Authors: Kayla Stonor
Her stomach lurched at the thought.
“Here, let me help you up. Why the hell did you run? You dropped your jacket.”
He sounded genuinely concerned, despite his obvious ire, and Tahima began to wonder if she’d misjudged him. When his fingers curled around her wrist to help her up, unbridled desire flooded her from head to toe. Unable to muster a cohesive thought, she allowed him to pull her to her feet.
He held out her jacket, but didn’t let her go.
She took it wordlessly, unnerved by his close proximity. His forceful stance was doing things to her and she was struggling not to melt into his arms. Hell, she couldn’t even meet his eye for fear of swooning. It was ludicrous. She had to get a grip.
“I asked you a question,” he said. “Why did you run?”
Tahima’s throat went dry. “I . . . My boyfriend . . .”
“Don’t lie.”
Tahima glared at him then. “Why did you chase
me
? You can see I’m on my own.” She tried to shake off his grip on her wrist. “Let me go.”
He held fast. “I’m sorry I scared you. I need help and you mentioned a radio. That was your original intention, wasn’t it? To help me?”
“Emphasis on the ‘
was’
. Now. Let. Me. Go.”
“Not a chance.”
However, his steel grip did soften, but instead of taking the opportunity to pull away, Tahima found herself gazing into his dark eyes.
Saints alive
. Those eyes could sear a girl with one look.
His lips twitched. “Mannaggia, you are one bewitching woman.”
Tahima was so startled she could not speak.
Her unexpected admirer shook his head. His eyes softened. “Look, I meant what I said. I won’t hurt you, but I do need to borrow your radio. Maybe a couple of aspirin, too?”
Tahima glanced at the cut on his head. It had stopped bleeding, even though his heart must be pounding from chasing her. She quelled a bubbling sympathy before it undermined her defenses. He had emerged from the crash almost unscathed. He had caught up with her easily. He was fine.
She did allow him to propel her forward. He wanted to use her radio. That implied someone would come to help. Another person was good. Also, her only means of defense was back at the lodge.
“You don’t need to keep hold of me,” she said after a few minutes of walking.
“Oh, I think I do. You’re so wound up I’m worried you’ll snap. I don’t want to be on the receiving end.”
Tahima flicked her wrist to escape his grasp, but he countered her easily. Frustration boiled over. “Who the
hell
do you think you are?”
He cast a sly look her way. “I thought you recognized me.”
“A name would help.”
“You don’t need to know my name, or my business. I’m not asking for yours. Look, I’ll call someone to pick me up and then get out of your hair. But for the moment, you’re stuck with me.”
Tahima set her jaw.
“Don’t sulk. It doesn’t suit you.”
Bastard
.
A thick tension stifled further conversation, which was probably just as well because all she could think about was that his hand restraining hers was making her moist below. Only the more she focused on his possession of her hand, the more he reminded her of Stephen. She shivered at the thought.
Her unwanted escort pulled her to a stop. “It’s getting chilly. You should put your jacket on.”
She fell in with the suggestion, preferring him to think she was cold than consider another alternative. He let go long enough for her to shrug the coat on then grasped her hand the instant it emerged from the sleeve.
Tahima’s mouth tightened. Her stomach curled deliciously.
“Do you know how beautiful you are when you’re angry?” he observed.
“I’m not angry very often, so I wouldn’t know.” She made to move off, but he pulled her back.
“Ah, bella donna, look at me. Show me those lovely green eyes.”
His soft tone was seductive, no doubt practiced at coercing obedience from its victims. Tahima refused to play. Instead, she stared at his white shirt and teal-colored tie. She couldn’t help notice his suit fit him like a glove, and that it looked
really
expensive.
“I said—”
“I’m not yours,” she muttered, resenting the feelings he was arousing in her. Saints alive, this man put Stephen in the shade.
Gentle fingers tipped her chin up, making her look at him. “No. You’re not.” His eyes darkened. “But you could be, if I wanted you to be.” He leaned forward.
Tahima held her breath. She knew this power. It was potent. She shifted uncomfortably. He was stoking fires she had thought all burned out. When his lips brushed hers, the touch was so gentle she wasn’t sure he’d kissed her at all.
