Chapter 11
“That old black magic has me in its spell. That old black magic that you weave so well.”
—Johnny Mercer
Josette
The strange, haunted voice whispered over me brought me awake. As soon as I opened my eyes, fear swept through me, the feeling ripping at every muscle. A single moan slipped past my lips. The terror was suffocating as images rushed into the forefront of my mind.
“You’re safe now. Safe with me.”
His voice, dark and husky, seemed as if he was standing next to me. Very slowly, I turned my head, trying to weed through the horrible haze so I could understand what I was seeing.
A room and one I didn’t recognize.
Had I been dreaming? Had I overheard something?
Suddenly, it dawned on me that Sinclair had issued the words. His deep voice and the intense concern had wrapped around me like a soft blanket. So soothing. So defining.
So terrifying.
Images of the handsome, debonair man filtered past the heavy anxiety.
He’d come into my coffee shop and I’d tried to ignore him.
I’d wanted to, even turning away, but the draw to him had been even stronger than before.
A gnawing hunger had overplayed the fury I’d felt.
I’d spent the day convincing myself he’d somehow lied to me, pretending to be something he wasn’t.
The moment he’d walked in, all my resolve had faded.
But then the same strange man had walked in. He’d acted fidgety and…
Oh, my God.
The events began to spiral in my mind.
Pictures. Of me.
A masked man.
A gun held to my head.
Shots fired.
A fight.
Then… Anguish.
Pain swelled in my temple, my vision slightly blurry.
I was instantly paralyzed as another wave of terror rushed through me.
A slight vision shoved the others aside. I’d been in Sinclair’s arms. He’d carried me.
And the way he’d looked at me had been…
Predatory.
Possessive.
Shivering, I took several deep breaths before attempting to move to a sitting position, surveying the area around me, wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the covers.
My shoes had been removed, both neatly positioned only a few inches away.
Breathe and think. Pay attention. Wincing, I studied every inch of my surroundings.
I’d been placed in what appeared to be a room in a house, the bedroom suite almost as large as my entire apartment.
I shifted my hand to my aching head, realizing a bandage covered a portion of my forehead. Where the hell was I?
The man from the coffee shop. Oh, God, no. Wait. That wasn’t right. He’d left and…
Returned.
The pictures. I’d barely had a chance to look at them. Where was my phone? My purse? I almost panicked as I studied the room, seeing nothing that belonged to me. I had to will myself to keep from plunging into a panic attack.
Gunfire. Had Sinclair been shot?
My mind was far too jumbled, thoughts and images colliding together, making absolutely no sense.
Indiana. Where was my dog?
No. No. No. He was all alone.
For a beat, I was frozen with fear, my thoughts drifting to the possibility that the masked assailant had kidnapped me.
I closed my eyes briefly, trying to picture the asshole’s face.
After a few seconds, it came to me, the scarred man not nearly as terrifying as the look of hunger crossing Sinclair’s face.
I dared not move, doing little more than concentrating on my breathing. After what Tilly had told me, I’d gone home determined to find out everything I could about him. What I’d found had been a mixture of praise and condemnation.
He was adored by the female population, his life of luxury rivaling that of a movie or rock star.
That had earned him a reputation as being a ladies’ man, a true playboy since he was rarely seen with the same woman twice.
Various photographs all depicted him as a sharp dresser, his gorgeous face and muscular body taking center stage.
Yet even the photographs, as glossy and glitzy as they were, hadn’t done him justice. Just thinking about him brought another shiver and for an entirely different reason than waking up in strange surroundings.
There were articles on him written several years before, several depicting him as a true savage in his methods of business. While not one reporter had dared label him as a criminal or a killer, their words had alluded to the kind of criminal activity that should terrify anyone.
Was I trying to sugarcoat who and what he was in my mind? He killed people for a living. He destroyed lives, whether by the stroke of a pen or with a weapon.
He was a true monster.
Shuddering, I carefully lowered my legs to the floor, taking a few seconds before daring to try to rise to my feet. A window was right in front of me, the blinds partially opened allowing me to see nothing but trees, including a magnolia tree. That could mean I hadn’t been taken from the city.
That was at least comforting.
