Kidnapped by the Billionaire (8 page)

His sense of satisfaction deepened.

It was a text from an unknown number and all it said was
I need proof.

Excellent. Jericho was interested. Not that Elijah had any doubt. From what Fitzgerald had told him, the man had been unshakable in his desire for Violet, which in turn had made Fitzgerald cocky about the concessions he'd planned to get from the guy.

Elijah didn't want concessions. All he wanted was Jericho personally coming to get Violet, at which point he'd figure out the best way to take the prick out. And he would take him out, that was absolutely certain.

But first, he had to get that proof.

I'll send a photo
, he texted back.

There was a slight pause.
You have two hours.

So Fitzgerald hadn't been wrong. The guy really was desperate.

Not bothering with a response, Elijah put his phone away and headed back toward the apartment. He'd take a couple of pics of Violet then send them on, no drama.

Ten minutes later, he unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside. Violet wasn't in the living area or, after a quick check, in the kitchen.

Jesus, if she'd gone into his damn bedroom again after he'd told her not to …

He stepped into the hallway and glanced down toward his bedroom. Then he heard a slight sound coming from the bathroom. Frowning, he pushed open the door and went in.

Violet was sitting in the bathtub fully clothed. A bathtub full of pink water. Her handcuffed wrists were resting on her knees and she was hunched over, a thin stream of blood oozing from a nasty, ragged-looking cut across her left wrist. A pair of tiny nail scissors were lying on the floor.

Holy fuck. What the hell had she done? No, scratch that. It was completely obvious what she'd done. She'd tried to slit her wrists.

A surge of some emotion he couldn't immediately identify went through him, but he ignored it, going instantly into cold, calm crisis mode.

He didn't speak, moving quickly across the bathroom, pausing only to grab a hand towel from the rail. She turned her head, her face almost dead white, her eyes heavy lidded.

“Hey,” she said in a thick voice. “Was wondering when you'd get here.”

Ignoring her, Elijah took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs around her wrists, getting rid of all her bracelets as well as the cuffs. There were marks on her skin, prompting another odd surge of that emotion he couldn't quite figure out, but he ignored that too. Wrapping the hand towel around her cut wrist, he pulled it tight. She gave a small groan. Bending, he reached into the lukewarm water of the bath and scooped her out of it. Her clothes were dripping wet, bloody water everywhere, and she was starting to shiver.

With ruthless efficiency and without hesitation, Elijah stripped her of her bloody, wet clothing, then wrapped her in one of the big black bath towels. She didn't protest, just let him do what he wanted, her dreadlocks hanging wetly down her back, her skin so white her face looked like a Kabuki mask.

Leaving her sitting on the side of the tub wrapped in the towel, he hunted for the medical kit and found it lying on the floor, all its contents strewn around. So that's where she'd found the scissors. He'd forgotten they were there. Stupid.

Gathering up the medical kit contents, he packed everything back in the box before going back over to Violet. Then he lifted her into his arms, grabbed the box with one hand, and carried both of them out into the lounge area.

She was warm in his arms, resting against him limply, all the fight gone out of her.

Sitting down on the couch with her in his lap, he put the medical kit down beside him, then carefully grabbed her cut wrist. The blood had clotted nicely, but he could see she'd cut quite a hole in it. No tendon damage from the looks of things and she'd also managed to miss the vein.

Christ, she was lucky.

“Are you going to take me to the hospital?” she asked, slurring a little.

He glanced at her. Her eyes had half closed, turquoise blue framed by pale golden lashes, watching him.

Ah. So that's what she'd been trying to do.

The odd emotion inside him shifted, making his chest tighten. Couldn't be respect, surely. Why the hell would he respect a silly little girl who'd slit her wrists in an effort to get away from him?

She's a fighter, that's why.

“No,” he said flatly, dismissing both the thought and the emotion.

Instead he reached for the medical kit and got out some Vicodin. “Here, take these.” Pressing a couple of tablets into her good hand, he leaned forward and picked up the glass of water left over from her breakfast.