He smiled when her tongue flickered over her lips. “I know the rules, bella donna. I promise you. You’re safe with me.”
Tahima felt hot. Uneasy. He
knew
. “If that’s true,” she took a deep breath, “then you have no reason to hold on to my hand.”
He studied her. Frowned. Then he dipped his head and released her. “You’re right. I’m relieved we have an understanding. Now . . . bella donna . . . will you please let me use your radio?”
She nodded. She really didn’t have much choice. Her heart skipped a beat; he had noticed the color of her eyes. More disturbing though was a sudden desire to feel those fingers close around her wrist again.
Damn it
. Had she learned nothing?
~ Chapter Two ~
When they reached the lodge, Tahima’s nerves had settled. Surprisingly, his implicit acknowledgement of his dom status made her feel safer. He wasn’t going to hurt her; she wasn’t his and he respected that. He would have his own way, just not his wicked way. She could cope with that to be rid of him.
Stephen had been a bit like that, before he had turned nasty and pushed past her limits to indulge his darker fantasies. His betrayal had cut deep, deeper than it might have if theirs had been a vanilla relationship. She had entrusted her soul to him and he had stomped on it. No man could live up to what he had once offered. She had thought they would marry.
How had she misjudged him so badly?
All the more reason not to make the same mistake twice. Once bitten, twice shy, never sounded so apt with this man at her side.
As she led the way to the front porch, she noticed his gaze fall on her car. She paused. “I would lend it to you, but the suspension’s gone. I’m getting it fixed next week.”
“You’re up here alone with no transport?”
She frowned at his blatant disapproval. Why did all men assume a woman couldn’t cope alone? Barring homicidal maniacs dropping in unannounced, that is.
She headed for the steps and took them two at a time, automatically skipping the spot she still had to fix. She gave no warning, the imp in her hoping he would come a cropper. Irritatingly, he followed her lead.
“The radio’s in the den,” she said, indicating a door down the hall. Innate politeness forced her to ask, “Can I get you some water?”
“Please.”
Tahima watched him enter the den. Then she grabbed the stun gun out of the drawer and stuffed it into the rear waistband of her jeans. Her jacket just covered it.
Feeling safer, she moved to the kitchen and switched on Gramps’ old transistor. Blues music filled the room. The little radio only picked up the one station so she went with it. She filled a glass with water adding ice from the freezer. She also got out the first aid kit and a bottle of peroxide. Her mouth twitched. It would sting. Serve him right. She heard him talking in short, sharp sentences. He sounded annoyed.
A bit later he appeared and noticed the water. “Thanks.” He gulped it down. “I’ll be on my way then.” He moved to the door.
Tahima remembered his cut. “Wait!”
He paused then swiveled on his heel. He regarded her with a quizzical look in his eyes. “Tahima?”
His voice caressed her name in a seductive way that brought her out in goose bumps. Then her brain double-flipped—she hadn’t told him her name. Her eyes narrowed. “How?”
Guilt flooded his face. “A letter on your desk. I didn’t mean to pry. Your name sort of jumped out at me.” He hesitated then said, “It’s a lovely name.”
She swallowed, suddenly hot and bothered. “I was going to clean your cut. If you want me to, that is?”
“Tahima, do you really think that’s wise?”
She bit her lip.
“But I wouldn’t say no to something to eat. Maybe some bread?” The hope in his eyes lent him a boyish look. “I’ll take it with me.”
She nodded, speechless. His voice was hypnotic. She got out bread and a knife. Now she was armed with two weapons and he hadn’t put a foot wrong—apart from undressing her with his eyes, and turning her name into a burlesque act she hoped never to see if she wanted to retain a shred of sanity. That same sanity pointed out he
had
read her private mail, although, in his defense, the paperwork would have been hard to miss.
Her guest glanced at the peroxide. “While you’re doing that . . .” He reached for the cotton wool.
She sliced bread furiously. She really should warn him.
He dabbed at his cut and yelped, “Ouch! That stuff stings!”
The pleasure that erupted in her belly took Tahima unawares. She felt the tips of her ears start to burn. She dared not look at him.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You little minx.”
