Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
S he was trying not to freak out.
Harlow’s mouth was dry, and she was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of a shiny, black, lacquered desk.
There was a man at the door in an ill-fitting suit, with an obvious gun holstered at his side.
She swallowed, her chest so tight it hurt. She had vague memories of the couple in the ladies’ room at ONE65, a scratchy-feeling wig on her head, and then just haziness. She’d come to slumped in this fancy office.
“Why am I here?” She’d already asked once, but Mr. Scowly was not a talker.
Again, he didn’t respond.
The office had no windows, which was weird.
It was a little over-decorated for her taste, with lots of black, and splashes of red, and a lot of weapons displayed on the wall.
There were swords, knives, and even a crossbow.
It all looked expensive. In a corner was an ornate pedestal that held an old, detailed vase. Maybe Chinese.
Harlow clutched her hands together. Easton would be losing his mind. Her heart bumped in her chest. He’d be looking for her. At least, she hoped he was looking for her.
The office door opened, and she heard a man in the hall murmuring to her scowly guard.
If this was Antoine’s doing, she’d be pissed. He promised them forty-eight hours.
Yeah, well, criminals probably don’t keep their promises, Harlow.
Through the open door, she heard more distant voices—murmurs, laughter. Like there was a party going on.
The door closed again.
As she sat there in silence, the dread inside her grew.
“Can I get some water please? Whatever drug you guys used to kidnap me made me thirsty.”
Mr. Scowly’s glower deepened. He moved to a side table, where a carafe of water and several tall glasses sat. He poured her one, stomped over, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She shot him a glare, then drained the glass.
She’d just set it down, when the door opened.
A thin, stylish woman with salt-and-pepper hair strode in. She wore a sleek black pantsuit with dashes of red details, and a pair of sky-high stilettos. Her hair was cut elfin short, showcasing a long, swan-like neck.
She circled the table and sat. She had whiskey-colored eyes, surrounded by dark eyeliner, and they were like a laser on Harlow.
“So, you’re Harlow Carlson.” The woman’s voice was husky, a smoker’s voice.
Well, this wasn’t a mistake.
“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Rhoda Pierce.”
The woman sat back in her high-backed chair. “Yes, I am.”
“Why did you abduct me? If you wanted to talk, there are normal ways to do that. Phone calls, appointments.”
“I don’t have time for comedy, Ms. Carlson. Your father stole something from me, and I want it back.”
A sick feeling washed over Harlow. Rhoda Pierce’s gaze was direct, flat, and pretty darn scary.
Harlow dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry, but that has nothing to do with me.”
Rhoda cocked her head. “You gave your father money, and you had dinner with Antoine Armand.”
Harlow lifted her chin an inch. “Believe me, I didn’t want to do either of those things. He threatened my father.”
Rhoda smiled—it was sharp and scary. “I’ll do more than threaten him. He came to my gaming tables and lost dismally.”
God . Harlow’s stomach tied into knots. Damn you, Dad . That was his plan? Win money back by gambling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Oh, it’s worse than that, Harlow. Can I call you Harlow?”
“Sure.” Like she had a choice.
“After losing seventy thousand dollars…”
Harlow tasted bile. Seventy thousand? She was going to kill her father herself.
“…he then stole a dagger from my collection.”
Harlow stilled. “What?”
Rhoda opened the laptop on her desk and turned it around. The video on screen showed her father in a suit, shoulders slumped, walking down a wide, red-carpeted hallway. The dramatic art on the walls matched Rhoda’s office.
She watched her father run a hand through his hair, lines cutting deep into his cheeks.
Oh, Dad. He looked so dejected.
Then he paused next to a collection of daggers on the wall, just staring at them.
The knives were small, with curved blades, and jeweled hilts.
Then her father snatched one, tucked it into the internal pocket in his jacket, then hurried out of view.
Oh, no.
“The dagger is from the seventeenth century, from Mughal India. It’s set with emeralds and rubies, and is worth just over a hundred thousand dollars.”
