by Elle Kennedy
Holding on to the top of his towel, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his green eyes flickering with indifference. “I’m not sure I want to know anymore, Abby. No offense, but you’ve been nothing but trouble since we extracted you from the prison. And I have a feeling that whatever you’re up to, it’s just gonna land us in more trouble.”
Her panic intensified. No. No, she couldn’t let him turn her down. If Noelle wasn’t willing to help, then she needed Kane. She might have stood a better chance of persuading Morgan—he seemed to have a soft spot for her—but Morgan wasn’t here. Kane was, and he was obviously in charge in Morgan’s absence. If she convinced Kane to help, he could convince the others. Maybe not D, but Luke was a good bet. He seemed to have an adventurous streak, so maybe he’d view this rescue as another adventure.
But first… win over Kane.
A heavy silence stretched between them. Leaning forward, Kane rested his palms on his bare knees. Her gaze dropped to his muscular legs, to the bulge in his groin that the thin towel couldn’t hide.
She met his eyes, confidence gathering inside her. Her throat went dry as her mind kicked into business mode. She’d handled men like Kane before. He was strong, yes. Smart. Completely in control. But all men had one weakness, a weakness she’d exploited before and needed to exploit now.
Taking a breath, she took a step toward him and murmured, “What’ll it take to change your mind?”
Chapter 7
Abby Sinclair had completely transformed in front of him. Kane’s mouth went drier than a desert as the redhead moved toward the bed, her blue eyes darkening with sinful promise. The nightshirt she wore stopped just above her knees, revealing a pair of shapely legs, smooth and sexy despite the bruises marring her skin. She was a beautiful woman, and the closer she got, the more his body reacted.
“You’re attracted to me,” she said in a throaty voice. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Kane.”
She edged closer.
“I want your help. You want me.” Raising one delicate eyebrow, she sank to her knees in front of him. “So give me what I want, and I’ll return the favor.”
His skin scorched when her soft, warm hands reached for the bottom of his towel. He couldn’t breathe. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead, his temperature spiking as if he’d just entered a sweltering sauna. Luke had hit pretty close to home earlier—Kane couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten laid. Probably a few months, maybe longer. And the moment Abby parted his towel, his cock sprang up, hard and thick and eager to remedy that statistic.
A dose of pure lust shot through him as Abby circled her fingers around him. She stroked him slowly, her red hair falling over her shoulder to tickle his stiff shaft. Shit. He had to stop this. He knew exactly what she was doing and he wasn’t in the mood for games. He couldn’t—oh fuck. Her lips brushed over his tip.
Kane clenched his fists, gathering willpower. His heart thudded like a drum, his pulse shrieking in his ears like an alarm. Abby took his cock in her hot, wet mouth, sucking gently, and for the life of him, he couldn’t stop himself from arching his hips and pushing himself deeper into that warm recess. Screw it. Why couldn’t he play this game? Why couldn’t he let her do this, lose himself in these out-of-this-world sensations, come inside her mouth, and then—
“No.”
With a groan, he pulled out and stumbled to his feet, his hands clumsily trying to get his towel back in place.
Abby stayed on her knees, looking up at him wearily. Her lips were red and swollen, covered by a sexy sheen of moisture.
The arousal pumping through his veins was joined by the toxic rush of cold fury. “You’re good,” he said roughly. “How many times have you used sex as a weapon, Abby?”
Her shuttered expression was all the answer he needed.
“Fuck,” he burst out. “Jesus, did you even feel anything when you had my cock in your mouth?”
Slowly, she moved to sit up on the bed, long silky tresses of hair falling into her face. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and when she met his gaze, the expressionless look in her eyes nearly tore him apart. “No,” she said quietly. “I didn’t feel anything.”
Disgust crept up his throat. At her, for her complete indifference. At himself, for almost letting her do it.
“Sex…” She released a wobbly breath. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. It never has.”
