Kidnapped by the Billionaire (30 page)

“I came back to New York pretty quickly after that,” she went on. “And I tried to do some more looking around, but I came up with nothing. And then a couple of days ago, the facility storing Theo's stuff got in touch. They told me someone had accessed his storage locker.” She looked at him. “There's only one person who could have done that, Eli, and it's not me. Or any of our family. I already tried to get access to his stuff, but the staff at the facility wouldn't let me. Only Theo has authorization.”

Curious in spite of himself, Elijah studied her face. “Tell me more about this locker. Do you know what he had in there?”

“No, not a clue. But … I don't think anyone else knows he has it.”

“Then how did you find out about it?”

“Remember I told you he left me a note? It was on the back of an advertisement for the storage company. He'd written a number on it too.”

“The locker number?”

“Yes. Like I said, I tried accessing it myself, but they wouldn't let me. So I paid them a bribe and told them to let me know if anyone else tried to. I was hoping to see if anyone else knew about it. And I heard nothing at all for years.” She looked up at him. “Until a couple of days ago. The day you kidnapped me in fact. I was on the subway going to meet Honor to tell her that the storage facility had contacted me. That someone had accessed his locker.”

“Him?”

“Well, I thought so.” Her gaze flicked away. “Maybe it's nothing though. Maybe it's a mistake. I probably need to accept the fact that Theo's dead.” She didn't add anything more, but that raw undercurrent was still there, a grief he was intimately acquainted with.

“No,” he said forcefully. “No you don't need to accept it. Not until you've seen a body. Not until you know for certain.”

She stared at him again, the look in her eyes almost fearful, though he wasn't sure why. “Do you know how long I've been thinking that very thing? Years, Elijah. Fucking years. And yet every time I think I've found something, I come up with nothing.”

He held her and stepped right up close, looking down into her face. “My wife disappeared and for two whole years I had no idea where she was, or even if she'd died. But I didn't stop searching for her, not once. Jesus, if I'd had that kind of lead, I wouldn't have let anything stop me from finding her.”

She shivered and he felt it, saw fear shift across her face. But this time he understood it.

Hope was terrible and fearful, one more thing he'd excised from his life.

So he shouldn't be encouraging it in her, yet he couldn't seem to stop himself. Family meant something to her, he could see that, and he hated the thought of her having lost all of hers. And if there was any way he could help her, he would.

Then the expression on her face changed, the look in her eyes becoming searching. “What happened to her, Eli? You never told me.”

But he didn't want to talk about Marie and he didn't want her to ask. So he did the only thing he could think of to shut her up.

He tightened his grip upon her throat, bent his head, and stopped her from speaking with his mouth.

*   *   *

His kiss was a lit match to dry tinder and Violet felt her whole body go up in flames, a roaring conflagration that had her struggling. The phone call with her mother had been so damn painful, and she just wanted to forget about it, to let go and burn.

But she was getting to know Elijah, and this kiss was a distraction technique if ever there was one. He didn't want to talk about his wife, and she was betting he didn't want to talk about his previous existence as Kane either. So did she take his kiss and lose herself? Or did she push for more?

She had no right to push for more of course, no right at all to demand explanations. But he was hurting, grieving. A man who still hadn't recovered from the death of his wife. Why else would he spend all those years working on a complicated revenge plan?

It made her hurt for him. Made her wonder what kind of man he'd been before his wife's death had twisted him. What kind of man he'd been when he'd been Kane.

The black-eyed mercenary Elijah gave away nothing, left no clues. He was all fierce, focused intensity, cold as an ice storm. And maybe that should have warned her that in fact there
was
nothing left of the man he'd been before. This man before her was all that remained.

But she didn't believe it. The mercenary in him wouldn't have taken care of her, wouldn't have put his arms around her and held her when she cried, wouldn't have given her the code for the door. And he certainly wouldn't have gripped her chin and made her tell him about her brother, encouraging her to hold onto that lead, hold onto hope.