Harlow sucked in sharp breath. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
Harlow matched the woman’s raptor-like stare. “Probably not. Look, my friends will be really worried I’m missing.”
“I don’t care about your friends—”
Suddenly Mr. Scowly’s cell phone rang. He answered it quietly, then Harlow heard him curse.
“Kolar?” Rhoda asked.
“Someone took down the guards out front. We need—”
There was a thump outside the office door.
Harlow gripped the arms of her chair, watching as Rhoda frowned.
The door opened and Vander strode in.
Thank God . Harlow felt a rush of relief.
Vander’s face was its usual expressionless mask, but he was giving off the vibe that he was truly pissed. He’d changed out of his black suit into more black—black jeans, black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket.
His dark-blue gaze glanced at Harlow, scanned her, then looked back at Rhoda.
“You okay, Harlow?”
“Yes, Vander.”
Rhoda stood. “Vander, I had no idea she was yours.”
“She’s Easton’s.” Vander stopped in the center of the office, feet spread. “And I’m surprised you didn’t, since I called earlier to talk about Carlson.”
Rhoda swallowed then swiveled to look at Kolar. “You did?”
Kolar shifted nervously.
“Yeah,” Vander continued. “I was displeased to be blown off, and to have to talk with your lackey.”
“Kolar—”
“You were busy,” the guard bit out. “I dealt with it. I told you I wanted to take on more responsibility.”
“You dealt with it?”
The snap in Rhoda’s voice made Harlow flinch.
“You had your men snatch a Norcross woman?” Rhoda bit out. “That’s dealing with it?”
Harlow was really glad she wasn’t Kolar.
“Harlow.”
She heard the order in Vander’s voice. She shot to her feet and hurried over to him. He touched her cheek briefly, then looked at Rhoda. “She’s not a part of this.”
“Her father owes me money, and stole a dagger from me. An expensive one.”
“Not Harlow’s problem.”
Rhoda’s mouth flattened. “I want Charles Carlson.”
Harlow closed her eyes.
“Get in line.” Vander took Harlow’s arm and pulled her out of Rhoda’s slick office.
He led her down the hall and outside. Night had fallen, and as she glanced around, she realized they were at a warehouse in the Embarcadero.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“They didn’t hurt you?” He led her over toward a black SUV.
“I’m fine.” Except she felt sick to her soul.
“Let’s get you home.”
* * *
Easton paced his home office. Usually, he found the dark-gray wood paneling soothing, but it wasn’t helping today. He’d shed his jacket, and had his sleeves rolled up.
Ace had tracked down Harlow to Rhoda Pierce’s warehouse. Easton had wanted to go, but Vander talked him down. Told him that the situation needed a cool head.
And Easton was anything but cool right now.
His phone buzzed and he saw a message from Vander.
Incoming .
Easton jogged down his circular stairs to the bottom floor, then down one side of the sweeping stairs to the front door.
He opened it to find Vander and Harlow on his doorstep. She looked exhausted.
“Easton—”
He yanked her into his arms. She buried her face against his chest and slid her arms around him.
“She’s okay,” Vander said.
“Thanks, Vander.”
His brother lifted his chin. “Her dad owes Pierce. Lost in the games, then stole some dagger. A collectible.”
Shit . Carlson had dug himself deeper.
Easton felt tension in Harlow’s body. He stroked a hand up her back.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Vander said. “And my guys will keep looking for Carlson.”
“Thank you, Vander.” Harlow’s words were muffled against Easton’s shirt.
“Get some rest, Harlow.” Vander met Easton’s gaze, and a faint grin crossed his face. “Or try to.”
Then Vander turned and jogged down the steps to his black Norcross X6. The SUV’s engine gunned, and then it roared away.
“Come on.” Easton locked the door and led her inside. She was quiet, maybe slightly still in shock.
He guided her into the elevator, and then they exited on the top floor. He tugged her down the hall, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
He led her into his bedroom and she blinked. She spared a quick glance at his modern, black iron four-poster bed, before she took two steps toward the open terrace doors.
It was a little cool to be out on the terrace, but Easton had needed it tonight.
