Kidnapped by the Billionaire (44 page)

She couldn't stop the soft gasp that escaped her, nor did she miss the sudden flare in his eyes as she did so. “So,” she said, and this time the breathlessness was completely unfeigned. “I guess pain is what you want?”

He let the lock of red hair fall, his hand dropping to the side of her neck, his finger stroking lightly, gently down the side of it. And though she didn't want it to, the touch sent goose bumps rising all over her skin. “Not in particular. I was just proving a point.”

“Let me go and I'll prove another.”

“Really? What point would that be?”

“That I'm sitting here for a reason. And it's not because you don't want me.” Her throat had gone weirdly dry, his finger stroking up and down the side of her neck. She could feel the touch acutely.

His finger moved again and this time didn't stop, brushing over her throat and down further to the swell of her left breast. And in spite of all the years she'd spent expertly hiding and controlling her responses to just about everything, when he opened his hand and cupped her breast, for the second time that night all the air escaped her lungs in an audible rush.

And the bastard, the fucking bastard, saw it all with those cold, clear green eyes while that maddening smile lingered on his mouth. “Interesting,” he murmured, studying her like a scientist. “You want me, little girl. Don't you?”

Her nipple had hardened beneath the pastie and he wasn't even doing anything, just cupping her breast gently in one hand. Fuck. How had that happened? She didn't want him. He was the very last man on earth she'd ever want. And this—
all
of this—was just pretend.

So just go with it and fucking pretend.

She fought to keep her breathing even, to keep her head clear. It seemed that he liked her wanting him, that her responses were fascinating to him, so why not? She had to hook him somehow didn't she? And being different to all the rest seemed to be the way to do it. Which meant … perhaps she should just keep going.

“M-maybe I do.” The stutter was a nice touch. Pity it was utterly unfeigned.

He examined her closely. “I think there's no maybe about it.” With a flick of his finger, he got rid of the pastie covering her nipple, then brushed his thumb over it.

She trembled, a lightning strike of sensation arrowing through her. Shocking her. And a small knot of something she didn't recognize at first, curled tightly in the pit of her stomach. Then she did. Panic.

His thumb made another pass over her nipple, a second jagged bolt of lightning flashing through her body. And before she could stop herself, she'd broken his hold on her wrists and had leapt from his lap, coming to stand in front of the chair, her hands raised, ready to fight.

Jericho stared at her for a long moment, his expression utterly impenetrable. Then he leaned back in the chair, his elbows resting on the arms, long fingers loosely linked. “Something tells me you're not a stripper,” he said mildly.

Her heart was thundering in her head in a way it had never done before, not even when she'd taken her first kill and she couldn't understand what had gone wrong. What the fuck did she think she was doing?

Focus.

She inhaled silently, forcing herself to get a grip, then she lowered her hands. “Actually. I'm.…studying dance. I was stripping for extra cash.” The backstory she'd concocted. A poor college student doing what she could to get by. “I didn't like being touched so I took a few self-defense lessons.”

The cold look in his eyes glittered. “And here was I believing you weren't scared.”

“I wasn't.” Fuck. She was going to have to give him the truth. It was either that or she lost the thing that had drawn him to her in the first place. “I'm just not used to … wanting a complete stranger.”

He didn't reply, his intense green-gold gaze moving over her, right from the top of her head down to the soles of her stripper shoes. Reassessing her. Again. “What's your name?” The sensuality had gone from his voice completely now, nothing but hard authority in each word.

Briefly she debated telling him it was whatever he wanted it to be, but she wasn't stupid. She knew the time for flirtation had passed. Shit, she'd fucked up majorly. “Kirsten,” she said, going with the name she'd settled on for her current persona.

Jericho was up off the chair in a sudden, fluid movement, coming towards her so fast she forgot she was wearing eight inch stilettos, nearly stumbling as she shifted instinctively into defensive posture. He caught her around the waist, hauling her up against him, one hand fisting in her hair and pulling her head back.

Every instinct she possessed told her to move, to bring her knee up to his groin then twist, pulling out of his grip. A hand on the back of his neck, jerking down then another knee to his face. That would take him out, easy. And it would all give her away completely, because those kinds of moves you didn't pick up via self-defense lessons.

So she had to fight to stay where she was, to let him tug her head back, her hands pressing against the hard, hot wall of his chest.