She took the tablets without a protest and swallowed them down, watching him as he took out the other things he was going to need. A needle and some surgical thread.

“Oh,” she said.

He really should wait until the drugs had kicked in, but he didn't like the look of that wound and she couldn't afford to lose any more blood otherwise he really would have to take her to the hospital.

With a series of quick, precise movements, he cleaned the wound, ignoring her gasp of pain. Then he threaded the needle. “This might hurt,” he said and gripped her wrist hard.

Violet took an audible breath, but said nothing.

Elijah pushed the needle into her skin. Her wrist tensed, her muscles locking, another soft gasp escaping her. But after that she made no other sound.

It didn't take long to get the wound closed up, Violet silent throughout. Then he bandaged it quickly. She'd started to shiver again and he realized that not only was the towel covering her damp, but his own T-shirt was wet through and she'd been resting against him.

He couldn't have said why he did what he did next, especially since there was no reason at all for it. Physical discomfort had never bothered him that much after all. Yet he pulled his wet and bloody T-shirt off over his head anyway and threw it on the floor. Then he unwrapped her from the towel and reached for the soft, dark blue blanket he'd given her the night before, tucking it firmly around her and covering up all her pale, golden skin.

Then for another seemingly inexplicable reason, he pulled her into his lap again, letting her rest warmly against his bare chest.

Shock must have kicked in, either that or the painkillers were starting to work, since she turned into him and curled up against him like a kitten.

It was the strangest thing. He'd captured her, shot at her, kept her handcuffed nearly a whole day, threatened her with being locked in a dark room with no light and with starvation, and yet here she was, nestling into him like he was her protector or something.

Had to be the drugs. Had to be.

Her lashes were lowered, her gaze on his chest, and she was so fucking warm. It had been a long, long time since he'd just held a woman like this. A long time since he'd held a woman, period. Not since Marie.

That goddamn stupid feeling in his chest shifted again, tightening.

The light from the windows glinted in her golden lashes, in her damp hair. Such a pretty color, more silver gold than deep yellow, a kind of gilt. Her skin was very smooth and still way too pale. But it made her mouth look very full and very red. Like Snow White.

Jesus. Why the fuck are you thinking about Snow White? What the hell is wrong with you?

“I wanted you to take me to the hospital,” she said after a moment, her voice all sleepy and thick. “At least, that's what you were supposed to do.”

“You really thought that would work?” Christ, his own voice was sounding a bit too rough for his liking. “You're lucky you didn't cut a tendon.”

“The nail scissors weren't sharp enough.” She wrinkled her nose. “But they were all I could find.”

“You're a silly little girl.” He tried to make it cold. “You don't know what the hell you're doing.”

“I didn't need to know. I just wanted to make it bad enough that you'd have to take me to the hospital.”

“And you'd escape from there? Was that the idea?”

“Yep.” Her mouth curved. “Really screwed that one up, didn't I?” She sighed, her body all warm and relaxed and heavy on him. “You're hot. It's nice.”

Definitely the drugs.

“You're a fool,” he said roughly.

“Yeah, I know. But the pain's gone, it's all good.” Violet raised her uninjured hand and before he realized what she was going to do, she touched the eagle on his chest, the stupid cliché of a tattoo he'd gotten in the dark weeks after he'd found out about Marie's death.

He went utterly still, shock ricocheting through him.

Her hands were very gentle, her fingers tracing the lines of the eagle's wings up to where it disappeared under the dressings of his gunshot wound, then down to the heart it held in its talons, then the few drops of blood dripping down his right pec. “This is interesting,” she murmured. “What does it mean?”

And he found he couldn't speak. Because it had been years, nearly an entire decade, since anyone had touched him like this. So lightly, gently. Sending shivers of …
fuck
 … was that heat chasing over his skin?

Every muscle locked, his body going tight.