I knew better, but I prayed whoever had taken me had brought my purse and my phone. I was all alone with no way of getting help. Indy. Had I left enough water? He hated to make messes in the house. He’d hold it as long as he could.
Sin was a motherfucking asshole for doing this.
When I tried to stand, I almost fell back on the bed. I was weak, the air from the ceiling fan above creating an intense chill. Noticing a water bottle, I realized just how thirsty I was. As soon as I reached for it, I slumped against the bed. Had I been drugged? How long had I been out?
With my hand shaking, I shut down my thoughts and concentrated on cracking the water bottle. My lips and throat were parched. A few seconds later, I felt strong enough to try standing again.
Wherever I’d been taken, the furniture was gorgeous, every detail straight out of a posh magazine. Modern with a beachy flair, there was a meticulousness about it, as if everything was required to have its place.
Just like Sinclair.
A cold shiver remained as I inched away from the bed, taking careful steps toward the door, my entire arm shaking as I tried the handle. Locked. I wanted to pound on the thick wood, demanding my release, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I pressed my ear to the door, straining to listen.
I couldn’t get his face out of my mind; the way he’d gazed at me with a burning look of hunger or the moment when the attacker had grabbed me around the neck.
It was as if Sinclair owned me and wouldn’t dare let another man place a hand on his possession.
I’d felt that way the moment he’d locked eyes with mine from across the street.
Or maybe that had been wishful thinking. This was something else entirely.
Jesus, I could still feel his hand on my face. Was that even possible?
What if he hadn’t saved me? Whoa. Everything was wrong with the way I was thinking. As I stepped back, my legs shaking, I bit my lower lip to keep from moaning. Why was I here?
My thoughts drifted to Indiana once again. At least thinking about him grounded me.
There was light outside. Late morning light. No… I’d slept through the night. My baby. Oh, my God. He was all alone. Panic tore through me and I tried the door again, this time banging on it. “Let me out. You can’t keep me.”
But with someone like Sinclair Prince, he could do anything he wanted and from what I’d read, no one would dare try to stop him.
Including the police.
I was trapped.
I was his prisoner.
He could do anything he wanted with me. I had to get out of here.
I returned to the window, flicking the lock, thankful the window opened easily.
As the fresh, humid air hit me, I was surprised at the incredible floral fragrances floating through the air.
It was as if the house was positioned in a place of paradise.
Yet not for me.
My fingers clawed at the screen, finally managing to pop it loose, but the metal and mesh slipped from my fingers, floating to the ground below.
With one darted look out the window, I realized I was on the third floor with nothing to help me climb down or break my fall.
At minimum, I would likely break a leg or an ankle. Jumping wouldn’t work.
My body aching, I moved through the room, searching for anything I could use to try to pry open the door.
There was nothing, as if the room had been wiped clean of anything I could possibly use as a weapon or something heavy enough to drive through the thick wooden door.
The only things in the room other than the pillows and the sheets on the bed were two pictures hanging on the walls.
One of a wild-looking woman in a bright red dress.
Another of a gothic mythological creature.
While the man had taste in almost everything, that didn’t include art. They were horrific. For some reason, concentrating on how ugly they were made me laugh.
After several minutes of searching, I became exasperated. Just before slumping down on the bed to catch my breath, I heard footsteps.
Another more defining wave of fear tore through me. Given my past, my instincts had been honed, my body trained not only to react as necessary to danger but also to fight back. I grabbed the only thing I could use to defend myself.
I ripped a picture off the wall, moving behind the door.
As the door opened, I heard a low and husky growl, the sound permeating the room.
“What the hell?” the man half whispered before entering.
Without question I recognized his voice, the deep and distinctive baritone sending the same rush of desire into every inch of my body. The same voice that had called me beautiful as he’d thrust his cock deep inside. The same breathlessness he’d had after feasting on my pussy.
Sinclair.
My captor.
When he stepped into the room, I had the element of surprise, bringing the painting down with as much force as my limited strength would allow.
He was quick with his reactions, twisting and trying to grab the edge of the frame, but it was too big and too awkward. I was able to smash it over his head, the frame and canvas briefly holding him captive.