Kane was still there inside him, somewhere. The memory of a kinder, caring man. A man held prisoner by grief and the consuming need for revenge.

She had to let him out. Set him free.

Violet raised her hands and pushed against his rock-hard chest, pulling her mouth away from his.

Elijah lifted his head, his inky gaze blazing. Both with dark heat and a warning.
Don't ask. Don't come any closer.

Fuck that.

“Tell me about her, Kane,” she said, very deliberately. “Tell me what you lost.”

His head jerked back at the sound of the name, shadows moving in his eyes. But his hand remained heavy and hot at her throat, a subtle reminder of his strength. And her own susceptibility.

“Don't call me that.” Ice seemed to crystallize around the edges of each word. “Kane is dead.”

“No, he's not.” She kept her palm where it was, over his heart, pressing harder. “He's right here.”

The flame in his eyes burned cold. His other hand gripped the back of her neck then slid higher, into her short hair, pulling her head back. “He's dead,” Elijah repeated. “And so is she. And I'm not fucking talking about them.”

This was a dumb move. A really dumb move. But she couldn't seem to shut herself up. “Why not? I've told you all about my dysfunctional family. You know all about my asshole dad. You've just seen how important I am to my mother.”

“So? This isn't sharing time, princess. I don't have to tell you a fucking thing.”

She was prodding a sleeping tiger and she knew it. Yet she kept going. He was in pain, she could almost feel it. “I know. I get it. You don't want to talk. But you're hurting, Elijah. You're grieving. And it helps to—”

“I said no.” His hands tightened in her hair, exposing her throat. “Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about it.”

“I don't know about what? I don't know about grief? About loss?” She moved the hand on his chest, slid it up to touch his face, the bruise on his cheek, the cut on his lip. “How dare you. How dare you say that to me when I've just lost everyone I've ever loved.”

But there was anger in his eyes, and as he jerked his head away from her touch, she knew if she kept going, kept pushing, he wasn't going to give her anything but rage. A small thrill went down her spine at the thought, a primitive, atavistic part of her wanting the storm. Yet she suspected that, in the end, that wouldn't get her what she wanted.

There were other, better, gentler ways.

This was a man who'd been fighting a long time. Fighting his grief and his anger. Fighting for his position. Fighting to take the revenge that had ultimately been denied him. So how could she make him fight her? And what would he do if he didn't have to? What if she just gave him everything he wanted?

Violet dropped her hand and let it rest against his chest. He had her head drawn so far back it was nearly uncomfortable, his fingers pulling her hair painfully. His other hand, the one around her throat, was heavy, the pressure he was exerting enough to make her not want him to grip her any tighter. The tension in him was palpable, a dark, slowly gathering wave.

His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl and he looked like he was debating either kissing her or strangling her, and hadn't decided which.

God, he was so angry. Perhaps it was time to give him one less thing to fight.

“It's okay,” she whispered, before he could say anything he might regret. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Just know that I understand.”

His eyes glittered, a midnight sky covered with stars. “No, you don't.” The hoarse growl of his voice rumbled through her like a caress. “Nobody fucking understands.”

And his grip tightened like a vice and his head came down and he was kissing her, his mouth savage. It was a punishment, a warning. It was hot, brutal, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his hand a fist in her hair, holding her still as he deepened the kiss, taking whatever he wanted, his body hard as a wall of granite against her.

But she didn't fight him. Instead she relaxed into his hold, melting into him, letting herself go soft in his arms, letting him take whatever he wanted from her. She closed her eyes, keeping her hands unresisting on his chest, her mouth open to his kiss as he ravaged and devoured, anger pouring off him like a waterfall over the edge of a chasm.

And slowly, so very slowly, she felt the tension in him began to ease. The tight grip of his fingers in her hair loosened, the pressure of his hand on her throat lightened. The savage, brutal kiss gentled, becoming not so much a forced domination as a sensual seduction, his tongue exploring, tasting.

