Kidnapped by the Billionaire (2 page)

Shit. He was probably going into shock, which he sure as hell didn't need right now.

Jerking open the cab door, he pushed Violet inside, following in closely behind her. The driver did a double take—probably due to the bruising on Elijah's face—but one hard look soon had the man turning right back to the front again. Just as well. Elijah didn't need any questions at this particular point in time.

He gave the driver the address then leaned back against the seat, keeping the gun jammed against Violet's side. She sat beside him, unmoving, her head turned away, her attention on the street outside. Her hands still clutched her silly little fringed purse, knuckles white.

He'd probably just shattered her entire world. Well, welcome to the club.

Seven years ago he'd have felt bad about that. Would have regretted giving her the news and would have delivered it at a better time, in a more appropriate setting. He would have comforted her. Certainly he wouldn't have kidnapped her at gunpoint.

But Marie was dead, and since then nothing mattered much to him anymore.

Except for Evelyn Fitzgerald's death. The death that he should have taken for himself.

The volcanic rage inside him shifted and he tightened his grip on it, letting its icy heat warm him, using it to combat the effects of physical shock.

Violet remained silent and he didn't bother to speak either, concentrating all his energy on merely staying upright and keeping that gun right where it was.

New York traffic being what it was, it took them longer than he wanted to get to the West Village address he'd given the cabbie. When they finally stopped and he got out, dragging an unresisting Violet with him, he found the ground unsteady beneath his feet, shivers starting to wrack him.

Fuck. He did
not
need this. Not now.

Throwing some money at the cabdriver, he tugged his overcoat more firmly around him then pulled Violet close. That musky perfume of hers made his head cloudy and the warmth of her body far more attractive than it had any right to be. But only because he was cold.

He hadn't wanted a woman in seven years and he had no intention of wanting one now.

Revenge was more important. Revenge had
always
been more important.

Hustling her down the sidewalk, he debated about whether this was wise, bringing her to his personal little bolt-hole. If he hadn't been shot and had to grab her on the fly, he'd have brought a blindfold or knocked her out or something so she wouldn't know where they were. But obviously he couldn't do that now.

It won't matter. It's not like you're going to be letting her go anytime soon
.

Excellent point.

It wasn't far to the old brick factory that sat next to the river. It had been converted to apartments years ago, and Elijah had bought the entire building back before his world had fallen apart. Back when he'd been the owner of a very successful venture capital company and making shitloads of cash. When he'd been married and desperately in love with his wife.

Christ, he couldn't even remember what that feeling was like anymore. Being happy. Being in love. Not that he wanted to of course; the more you cared about something, the more it hurt when you lost it. Life was full of interesting little lessons like that.

He'd jettisoned nearly everything of that life after Marie had disappeared, but he'd kept the old factory building. Not because he liked having a big fuck-off apartment all to himself, but because he'd needed somewhere safe to go that no one—especially not Fitzgerald and his operations—knew about.

To keep up appearances, he'd leased out the first couple of floors, but the top floor he'd kept entirely empty so he could come and go as he pleased without any neighbors being nosy.

He got Violet to the front of the apartment building and keyed in his code to unlock the door before pushing her inside.

Her face was a mask as he pulled her over to the elevators and punched the button, her wide, generous mouth gone tight with some kind of suppressed emotion. Grief and shock probably.

The doors opened and he made her go in first then hit the button to the top floor. He resisted the urge to lean against the back wall of the elevator because if he did that, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand upright again.

Violet stared rigidly at the doors in front of her, making no move to speak or to do anything else. She looked turned to stone.

Excellent. That would make his life a shitload easier.

As the doors opened, he urged her across the hallway to his apartment door, keeping his gun pressed to her back as he keyed in another code.

The door unlocked and he pushed her inside, kicking it shut.

For a second he allowed himself a moment to relax, lowering the gun and leaning back against the closed door, the pain and the cold starting to bite deep. He'd probably lost more blood than he'd thought. This could be a bitch to recover from if he wasn't careful.

It was only when he heard movement that he realized he'd closed his eyes for a moment.

Opening them with a start, he was just in time to see Violet's fist heading straight for his face.

*   *   *

She knew she had no chance, that she'd never win against a man like Elijah Hunt. But dammit, she had to do something because sitting back and taking it had never been her style.

He'd closed his eyes and sagged against the door, and she'd managed to shake off her shock enough to launch the heel of her palm up against his chin the way she'd learned to do in the self-defense classes she'd taken at college.

Unfortunately his head did not snap back the way it was supposed to.

Instead his hand came up—far quicker than it had any business doing—and fingers like iron clamped her wrist in a vice. Then before she quite knew what was happening, her arm was being twisted around and her body along with it, until she was jerked hard against him, her arm pulled up behind her and pinned agonizingly between her shoulder blades.

She tried struggling, unwilling to let the moment go where she might have, in a different universe, had a chance at fighting him and perhaps winning. But her struggles made no difference at all to the iron hold he had on her and when something even harder than the body up against her back pushed into her side, she knew the moment had gone utterly.

Violet stilled, panting. Fear sat in her chest, so large and sharp she could barely deal with that let alone the other thing he'd whispered in her ear back out on the sidewalk outside the subway station.

Your father is dead.

The words echoed in her head, meaningless syllables all jumbling together.

Her father. Evelyn Fitzgerald. She didn't even begin to comprehend it. He'd always seemed invulnerable, untouchable. A cool, clever man who prized control in all things. A cool, distant parent.

Now he wasn't either of those things. He wasn't anything.

How did Elijah Hunt know? And did he have something to do with it? Was he even telling the truth?

Okay. So. First things first. Pull yourself the fuck together.

“What the hell are you doing with me?” she forced out, her voice thin and tight. “If you're going to rape me then just get it over and done with, you prick, because the suspense is killing me.” All bravado of course, but it was better than whimpering like a child.

He made a sound of disgust at that and suddenly she was free as he shoved her forward. She stumbled, going down on her hands and knees to the hard wood floorboards beneath her feet. Shaking, she turned over, raising her arms to fight.

But he didn't come any closer. He only pushed himself away from the door and pointed the muzzle of that nasty-looking gun in her direction.

The fear turned over in her chest, making her want to cower on the floor.

Elijah had always been a frightening man, right from the moment her father had first taken him on as his new bodyguard five years earlier. Her father never went anywhere without him, and Violet had hated the way the man seemed to hang around all the freaking time, like a gargoyle, all scarred face and cold black eyes. He never smiled. Never seemed to have any expression other than “don't fuck with me.”

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.