“You can’t be serious with these views,” she breathed.
Easton went down on one knee in front of her, and heard her gasp. Then he helped her out of one high heel, then the other.
He looked up. She was staring at him like she couldn’t believe he was real.
He rose, took her hand, and led her onto the terrace.
He’d already liked the house for its size and investment potential, but this terrace had clinched the deal.
Small lanterns flickered, giving off a golden glow. A square hot tub was set off to the right, and a comfy seating area to the left.
She moved to the carved stone railing and leaned out, her eyes closed, and pulled in a deep breath of the night air.
Easton slipped his hands into his pockets and watched her.
Something in him finally settled for the first time in a very long time. He was most often driven to do , to move , but right now, he was happy to just watch a barefoot Harlow in his house.
Safe. Alive. In his domain.
She stared out to the shadowed Bay. Lights twinkled on the Golden Gate Bridge, and part of San Francisco lay before them, glimmering softly in the night.
“Must be nice to wake up to this,” she said.
“It is.”
Then she shivered.
He took her hand and led her to the outdoor couch. A blanket was folded over the back and he grabbed it, then draped it around her shoulders.
She sat and he reached for the bottle of cognac and glasses he’d left there earlier.
He poured two glasses and handed her one.
She eyed the amber fluid. “What is this?”
“Cognac.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Does it cost a gazillion dollars a bottle?”
“No.” He decided not to mention that it was closer to ten thousand.
She set her shoulders back, one hand gripping the blanket, then she tossed the drink down in one quick gulp. She swallowed and set the glass down on the table with a click. Then she sucked in a few breaths. “Yikes.”
Easton sipped his. “Feeling better?”
“Not really. Thank you for getting me out. Rhoda Pierce is…scary. Although she’s afraid of Vander.”
Easton set his own drink down and took her hand. “You shouldn’t have been taken at all.”
“Is Rome okay?”
“Beating himself up. He takes his job seriously.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“I said I’d protect you—”
“It’s not your fault either. You’ve done nothing but help me. My father on the other hand…” She scowled. “I’m so mad at him right now.”
Easton was just fucking glad she was safe.
“He gambled and lost more money.” She threw her arm out, her cheeks flushed. “Then he stole. What was he thinking?”
“He’s not. He’s afraid, desperate, and fucking up.”
She deflated. “What am I going to do?”
“Your father needs to find a solution. Return Pierce’s property, and then broker a deal to pay back his debts.”
Harlow rubbed her forehead, then looked at him, her gaze running down his arms and lingering on his ink.
“What are you doing with me Easton?” She shook her head. “You should run. Save yourself from this mess. You’re lucky that Antoine and Rhoda are wary of the Norcross name, or they’d be looking at you for my dad’s debts.”
“I’d pay.”
She gasped. “No. No way! I’m not taking a cent of your money. God .”
Desire ignited in his gut. It’d been a slow simmer for weeks, but now it was a five-alarm blaze.
His need for her was a constant gnaw.
“I don’t want to talk about money, or debts, or my dad tonight,” she declared.
“You finished?”
She nodded. “My brain just needs to shut down.”
“Would you like another drink?”
She obviously detected something in his voice. Her gaze flicked to his face, then dropped to his lips. “No.”
Easton turned toward her on the couch, resting his hands on her bare knees.
Her breath hitched.
He slid his hands up to the hem of her dress.
“What would you like to do, Ms. Carlson?”
Her lips parted. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Norcross?”
Fuck . When she called him that, his cock pulsed, hard. He tugged her closer and pulled her onto his lap.
Then he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck and she tilted her head, a faint moan escaping her.
“Why don’t I show you?” he murmured.
“Yes, Mr. Norcross,” she breathed.
Easton’s pulse picked up the pace, his heart thumping. He pulled her face to his and took her mouth.
Her hands drove into his hair. The kiss wasn’t gentle, but it turned rougher, close to brutal.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips.
Heat rolled through him, need a vicious fist in his gut.
“Easton.” She shifted against him, her round ass rubbing over his rock-hard cock. “Touch me.”