She looked at him.
His calculating expression sent shivers down her spine. His fingers drummed the table. “Have I misread you, I wonder, Tahima Sheldon?”
Tahima looked down at the bread she had cut. “Will this be enough?”
“Distraction won’t work on me, Tahima.”
She grabbed a zip lock bag out of the drawer and stuffed the bread inside it. The way his voice caressed her name was doing her head in. And her shoulder hurt. She needed to get him out of here and put an end to this. Then soak her aches away in a hot bath—all of them. Instead, she had got his attention. Now she was terrified as she realized how close to no return she was.
Her disturbing visitor seemed to read her thoughts. “You’re right, I should go.” He hesitated. “Could I use your bathroom first?”
She sighed. “Down the hall, second on the left.” She watched him go, relief mixed with regret. She noted the back of his suit was torn and idly wondered where he had been flying dressed for business.
The jazz music stopped and was replaced by the sonorous tones of a newsreader. “We break this program with breaking news. Suspected capo in New York’s mafia, Carlos Rossini, has been murdered.” Tahima’s ears pricked up. “His body was found early this morning in his swimming pool at his home in Manhattan. An APB has been put out on his son and heir, Gian Antonio Rossini.”
Tahima’s eyes widened. She
had
recognized him. Gian Rossini’s face had been all over a business article extolling him as the man who had drawn a sophisticated veil of legitimacy over the ‘Rossini’s extensive business interests’. A polite euphemism—the article made clear—for money laundering and drugs.
The radio crackled static and Tahima leaned in so as not to miss a word. “Gian Rossini was seen leaving the family estate shortly after the estimated time of death and is reported to have gone to ground. Inside sources confirm Mr. Rossini is the prime suspect at this stage of the investigation.”
A small sound sent her stomach through the floor. She whirled around to discover Gian Rossini watching her, his expression like granite, stern and forbidding. Blood drained from her face. He must have heard every word.
Shit
. He would kill her. Her mind panicked—all she could think was that she was closer to the front door than he was.
When he stepped towards her, she ran. She remembered the stun gun only as she crashed through the door and jumped the steps. She heard the wooden step splinter and his yell as fingers snagged her sleeve. She snatched her arm away, pulled the gun from behind her, turned and fired, falling onto her butt as she did. The barbs caught his shirt. Electricity coursed through him.
She held onto the trigger for dear life, scrambled to her feet, and sidestepped towards a box of firewood on the porch. Her free hand felt for and grabbed a long solid log. Rossini lay twitching on the porch, one knee bent because of his foot trapped in the broken step. His jacket lay on the steps beside him—he must have taken it off in the bathroom.
She edged closer and raised the chunk of wood, except she wasn’t sure where to hit him, or how hard. The decision was made for her when his left hand lunged towards her right foot. Startled, she dropped the stun gun and swung at his head in one motion. The log caught him a glancing blow above his left temple. He lay silent and unmoving, eyes shut, his face a deathly gray color.
Tahima snatched up her stun gun and moved out of the way. The barbs remained hooked in his white shirt. Safely out of reach, she stood up, her heart thumping and breathing hard.
Hell
. Had she
killed
him?
The sight of his rising chest galvanized her to action. She tore back into the house, dropping the stun gun when the wires stretched taut.
Shit . . . How long did she have?
She flew down the stairs to the basement and tore through boxes until she found the one she wanted. She upturned the collection of handcuffs onto the table and selected a pair that was unlocked. Solid metal connected the bracelets in the middle instead of a chain. On impulse, she grabbed some leg irons.
She collected the stun gun and held it in front of her as she approached the front door, trying not to notice how badly her hand was shaking.
She saw his head first. He had not moved. He looked so lifeless that for one horrible moment she thought he had died while she had been gone. She fixed her eyes on his chest. When it swelled gently, she moved fast.
He was heavy and his trapped foot made it impossible to flip him over. Instead, she lifted his shoulders from behind and levered him up into a sitting position then realized she should have cuffed a wrist first. He moaned softly, prompting her to give one last heave. His head fell forward over his knees.