Chapter one #3
I grab it, twisting it furiously around his back, then push his head down so he’s bent double in front of me.
With a tiny movement of my fingers, I flex his arm in the most excruciating position; he wails like a baby.
The music stops, and the room falls into a dead silence before there’s the sound of feet running toward us.
“Don’t touch me,” I tell the oncoming group of youths. A glance tells me they are all in their late teens or early twenties. “One wrong move and I’ll break his arm.” My captive screams again with another slight movement. “Now, tell me, where is Tilly?”
“I’m here,” a bored female voice answers. “I’m assuming my father sent you to collect me.”
“Your uncle,” I correct her.
“Good old Daddy never gets his hands dirty by talking to the riffraff. Will you let him go, please? I’m here now. You don’t need to snap his arm.”
“What if I want to?” We focus on each other, and she grins. Her face lights up with the gruesome but playful banter.
“As much as I would love to see that display of manliness, Greyson.” My eyes bug a fraction on her using my name before I can rearrange my features back to neutral. She smirks. “Yes, I know who you are. We’ve met before.”
I always thought the woman was so self-obsessed that she didn’t know who anyone was; we were all merely staff or annoyances in her life.
“I believe Reece requires his arm to play polo,” she continues. “I would hate for our little misunderstanding to be why he doesn’t win whatever metal cup he’s chasing in the new year.”
I let go of my prisoner who proceeds to spin, stagger, and take a swing at my face. I step back and glare at him.
“Now, that was stupid,” I advise, and he glowers at me.
A swift punch to his cheekbone leaves him lying on the floor, cradling his face with no doubt of who is in charge of the situation.
“You can still ride a fucking horse with a broken face. Don’t swing at a man who could end you in a heartbeat. I suggest you learn to pick your battles; this is one you will never win.”
Tilly chuckles then rolls her eyes. “Boys will be boys,” she mutters. “Jeez, there’s more testosterone in here than at a strong-man competition.” She pulls her long blonde hair up into a ponytail on top of her head as her eyes dance between me and my victim on the floor.
“Are you ready to leave?” I ask her.
She’s wearing a simple, white fitted dress with a low neckline and a hem that finishes just below her ass. Her breasts sit pert as if pushed up to her azure-blue eyes. She looks like a slightly deranged Barbie doll.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replies with a smirk, turning and then walking away.
Then I notice the bright red thong shimmering through the light material.
Long, slender legs stride away on ankle-breaking high heels.
Hell, she looks hot, and also as if she couldn’t care less about my presence or the fact her so-called boyfriend is still writhing around on the floor.
“Don’t walk away from me,” I shout to her.
“Piss off,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Just report to my asshole uncle you couldn’t find me. Take a few more days off then tell him you searched far and wide. Book a spa.”
She stops then turns to face me. “You look like you could use some rest, Greyson.”
The R in my name rolls off her tongue like silk.
My heart thuds in my chest. “I mean, what age are you? Forty?”
“Thirty-five,” I shoot back. Immediately, chastising myself for even responding. “And you’re still twenty-two and under your family’s protection until you belong to your husband.”
“I am not marrying that ancient, disgusting man,” she retorts, waving me away.
“He’s old enough to be my grandfather.” She spins on her heel, strutting away from me as if done with the conversation.
My mind whirls considering who her future husband could be; I had automatically assumed it would be one of the younger sons in an associated mafia family.
Our audience watches as I run up behind her, grabbing her around the waist. She squeals, then whips around, trying to poke my eye with her finger. She misses, but her sharp red nail grazes the skin on my cheek.
“Your uncle was right; you are still a handful,” I tease.
I pin her arms to her sides, and she faces me.
Those stunning eyes glare red, livid at being restrained.
“But if I need to bind and gag you, I will. I have a paycheck to collect, and you’re the package I need to deliver. Whether you want to go or not.”
“Charming.”
“I will never be anyone’s Prince Charming,” I say and grin, then hoist her over my shoulder.
Her hands frantically beat my back as I stride from the house.
She shrieks and kicks her legs hard. One glittery shoe parts company with her foot and lands on the head of an unsuspecting partygoer.
“Quiet, Blondie. You’re going back to London whether you want to or not. Shut up and make this easier on all of us.”
“Are none of you bastards going to help me?” she shouts to her so-called friends. No one replies; the group simply watches as I tie her arms to her sides with rope from my trunk, then bundle her into the back of the car before driving off.