The raw emotion in her voice—the first sign that she actually gave a damn—made him want to march over and pull her into his arms. He resisted the urge, keeping his hands pressed to his sides. Who was this woman? It annoyed him that he was so incredibly compelled to learn everything he could about her. Why did sex mean nothing to her? What had happened in her life to make her use basic human contact as a weapon?
“I don’t… like it,” she burst out when he still didn’t respond. “Okay? It’s nothing against you. I’m sure other women would cut off their left arms to go to bed with you, Kane.”
“But not you,” he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice.
She shook her head, looking anguished. Then, with another shaky breath, she stood up, suddenly seeming ridiculously small and fragile under that baggy T-shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have done that. You don’t want to help me. I get that. I’ll just… go.”
He watched as she headed for the door, but before she could slide through it, he let out a groan. “Abby. Wait.”
She turned around.
“Just… sit the fuck down, okay?” He moved toward the chair next to the bed and grabbed a pair of jeans. “Let me get dressed and then you can tell me what you want me to do.”
“I think I might have a name. I’m faxing you the details now.”
A wide smile stretched across Devlin’s face as the voice on the other end of the line gave him the news he’d hoped to hear. He’d been hitting brick wall after brick wall for the past two days, ever since he’d flown to Colorado and discovered that Morgan’s previous headquarters now stood abandoned. He’d been hoping for a trail, a way to find the bastards who’d stolen Erica from him, but Morgan was too bloody good to leave a trail. In the end, he’d returned to Blanco’s compound, determined to tap every source imaginable in his search for the bitch.
Now he finally had a lead. He rose from Blanco’s desk chair and drifted over to the fax machine to wait for the pages from his contact. Luis had been surprisingly accommodating, letting Devlin use his study as he hunted down Erica’s true identity. Poor Luis. The man was getting mighty worried that his big event wouldn’t go as planned.
Devlin, on the other hand, didn’t give a damn about the auction. He wanted the woman.
The fax machine whirred to life, spitting out a dozen pages that Devlin hoped would get him exactly what he wanted.
“Is she government?” he said into the phone.
“Not exactly,” answered Kerry Purdue, his contact in the CIA. “Apparently she did some contract work for us, but that was before my time. I couldn’t get my hands on her agency file, but I put together a small dossier on what I could find of her background. So, about the money…”
Devlin rolled his eyes. Greedy Americans. It amazed him how bloody easy it was to buy information these days, particularly from agencies that swore to uphold secrecy and preached about national security.
“Being wired to you as we speak,” Devlin said. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”
He hung up the phone, anticipation building in his gut as he removed the stack of papers from the fax tray. He returned to the desk and glanced at the first page.
Abby Sinclair.
“Abby, Abby,” he murmured under his breath. “I told you I’d find you.”
He flipped through the pages, his excitement growing as he read. His Abby had been born in Los Angeles to a prostitute mother, who died of an overdose when Abby was eight. After that she’d been shuffled to various foster homes—thirteen altogether. The final home she’d lived at was run by a
couple named Susan and Ted Hartford. In the five months she’d lived there, fifteen-year-old Abby had been brought to the emergency room eighteen times. Abuse, physical and sexual, was suspected, but no charges had been filed. Interestingly, Ted Hartford had disappeared six weeks after Abby was removed from his care.
The adoption papers caught his attention. A man named Jeremy Thomas had filed the papers. An ex-Ranger, no other background details. Interesting.
He picked up the phone and dialed Purdue’s number. “There’s no information about Jeremy Thomas,” he barked when his contact picked up. “Can you get me more?”
“Not unless I want to get canned. Red flags were popping up all over the place when I typed in Thomas’s name. The CIA and military databases refused me access.”
“Keep trying,” Devlin snapped, then hung up.
He skimmed through the file again, but the papers didn’t tell him who his sweet Abby was currently working for. Government was highly unlikely; seemed like she preferred working independently. Private contractor, then.
A name suddenly caught his eye.
