You Are Mine (21 page)

Anything to stop her thinking about Zac. About what had happened in his library. About his hands on her and his voice detailing exactly what he wanted to do to her.

About the relentless ache that sat down between her thighs, making her restless and antsy and wanting to move.

She tried her usual tactic of ignoring it, studying instead the pictures she'd pulled up of the man who, if Bryson was to be believed, had been the one to hold her captive for so long.

Nothing about him was familiar. The pictures she'd managed to find were from various social events, of him in conversation or standing around smiling for the camera. A handsome man, tall and broad, his hair still blond but now silvered with age. Blue eyes and a charismatic smile, in his mid-sixties. Looked like every other rich, powerful man she'd ever had contact with, and in the course of her company's rise she'd been in contact with quite a few.

In one photo taken a few years ago, he was standing with his family at some society function, his arms around his wife and daughter. His wife, Hilary, was an immaculate ice-blonde with a lovely smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, while his daughter Violet stood there with a sulky expression on her face, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

Eva stared at it. Violet, who'd taken off overseas for wild times in Europe, was one of Honor's best friends. She'd had a brother once, the Fitzgeralds' oldest child, who'd committed suicide sixteen years earlier according to the media.

An innocuous picture of an innocuous family. Part of New York's elite, yes, but certainly nothing special for all that.

She focused on Evelyn's face and its bland handsomeness, its pleasant smile. According to the media, he was a veritable pillar of the community, donating big sums to charity and organizing various charitable initiatives. Respected. Loved.

Was it him? Had it been his hands that had touched her? His voice that had murmured in her ear?

A small pulse went through her, making her conscious of her aching body, as fear slid icy claws down her spine.

Eva pushed herself away from the computer, starting on the familiar pace from her desk to the windows of her apartment and New York's comforting skyline. Along the length of the windows to the opposite wall and back again.

She wasn't stupid. She knew she was aroused. But there was so much confusion around the feeling, it unnerved her. Sex had been a terrifying experience, and what had made it so terrifying was the fact that her body had apparently enjoyed it. She didn't understand that at all. Because her brain hadn't wanted it and if you didn't want it, then surely an orgasm was impossible, right?

Apparently not.

It had added to her feelings of helplessness and vulnerability. Like all she'd been was a doll that could be manipulated into whatever position was required. A blow-up sex doll.

Eva could feel her breathing start to accelerate, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She stopped by the windows and put her hands on the glass, the cool feel of it anchoring her.

She'd fought those first couple of weeks. Fought like a cornered wildcat. But the guards had easily overpowered her. Afterwards she'd decided on a different tactic: meek and mild to build up her strength, wait for a chance to escape. Then she'd had that first visit from The Man, and she'd understood what she was there for. His voice had been soft and silky, so very civilized, and he smelled like rich men did, of expensive aftershave and money. He'd told her that there would be no more fighting. That if she tried to escape, if she tried anything at all, he'd cut her throat and dump her body, and it wouldn't be a problem because she didn't have family and she didn't have friends. No one who cared she'd been captured. No one who cared should she die. No one would even know.

She had no one at all. Except him.

He'd made her so aware of her complete isolation. Of her loneliness. She'd been sixteen, living on the streets for six months by that stage, desperate for a home and a family. A safe place to live. Someone who cared about her. But there had been no one.

Those first few times, she'd tried not to let his words get to her. Tried not to care what he did, and that had insulated her for a while. But as time went on, she came to realize that in that house she had what she'd been craving for years.

Warmth. Food. Safety. Someone who wanted her. And if she had to put up with sex in order to have those things, then what was the big deal?

She'd tried to deaden herself, but sometimes The Man had wanted a response. And she'd been forced into giving it.

But you never thought about him when he wasn't there. And you never felt this ache, this need, after he'd gone. You never wanted him like you want—

Eva stopped the thought dead, but it refused to go away. It sat there in her head along with the memory of Zac's dark, intense face and the look in his golden eyes.

You've been craving my touch for years, Eva King … You've just never had the guts to ask for it.

God, had she? Not initially, not after she'd escaped. She'd never wanted to be touched again after that. Yet she'd needed his presence like she'd needed air to breathe, part of her wanting to replicate that intense feeling of safety she'd experienced the moment he'd stepped out of the car and introduced himself.

Except now he'd changed the rules on her and it wasn't safety she felt anymore.

No. But he's not the only one who changed. For the first time you feel desire and of course that's not safe.

Eva wrapped her arms around herself, and became aware that she was still wearing his shirt, his scent all around her. The cotton pressed uncomfortably against her nipples, and the awareness deepened. An awareness she'd spent most of the night trying
not
to think about. Of not only his scent but also her own body. Of her skin, soft and sensitized beneath the shirt, and how the cotton felt against it. The pressure of her arms folded across the tips of her nipples. The restless, nagging ache between her thighs.

Christ, she really needed to change then sleep. Zac wasn't kidding when he said ten a.m. sharp. He was always very punctual.

Fucking Zac. What had he done to her?

You could have stopped it any time.

She took a small breath. Well, okay, yes, she could have. But she hadn't wanted to admit she was scared. Also, even though he'd told her safewords were sacred, that he would stop, she hadn't been sure and hadn't wanted to test it just in case.

How could you doubt him? He's a man of his word. You know he would have.

A lump rose in her throat. He was right, not once in seven years had he touched her. Not once had he pushed her or forced her to do anything. He'd let her run roughshod over him and yet she still doubted him. Still didn't trust him.