“You're lying.” His tone was casual, at odds with the ruthless way he held her. “You're lying through your fucking teeth.” His smile was mirthless, cold, and if she hadn't been who she was,
now
she might have been afraid. “So let's try that one again. What's your name?”

She stared up at him. This was a test. He was pushing her, trying to frighten her, and she knew that because Jackson had done the same thing when she'd first started training with him.

Now's your chance to fix things. Do
not
fuck this up.

“Temple,” she said, meeting his gaze. “My name is Temple.”

He narrowed his eyes, not relaxing his hold on her one bit. “Temple? What the fuck kind of name is that?”

“The one my stupid mother gave to me.” No lies this time. Only the absolute truth. “She wanted to call me Shirley Temple because of my curls. But my father didn't like Shirley, so they compromised with Temple.”

The expression on his beautiful face was unreadable, but his gaze was like a laser beam, stripping her down layer by layer. Studying. Dissecting. Assessing.

Then all of a sudden, he smiled. Fierce, bright and sharp. The tiger in all its fearsome glory, making her heart miss a beat at the savage beauty of it. His hand in her hair tightened, almost painfully so. “Pleased to meet you, Temple,” he murmured.

And before she could move, he bent his head and kissed her. Hard.

*   *   *

Temple's mouth shut tight under his, her slender body going rigid. Then, as if she'd changed her mind, she relaxed, leaning against him, her mouth becoming soft, opening up, letting him in.

She tasted of peppermints from the breath mints his men gave all the girls before they danced for him, and yet there was another, subtle flavor there as well. Something sweeter, darker. That took his curiosity and twisted it, deepened it.

But he hadn't kissed her because he'd wanted her. He'd kissed her to see what she'd do.

The way she'd pulled away from him before had been unexpected and he hadn't missed the briefest flicker of shock in her eyes; she hadn't meant to pull away either. And he didn't think it was because she didn't like him touching her. No, he'd smelled the delicate scent of feminine arousal, felt the hard little bud of her nipple. Seen her fascinating amber eyes darken, the pupil widening.

She'd been turned on. Yet something about it had panicked her and he didn't buy that it was because he was a stranger. If she'd been afraid and cowering before then sure. But she hadn't been. So it was something else.

And then there was the way she'd broken his hold and sprang off his lap like a singed cat, landing on the balls of her feet despite the ridiculous shoes. Her hands had been up in a classic martial arts pose too, and her bullshit about self-defense lessons was exactly that. Bullshit.

There was something “off” about this girl and he was going to find out what it was.

She was hot against him, her palms pressing against his chest, the softness of her breasts pressing there too. Her hair felt like skeins of silk in his hand, her skin like satin. He had his other hand on the curve of one buttock and he stretched out his fingers, squeezing, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She shuddered in response, her body arching against his.

Years since you've kissed a woman.

Yeah, it had been. Though how long, he couldn't remember. But Christ, her mouth. So soft. So hot. That dark, sweet taste elusive, tantalizing … another shift inside him, a crack running through the walls he'd placed carefully around his desires. Fuck. Who was this woman and where was all this curiosity coming from?

She definitely wasn't lying about wanting him, he already knew that. And she hadn't lied about her name either, at least not the second time. He'd used intimidation to try to scare her, but she'd told the truth about the fact she wasn't scared of him. Which only left one other way to get under her guard. Sex.

Of course he could just send her away like he'd initially intended, find another girl to rescue. But his gut told him she was a threat, and his gut was usually right about these things.

You could just kill her.

Finally he lifted his mouth from hers, keeping his hand tight in her hair, looking down at her. She had high, slanted cheekbones and a determined little chin. A finely sculpted nose. Her features were elfin, cat-like. There was a flush to her cheeks, her pupils dilated. Her mouth was small and pouty from the kiss.

A pretty thing.

But then, he'd killed pretty things before.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again thanks to Monique Patterson, my wonderful editor, and to Helen Breitwieser, my equally wonderful agent. To my family for bearing with the endurance event that is Jackie writing a book. And as always to Maisey, my critique partner and friend, who thought Elijah was one of her favorites.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jackie Ashenden
lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her husband, the inimitable Dr. Jax, and their two kids and two cats. When she's not torturing alpha males and their stroppy heroines, she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, posting random crap on her blog, or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband.

Jackie writes dark, sexy contemporary romance for St. Martin's Press, including the New York Billionaires Club series of novellas. You can find Jackie at
www.jackieashenden.com
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@JackieAshenden
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