't getting any better, was it?

“I'm clean,” he said, his voice harsh in the silence of the apartment.

She stopped, but didn't turn around. “What?”

“I said I'm clean. We had unprotected sex, Violet.”

“Oh. That.” She sounded curiously blank. “Well, I'm clean too.”

Her acceptance and complete lack of inflection made him angry for some obscure reason. “If you want proof though, you're shit out of luck.”

She was silent a moment. Then she turned, her face white, the blood on her cheek like a desecration. “I don't want proof. But if you need it from me, you should know that I haven't had sex before. So you got lucky. You screwed a virgin.”

It shouldn't have made any difference. It should have meant nothing.

But it didn't.

Elijah's hands curled into fists, an intense, hot feeling beating behind his ribs. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from her. Just for a bit. Just to calm himself the fuck down and figure out what the hell he was doing with his goddamn hostage.

“I'm going out,” he snapped, ignoring her little confession, because if he made it into a big deal, it would be. “Am I going to come back and find you bleeding out in the fucking bathtub again?”

Her jaw looked tight and there was something glittering in her eyes. Something he didn't want to see. “Oh, what? So you trust me enough to leave me alone now?”

“Answer the fucking question.”

“No, I am not going to slit my wrists in the bathtub again.”

“Good.” He turned without another word and went to the door, stepping out and locking it behind him.

Out on the sidewalk, the sleet had started up again, the wind blowing biting pieces of ice that stung against his cheeks. It was cold, but at least it blew out all the remaining sandalwood and musk scent clouding his brain.

He took off in the opposite direction from where they'd come, heading for a park a couple of blocks down. He didn't let himself think about Violet. Pretending that moment in the alleyway had never happened was the only way to deal with it. The only way to get rid of that crushing feeling in his chest. The feeling he'd made a mistake that there was no coming back from.

Fuck. He was thinking about it again. That was
not
happening.

He dug into his jeans pocket for his phone and checked it. Still nothing from Jericho. For a second he debated sending the man a text telling him time was ticking down. But again, that would be giving too much away and he didn't want to appear desperate. He'd made the move, it was now Jericho's turn.

Passing by a newsstand, he bought a paper and took a look through it quickly. There wasn't much in it this time about Fitzgerald, only a few passing mentions of stocks falling and boards in uproars following his murder. Nothing about the apparent disappearance of his daughter.

Excellent. There was no heat on his tail, which gave him plenty of time to come up with something if Jericho didn't show.

Approaching the park, he ditched the paper in a nearby trash can. He was just about to walk on when the back of his neck prickled.

He looked up sharply. Ahead of him, parked against the curb was a huge black motorcycle, a tall, golden-haired man in sunglasses, jeans, and leather jacket leaning against it.

Ah, fuck. He knew that prick. Had spent weeks gaining intel on him and the rest of his buddies. Gabriel Woolf, construction magnate and ex–outlaw biker. And clearly the guy was not here by coincidence, because even real life, as fucked up as it could be sometimes, wasn't that random.

How the hell had the guy found him?

Elijah curled his fingers around the Colt in his pocket. He kept his stance loose, ready to move in case the guy did something stupid like pull a gun. Thoughts of Violet fell away, the heat replaced instantly by cold, hard ice.

Woolf took his sunglasses off, holding them negligently in one hand. His dark eyes were absolutely expressionless as they met Elijah's.

“Woolf,” Elijah said flatly. “What the fuck do you want?”

The other man held his gaze. “You got something of mine. I want it back.”

“What the…” He stopped. Violet. Woolf was talking about Violet, he had to be. Which meant that he knew Elijah had her. Fucking wonderful. So how had that happened? And how the hell had Woolf tracked him down?

Briefly Elijah debated denying the fact he had Violet, but there didn't seem to be much point. She was a useful bargaining chip anyway, especially if Woolf and his friends wanted her too. He could use that, he definitely could.

“The Fitzgerald princess?” He clicked off the safety of the Colt in his pocket. “That's not going to be happening.”

“Yeah, see, that's a problem.” Woolf's voice was rough, but still casual. Like this was no big deal. “My woman's her best friend and pretty cut up about the fact that Violet just up and disappeared. And I don't like to see her upset. Which makes getting Violet back pretty fucking important to me.”

“I don't care what's important to you,” Elijah said coldly. “Your friends took something of mine, and if that means I have to take something of yours to get what I want, then I'm fucking doing it.”

The expression on Woolf's face gave nothing away. “You wanted Fitzgerald's head, didn't you?”