Perhaps she wasn't able to. Perhaps she was broken beyond repair. Shivering, she turned back to her computers, spending another couple of hours immersing herself in work and yet more fruitless searches about Fitzgerald, until sheer, nervous exhaustion drove her into the bedroom. She fell onto the nest of sheets and blankets she kept piled onto a mattress that sat on the floor, totally forgetting to discard Zac's shirt.

It was probably going to take her hours to get to sleep, if at all.

But unexpectedly she did, falling into unconsciousness like a stone thrown into a chasm.

Only to be woken hours later by someone saying her name.

She didn't open her eyes because she was surrounded by a faint, familiar scent that made her feel safe. Made her want to fall right back to sleep again.

Except that the voice calling her name was beautiful. Deep and dark and smooth, all clipped aristocratic English vowels …

“Eva. Wake up.”

Shit. Did she really have to?

“It's ten o'clock, angel.”

That voice. Somehow it had been in her dreams …

Consciousness began to filter through her. Hell. Wasn't there supposed to be something she had to do at ten?

Eva cracked open an eye reluctantly, aware that she was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable.

Only to have all of those feelings get washed away in an abrupt surge of icy fear.

Zac was crouched beside her mattress, elbows on his knees, looking down at her.

Jesus Christ.

She sat bolt upright, her heartbeat thundering, every alert sense she had warning her that once again the safety of her refuge had been breached, that there was an intruder where he didn't belong.

“What the fuck, Zac?” she demanded, her sheets pulled up around her in an unconscious shield. “Get the hell out of my house!”

He ignored her. “I said ten a.m. sharp and you weren't there. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I'm goddamned fine, okay? Now, get out.”

But all he did was rise smoothly to his feet, towering over her.

Today his suit wasn't black but dark charcoal, with a black business shirt underneath and a beautiful silk tie patterned in silver gray and deep gold. He looked impeccably put together as he always did, and yet somehow that only served to make him seem even more dangerous.

And beautiful.

“Get up,” he ordered in the kind of tone she recognized from the day before. The one that brooked no argument.

She bristled. “And you can get fu—”

He bent and, before she could move, ripped the bedding out of her hands and off the bed. Stifling a yelp of protest, she scowled up at him, trying to resist the urge to curl in on herself.

His whisky-colored eyes swept a glance over her. “Do you always sleep fully clothed?”

“Most of the time, yeah. In case bastards like you get into my house without asking and start—”

“When you sleep with me, you'll be naked.” He said it like it was already a done deal. “But I like you're still in my shirt.”

All sorts of answers went through her head, ranging from “I will never be sleeping with you” to “Get fucked, asshole.” But she didn't say any of them. There wasn't any point.

She got up, lifting her chin to meet his gaze head-on.

At least, she tried to meet his gaze head-on. But it was difficult for some reason. That gaze of his kept reminding her of the day before, of his weight against her, his hands on her, his heat surrounding her. The memories taunted her, making her feel confused yet again, and she hated it.

He arched a brow at the mattress. “You have something against proper beds? Or is it all furniture you don't like?”

“I like space around me. And I like sleeping on the floor,” she said belligerently. “Now get out. You're trespassing and I want to get changed.”

“You'll need to get used to me being in your space, angel, because I'm not going to put up with you putting distance between us like you have been doing. And as far as getting changed goes, be my guest. I brought you something I want you to wear.” He turned and went over to the only other piece of furniture in the room apart from her mattress, a low chest of drawers. On top of it was a bag, the name of an incredibly expensive lingerie store emblazoned on the front of it. Picking up the bag, he brought it over to her and held it out.

She looked down at it. “What the hell is this?”

“A gift.”

A gift? He'd given her many things over the years, but none of them had actually been “gifts.” It made something uncomfortable twist inside her.

“I don't want—”

“No protests. No arguments. Remember? Take it.”

Muttering a curse under her breath, she snatched the bag from him, making sure their fingertips didn't touch, and opened it. Inside was a mass of tissue paper. She brought it out, dropping the empty bag on the floor and digging through the tissue to find out what was inside.

A bra and panty set of silky, silver lace.

She stared at them then glanced up at him. “I don't understand.”

“There's nothing to understand. You only need to put them on.”

“Why?” she prevaricated, trying to resist the urge to throw the lingerie in his face.

Zac only raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Screw you.”

“There'll be plenty of time for that later.” He glanced down at the heavy Rolex Platinum he wore. “I'm giving you five seconds.”

Prick. “At least get out so I can get changed in private.”

“No.”

“I'm not fucking changing with—”

“Put them on,” he said softly. “Or I'll do it for you.”

She could feel that will of his like a palpable force. Inexorable as the tide, and there was no holding back the tide. Not with sarcasm or wit, sheer stubbornness or anything else, no matter how much she wanted to.

Furious with him for forcing her do this and with herself for making such a stupid fuss about lingerie in the first place, Eva began wrenching her clothes off.

It didn't matter that he wanted her to wear stupid lingerie. And it didn't matter that he wanted to watch her put it on. Hell, it wasn't like she hadn't been naked in front of a man before either. But if he was hoping for a striptease, he was shit out of luck.

His expression was impassive as she tore off her clothes, which for some reason only made her even more furious with him. What was the point of him asking her to get naked when he didn't seem to care one way or the other?

Yet when she took off his shirt, baring her torso, her hands shaking as she did so, ever present fear twisting in her gut, she didn't miss the leap of heat in his eyes.

Clearly he wasn't as impassive as he looked.

“They used to get me to do this in front of them,” she said, hoping her voice sounded hard and cutting, not breathy and thin like she suspected. “The guards did, before I was taken to The Man. They liked to watch before the blindfold went on.” She didn't want to have say it, to go back and revisit it, but she wanted him to know what he was doing to her. What he was making her relive.