“I don’t travel alone, Mr. Hawk. I had tickets booked for my brother, assistant, and wardrobe organiser. Not to mention the excess luggage. They’ll be expecting me. Hell, my assistant will be expecting me back at the hotel tonight. All of this—it’s a waste of time. It’s a waste because the police will be told and if you think my father won’t come for me, you’re mistaken.”
Even as I said it doubt crept over my soul. Tex Weaver shoved me into this nightmare. Why did I think he’d come and bring me home?
Jethro crossed his arms, lips in a tight smile as if I were amusing and not pointing out valid facts. “There were a multitude of mistakes in that paragraph, but I’ll focus only on the relevant points.” Tilting his head, he continued, “Your father is fully aware of everything. Your loyalty to the man who gave you away with no fight is misplaced. His hands are tied and he damn well knows it. As for the police, they have no relevance in your future. Forget about them, your family, hope. It’s over.”
His voice dropped to a growl. “Do you know why it’s over? It’s over because your life is over. There’s so much you don’t know, and so much I can’t wait to tell you.”
He shed his icy exterior, grabbing my hair and jerking my head back. “You’ll learn about your peerage. Your rotten family tree. And you’ll pay. So shut up, give up, and appreciate my kindness thus far because I’m running low on decency, Ms. Weaver, and you won’t like me when I hit my limit.”
My shivers evolved to full blown tremors. “I don’t like you now, let alone in the future. Let me go.”
He surprised me by stepping away, releasing me. My scalp smarted, but I refused to rub my head.
“You’re testing me. But lucky for you, I know how to deal with troublesome pets.”
Pets?
My hands balled.
How did I ever think I wanted him? The fact his lips had been on my face and his thumb in my mouth repulsed me.
Jethro’s gaze drifted down my state of undress. “You’re shaking. I don’t want you getting sick.” His eyebrow quirked. “I’d offer you my jacket, like the chivalrous man I am, but I doubt you’d accept it. However, I have something better.”
Spinning around, he drifted toward a deep shadow cast by one of the large pillars. “Flaw? Get out here. You damn well better be—”
“I’m here.” A man appeared from the shadows. Dressed in black jeans, shirt, and black leather jacket, the only glint of colour came from a simple silver outline of a diamond engraved on the front pocket. He looked like a thief waiting for a victim. “Been here for forty-five minutes. You’re late.” He tossed Jethro a duffel, running a hand through long dark hair. “Lucky for you the flight’s delayed.”
Jethro caught the bag, glaring at the man. “Don’t forget your place. I’m not late according to my rules—not yours.” Manhandling the duffel, he said, “You did as I asked?”
The man nodded. “Everything. Including photographic evidence. It all went smoothly, and the tickets are inside. I’ll take care of the bike, just leave it there. Cushion and Fracture are tracking the Weaver men until you tell them otherwise.”
Jethro pulled out an envelope, then flicked through the contents. He looked up, something resembling a smile gracing his lips. “Good work. I’ll see you back at Hawksridge.”
My ears pricked at the name. It sounded familiar—reeking of old money.
He’s from nobility? The concept of Jethro being a duke or an earl was preposterous, and yet…uncannily perfect. Everything about him was deceptive and…bored. Was that all this was? A game to pass the time for some rich brat who got sick of killing puppies?
I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering—both from disgust and cold. The man named Flaw glanced my way. His eyes narrowed. “He’s expecting you and the woman. I’ll message and let him know it’s gone well.”
“Don’t,” Jethro snapped. His English accent thickened with the demand. “He doesn’t need to know. He’ll see us soon enough.” Dismissing the man as if he was the hired help and no longer required, Jethro stalked toward me, holding out the bag.
Flaw dissolved back into the shadows like a scary apparition.
“This is yours. Get dressed. You won’t be allowed in the building half-naked and shoeless.”
Taking the duffel, I muttered under my breath, “I was dressed in an outfit worth thousands of pounds before you tore it off me.” The loss of my showpiece smarted like an open wound.
I had two wishes—one, that he’d heard me and knew just how pissed I was. And two, that he didn’t hear, because I was afraid of his reaction.
Jethro smirked before turning to his bike.
I opened the bag and promptly dropped it.
Oh, my God. I had to be dreaming. Wake up, Nila. Please, wake up.
My knees buckled, following the bag to the floor. Shaking, I collected the photos sitting on top of a mound of clothes. My clothes. Everything I’d brought to Milan—minus the fashion show apparel and my work tools—running gear, a bikini, sweat pants, pyjamas, and a simple collection of blouses, jeans, and maxi dresses.
But on top of it all rested strewn photographs.
Photo-shopped images that never happened.
Doctored snap-shots of lies. Such horrible, horrible lies.
No one will come.
Jethro was right. The police would laugh if anyone asked for their help. What I held cemented my new life being Jethro’s plaything.
Shuffling through the deck, I couldn’t stop a hot tear searing down my cheek.
There was me—smiling, glowing. I remembered the day. V and I had headed to Paris for a local mid-season show a few years ago. He’d beaten me at poker in a silly pub tournament and a patron snapped an image of us. Laughing, overly warm, arms wrapped around each other in sibling affection, we’d been so happy.
Only Vaughn didn’t exist in this photo. The background had been amended to show a fancy restaurant while the man who clutched me was Jethro.
The smile on his face was the warmest I’d seen. His attire of open-neck black shirt and jeans made him look young, in love, and dashing.
I couldn’t study it anymore. Flicking to another one, I slapped a hand over my mouth.
This one pictured my father and me. Or had. He’d splashed out for the annual staff retreat, and we’d gone on a one week cruise around the Mediterranean. We’d stood with the setting sun dancing on the orange tinted waves, dressed in loose fitting ‘cruise wear’ that I’d created only days before. I’d planted an adoring daughterly kiss on his scratchy face.