Elijah wasn't surprised the other man knew. He'd been very clear about what he'd wanted to Zac Rutherford and Eva King. “I did,” he snapped. “And I helped your so-called friends so they could help me get it. And then they took it from me.”

Woolf stared at him for a long moment. “So what do you need Violet for?”

“None of your fucking business.” As if he'd reveal any of his plans to this man.

“Like I said.” Gabriel shifted on his feet, but he kept his hands where Elijah could see them, not obviously going for any weapon. “That's a problem for me.”

“Too bad. I'm not interested in your problems.”

“You might be more interested if I told you that you have a target on your back right now.”

Elijah didn't bother looking around. If Woolf had him covered, it wan't going to be obvious. Instead he made an effort to look relaxed. “You really think I'd go out without a backup plan? I've got someone on Violet. If I don't come back, then she won't either.” A total fucking lie, but that didn't matter. He'd organize it as soon as he got back to the apartment.

Jesus, he wasn't on his game right now. He'd let her distract him, turn him from his purpose, and that couldn't happen again. He'd call some of his contacts, get something in place to make sure Violet stayed guarded. Then he'd put the pressure on Jericho, get this thing fucking done.

Woolf didn't say anything immediately, but there was something going on behind those hard, dark eyes. The man hadn't gotten where he was today by being stupid. “What was so important to you about Fitzgerald?” he asked after a moment.

“Why the hell should I tell you?”

Another moment of tense silence.

“Violet's my half sister,” Woolf said. “Which makes her family. And you don't fuck with my family, understand?”

The words were hostile, no mistake about that. But Elijah also understood he'd just been given something important.

Violet was Woolf's half sister? How the hell did that work?

“Why would you tell me that?” he asked, ignoring his own curiosity.

“I give you something, you give me something.” Woolf folded his arms. “Now's your chance, fucker.”

“I don't have to give you a thing. Not when I have what you want.”

“True. I could just have you shot right now and Violet'll have to take her chances.”

“If Violet dies, your woman will be upset.” Honor St. James, of course. Violet's best friend and sister of Alex, the man he'd warned off back in Monte Carlo. The man who hadn't listened.

He didn't give a shit about either of them.

Woolf's features hardened. “Sacrifices. We all have to make them.”

Of course they did. And hadn't Elijah sacrificed everything to get where he was now? To be within striking distance at last of what he wanted?

He stared at the other man. He knew about Woolf. Knew about the man's friends. Knew that revenge was what had motivated them.

Once, many years ago, he'd actually met Alex St. James. Back in another life, when he'd had Marie at his side, he'd been a member of Alex's exclusive Second Circle club. Privately Elijah had despised the man, thinking him a shallow, arrogant playboy who used his money and popularity to make himself feel important.

Now though, it was different. A man with demons was easy to recognize when you had a legion of your own following you.

St. James, Woolf … they're like you in many ways.

The Colt was warm against his palm. So easy to pull the trigger now, shoot this bastard in the chest. Except of course that would draw attention.

Gabriel Woolf's dark eyes held his without flinching, and Elijah was sure the bastard knew exactly how close to death he was. And didn't seem to give a shit. It was … impressive.

“You wanted Fitzgerald's head?” Woolf said in a low, hard voice. “Well, so did the rest of us. We wanted him dead, just like you. And now he is, yet you've got Violet. Which says to me that you're planning something more. Something bigger. Something that involves her.” He paused, his gaze sharp. “Revenge. That's what you want, isn't it?”

Well, shit. The guy was guessing clearly, but they were pretty well-educated guesses. Still, that wasn't any surprise, not when it had been Woolf's own quest for revenge that had ended with Fitzgerald dead on the floor by Eva King's hand. In fact, if he hadn't been so set on revenge himself, he wouldn't have begrudged the tech CEO her own little piece of it. But unfortunately, she'd taken what he'd been waiting for and working toward almost an entire decade.

“Revenge,” Elijah spat. “If it was as simple as that, I would have killed that motherfucker years ago. But it's not, and you've got no fucking idea what I want. So keep your guesswork and your speculation to yourself.”

Woolf ignored him. “I know revenge. I know exactly how simple it is.”

But Elijah hadn't trusted another soul for years. He wasn't about to start now. Easing off his finger on the Colt, he said flatly, “This conversation is over. I'm going to turn around and walk away, and if you don't want Violet Fitzgerald dead, you'll let me. I suggest following me is also a pretty bad fucking idea.”

The other man's jaw tightened. “She's still alive then?”