Dr. Amanda Silverton.
“Poor Abby,” he clucked to himself. “Five years under the care of a shrink. What kind of baggage do you have, luv?”
The better question was, how could he use it against her?
He reached up to touch the patch covering his left eye. Fury spiraled through his body, followed by a rush of bloodlust that made his fingers tingle. That bitch had taken his fucking eye. He couldn’t wait to wrap his fingers around her pretty neck and squeeze the life out of her.
But not right away. Oh no. First he’d ravage her body. Cut off her fingers and toes, one by one. Rip both her fucking eyes out.
Saliva pooled in his mouth, the images sliding through his brain so appealing that he felt himself growing hard.
Dr. Amanda Silverton. 2345 Sunset Terrace, Bakersfield, California.
He quickly dialed another number. “Get the plane ready,” he said when Blanco’s pilot answered the phone. “I have business in California.”
“So what do you think?” Abby asked tentatively.
Kane didn’t answer. Sitting in the chair near the bed, he’d been silent for nearly five minutes, his eyebrows drawn together, his green eyes revealing nothing. She’d told him everything she knew. About Blanco, Lucia, the auction. When she’d described how she’d purposely gotten caught, he’d frowned deeply, evidently displeased with what she’d done. But she wasn’t about to defend herself to this man.
She also wasn’t about to tell him how she’d lied to him just now.
Did you even feel anything?
She thought of the way he’d filled her mouth, the way his shaft throbbed against her tongue, and her entire body grew hot. God, she’d felt something. In that moment, her breasts had grown heavy, tingly, and there had been a dull ache between her legs. How was that possible? She’d performed oral sex on men before, spread her legs for them when the situation required it, and not once, not even once, had her body responded in any way.
Until tonight.
Maybe she was just tired. Or maybe her injuries were somehow creating these weird sensations in her body.
She couldn’t be attracted to this man. She couldn’t be.
“The only entrance to the bunker is through the prison,” Kane finally said, sounding thoughtful.
“Yes.” She paused. “Your team got into the prison once. You can do it again, right?”
He shook his head, a lock of blond hair falling onto his strong forehead. “We went in there to get you. One person, Abby. You said there’s twelve, thirteen girls down there?”
She nodded. Tried desperately not to picture those dirty, terrified faces, but the image was burned in her mind.
“They’re taken care of, though,” she said. “The guards give them food and water, so they’re not starving or dehydrated. I think they can make it out without much help.”
“It’s too risky. We can’t go in the same way we did last time. We’d have to lead a dozen girls across that compound, get them to the fence and then run to the clearing. I’m sure Blanco beefed up security after we got you out. The compound will be swarming with guards. Chances are, most if not all the girls will be shot down, not to mention me and my team.”
He was right. Abby bit her lip, wincing when her teeth sank into a healing cut. Fortunately it didn’t rip open. She ran her tongue along the cut, soothing the ache. “Damn it. I was in that prison, Kane. I could have—”
“Done nothing,” he finished. A sharp laugh burst out of his chest. “I can’t decide if you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met or the stupidest.”
Her nostrils flared. “I had a chance to get them out.”
“No, you didn’t. In your condition, you’d have been lucky to get the girls out of the prison without fainting.” When she tried to object again, he held up his hand to silence her. “We’d need to place someone on the inside.”
“I was on the inside,” she muttered.
Kane ignored the remark. “A bidder,” he said suddenly, his eyes becoming animated.
“Huh?”
“We need someone to pose as a prospective bidder. Someone who can get an invitation to the auction.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want to pretend to be interested in buying a sex slave?”
“No, not me. It’ll take more than a week to get the kind of cover in place that we’d need for this to work. Besides, Devlin knows me. We need someone he won’t recognize.” His forehead creased in thought. “I think I know who could do it.”
“Who?” She couldn’t hide the urgency in her tone.