She shivered all over in response, because although she loved the roughness and the hunger, this too was intoxicating.

His hands moved, shifting to cup her face between his palms, exploring her deeper as his thumbs stroked the underside of her jaw and the sides of her neck, up and down in a caressing movement.

Violet spread her fingers out on his chest, pressing herself against him, absorbing all that heat then giving it back to him. She could feel the hard length of his cock against her stomach, so she shifted her hips, teasing him a little.

He growled, his mouth leaving hers to move over her jaw and down her neck, kissing her, nipping her. His tongue on her skin, tasting her.

She let him take whatever he wanted, sliding her hands up to his shoulders and stroking him, caressing the back of his neck, loving the power of the muscles there and the smooth hot skin that covered them. God, she could touch him all day and never get tired of it. Never.

“You need to be naked,” he said roughly against her neck. “Now.”

He didn't wait for an answer, merely tugged her borrowed sweater up and over her head, getting rid of the rest of her clothes with the same ruthless efficiency. Again, she let him do whatever he wanted, raising her arms so he could get the sweater off easily and lifting her feet so he could get her jeans and panties off too.

And when she finally stood there naked, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her hard up against his body, sliding his palms over the bare skin of her buttocks and squeezing, holding her there, flexing his hips so his cock rubbed up against her clit. Making her shiver and tremble. Making her want to move herself, chasing the friction.

But she didn't, keeping herself still. “What do you want, Eli?” Her voice was all husky and smoky with desire. “Anything at all. I'll give it to you.”

He was staring at her, his gaze intense as he flexed his hips again, the ridge of his hard cock grinding over her clit. A soft gasp escaped her, a knife-edge of sharp pleasure sliding through her.

“What do I want?” he echoed harshly. “I want to take you apart.”

She met his gaze, shivering as he moved against her, each shift of his hips giving her that tantalizing, teasing friction. There was something so erotic about being naked with him like this, vulnerable and at his mercy while he was fully clothed. Vulnerable and yet powerful too.

“You don't have to do that,” she said softly. “I'll do whatever you want me to do. Be whoever you want me to be.” She took a ragged breath. “I know there are many things you have to fight, Eli, but I'm not one of them. Not tonight.”

He said nothing, his fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of her buttocks, circling his hips in a slow grind against her clit that had her panting and trembling even harder.

“L-Let me take care of you.” She stared into his face, into his eyes. “Let me make you feel good.”

Again there was nothing but silence. Silence and those black intense eyes that could be so cold and yet burn so hot. He didn't look away, staring into her, and he didn't stop that insane shift of his hips, holding her tight and close, moving her so that she began to pant harder, her breathing spiraling out of control.

That hard ridge pressing against her, the material rubbing and teasing, sending intense little electric shocks through her entire body. Tearing gasps from her throat. Her nipples were aching, stiff points, and each movement he made shifted her breasts against his chest, sliding the cotton of his T-shirt against her sensitized flesh, heightening everything.

The tension inside her began to gather into a tight, hard knot, and she began to feel desperate because this wasn't supposed to be what happened. She was supposed to give him pleasure, not the other way around. Yet she'd told him he didn't have to fight her, that she'd give him whatever he wanted, and if what he wanted was to drive her insane then so be it.

Instead she clung to his shoulders, digging her fingers in to steady herself. Holding on for dear life as he ground harder against her. And in spite of herself, she couldn't stop from moving her hips against his in response, seeking that friction, wanting more of it, even harder, even faster.

“You're wet,” Elijah growled, his voice ragged and gritty. “So fucking wet.”

The muscles of his shoulders flexed and released under her fingers, and she dug in harder, the pleasure gathering ever tighter inside her. She shifted restlessly, moving, seeking, becoming increasingly desperate as a sharp intense climax neared. “I d-didn't want … Eli … this w-was supposed to be for you…”