No. Hell no. Where had this reaction come from? He'd stripped himself of every physical need, every soft emotion. The only things he had to have were food and drink and ice-cold anger. That was all that sustained him, that was all he needed until the day came to claim his revenge.

After that he didn't give a shit what happened to him. He didn't give a shit about anything.

And yet now, suddenly, Violet fucking Fitzgerald was running soft fingers over his tattoo and although he knew he should brush her hand away, shove her off his lap, he couldn't seem to move.

“It doesn't mean anything,” he heard himself lie. “I got it years ago.”

“Hmmm.” Her fingers smoothed over him. “You've never really liked me, have you? Why not? What did I ever do to you?”

He blinked, the question unexpected and taking him completely off guard. Just like everything else about this situation.

Why was he sitting here, letting her touch him? He should move, he really should.

Yet he didn't. He just sat there, holding her wrapped up in the blanket as she ran her fingers idly over his chest. Those pretty gilt lashes of hers had fallen closed and somehow she'd nestled herself even closer to him. “Answer the question,” she said sleepily, dragging her nails lightly over him.

Sensation caught him by the throat, an electric shock of it. Like her nails had caught an exposed nerve.

He hadn't wanted a woman for years. At first grief had done its work nicely and he'd had a good two years of not even seeing women as sexual creatures. But then his libido had started firing up, grief or not, and he'd had to take himself in hand both literally and figuratively. Even the shit he'd seen working for Fitzgerald, the trafficking shit he'd had to involve himself in, hadn't managed to cool his stubborn libido. Not that he'd availed himself of any of the women on offer. He didn't want to be with anyone other than Marie. Not ever. All he wanted was to take his revenge and then let whatever happened to him afterward happen. Live, die, he didn't much care which.

Over time, he'd gained a reputation for being ice cold, a reputation he cultivated since it suited him. Plenty of Fitzgerald's associates had tried to bribe him with women or money or drugs, but none of that ever worked with him. He'd stripped himself of everything for precisely that reason. Because if you didn't want something, no one could use it against you.

That was what Fitzgerald had found so valuable about Elijah. He was incorruptible. Loyal. And he was ruthless. He'd descended into the pit with Fitzgerald and made himself into a monster.

He was okay with that.

But what he was
not
okay with was being touched as if he were … some kind of fucking animal. Petted like a cat or a dog. As if he were harmless. And there was no way in this fucking world that he was harmless—there were plenty of people now dead who could attest to that.

Yet still Violet Fitzgerald snuggled herself up against him as if he were safe, as if she trusted him. Touching him like she had the perfect right to do so, as if he was hers.

Like Marie did.

His throat had gone dry and that tight, shifting thing in his chest wouldn't budge; that she was high as a kite on Vicodin made not the slightest bit of difference.

He found himself looking down at her, studying her face the way he had the day before, when she was curled up asleep on his bed. She'd made him feel strange then too, and he hadn't been able to work it out. Because what was she to him? A stupid little innocent who hadn't even realized a monster had fathered her. He'd spent years protecting her and that cold bitch of a mother, and he'd never found her particularly interesting. Just your typical rich girl, spoiled and entitled and doing her teenage rebel thing about ten years too late, wafting around and relying on Daddy's dirty money to do exactly what she pleased.

Yet hadn't he thought only yesterday that probably wasn't her? Certainly the woman he'd captured hadn't turned into the crying, desperate mess he'd expected.

She'd been prepared to slit her wrists in order to escape, and he didn't know whether that made her stupid or whether that made her brave.

The blue sapphire in her nose glittered, the finely drawn lines of her face relaxed. Her lashes had fanned out across her cheeks and finally there was a bit of color in them. Her fingers had stopped stroking him, thank fuck, and now they were just resting there.

She looked like she'd fallen asleep.

And he realized something.

One edge of the blue blanket had fallen away, revealing the pale curve of one breast and the soft shell pink of her nipple.

His breath locked and he stared, transfixed.