Without answering, Kane got to his feet. “Let me make a few calls and talk to the guys, okay?” Moving toward the bedroom door, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Go down to the living room and read a book or something. I might be a while.”
She shot up from the bed. “Wait—so you’re going to help?”
He hesitated in the doorway, his broad shoulders sagging a little. “Maybe,” he said, and then he was gone.
Maybe? Abby stared after him in dismay, that feeling of helplessness once again rising in her chest. She’d been hoping for a more solid commitment from him. Noelle hadn’t seemed enthusiastic about the idea, which meant Kane and the men were her only option. She supposed she could call some of her colleagues, but Noelle’s chameleons rarely took on assignments without approval from the boss. Isabel might do it, if Abby played her cards right. Other than Noelle, Isabel Roma was probably the closest thing Abby had to a friend, but again, her participation would rely on what Noelle said to her.
Damn.
She left Kane’s bedroom and went back to her own, where she slid a pair of yoga pants up her legs, then changed into a loose yellow tank top. The welts caused by Devlin’s whip still hurt and tight clothing probably wouldn’t help them heal. Sleep might do the trick, but she was too wound up to go back to bed now. It was past one a.m. and she was wide-awake.
After pacing the guest room for a few minutes, she released a sigh and decided to follow Kane’s advice. It took her a few moments of wandering the enormous main floor before she finally found the living room. The sheer size of it made her raise her eyebrows, but even she couldn’t deny it was cozy. The ceiling was massive, a crisscross of wooden beams that looked as though they belonged in a hunting lodge or a fancy ski chalet. Plush leather couches, set up in an L shape, took up half of the room, while a large stone fireplace and a few comfortable-looking recliners filled the other half. Tall oak bookshelves and beautiful oil landscapes lined the walls, lending both warmth and elegance to the large space.
Abby approached one of the shelves and studied the titles, eventually selecting a hardcover edition of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Hemingway had always intrigued her. She’d attended a lecture about him once, given by a feminist who admonished the author for portraying women as either castrators or love slaves, angels or demons. Which would she be? Abby had always wond
ered. She’d played the part of love slave. Castrator too. Maybe even a demon.
But never an angel.
Drawing in a breath, she got comfortable on one of the couches, pulling a dark blue wool afghan over her legs to keep warm. She opened the first page of the book and began to read.
Several hours passed—she could tell from the faint glow of light beginning to stream in from the large bay window overlooking the barren courtyard. Dawn was approaching. And Kane still hadn’t returned.
When the sound of footsteps came from the hall, she lifted her head, anticipation gathering in her body. Finally.
“Do you have an answer for me—” Her words died in her throat when D rather than Kane strode into the living room.
Wearing a pair of black track pants and a sleeveless black shirt that hugged his impressive chest, D leaned against the doorframe, his black eyes stormy. “Kane’s on the phone.” Sarcasm clung to his gravelly voice. “But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know he’s decided to undertake this suicide mission of yours. Morgan’s on board too. He and Holden are on their way back, and Trevor’s already on a plane. He should be here in a few hours. Bet you’re mighty pleased.”
The hostility radiating from his lean, muscular body wasn’t lost on her. “Who’s Trevor?” she asked cautiously.
“One of the team. Just lost his fiancée too.” D’s lips tightened. “He’ll probably be so distracted he’ll get himself killed, which is probably why he’s doing this.”
Abby hid her confusion. She had no idea who Trevor was, or why he had a death wish, but she decided not to question it right now. D was evidently pissed off at her and looking to land a few cheap shots. Well, fine. She’d let him. As long as what he said was true, and Kane was truly on board, she wasn’t complaining.
“Kane told you what’s going on?”
D nodded, his eyes cold and relentless.
“And you don’t think it’s a good idea to help those girls?”
His big shoulders stiffened as he stepped into the living room. To her surprise, he sat down beside her on the sofa. Her eyes were instantly drawn to his tattoos, focusing on the lethal-looking dragon that looked like it was about to take flight off his shoulder.