One second I’m swimming idly back towards my clothes, frowning a little when I can’t see anything where I thought I’d left them, the next, something has caught my ankle. I kick—hard—to dislodge the plant. Then as my brain registers that no fish or pond weed is as heated as what holds me, panic overtakes. A hand—warm and male and uncompromising—clamps over my mouth.
I yell but it comes out as a muffled squeal, and there’s no one to hear anyway. I picked this spot to swim because it’s deserted.
Panic crashes through me.
I thrash, kicking out against him, striking his shins. I fight like my life depends on it, which it probably does. He grunts as my elbow connects with solid chest muscle. I draw back and try to shove him again, harder, but it doesn’t connect. Scrabbling for the riverbed, soft wet mud squelches beneath my toes and a little fish wriggles free from under my heel. Lucky fish.
I’m not so fortunate. My flailing arm hits skin, and there’s an “oof” from my assailant. I lash out again, but this time he’s prepared, catching my wrist.
“Stop it, you little fool.” A snarl.
I freeze as my mind whirls. I’d know that voice anywhere.
King.
What does the boss of Camden want with me?
King uses my momentary shock to grab my other wrist too and pin them together at my tummy.
My feet slip and I fall hard forwards before he yanks me against his chest.
My stomach heaves and his hand absorbs my sob.
I know the answer. Last time I saw him, I tried to kill him. He hasn’t forgotten, and he wants revenge. Never mind that I failed.
Pinned.
I’m totally pinned.
My chest heaves. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to die.
This is not how I wanted to die.
The brutal threat to life is why I got out of Camden and all the deadly machinations of that world. I want to tend plants. I want to see beautiful things. I want revenge against King for murdering Trudy, yes, and I’ve been plotting that, quietly. But I want to live.
“Stop fighting and you’ll be safe.”
And if ever there were words to make me hysterical, it’s those. Bad things happen to women who are caught by Camden men. I should know. I nearly married one.
I struggle with every part of my body. I swear even my useless appendix is trying to get away from King. I attempt to bite his fingers, but they’re too tight over my mouth. My legs are kicking the water so much it’s boiling around us, and I’m striking his knees, his thighs, his calves.
It’s no use. The river flows past, and no one is coming to help as King carries me to the far bank. Away from my clothes and knife. Away from where I walked the half mile from my car. Far from my small safe life.
He’s saying soft comforting things like I’m a wild animal he’s trying to calm as he slaughters it. I don’t hear them. He drags us out of the water, slipping a little on the muddy riverbank, but never letting up.
I go limp, thinking I can get to the ground and roll away free. But King isn’t falling for that. With ruthless efficiency he gags me with his tie, binds my wrists behind my back with what I guess is his leather belt, and my ankles with his suit jacket.
He doesn’t notice my little fitness tracker attached to my swimming costume, but it won’t do me any good either way. It’s an old piece of junk I only still use because I have years of swim records on it. Sitting me up against a tree trunk, he wraps his shirt around my shoulders and wrings the water out of my hair with surprisingly gentle hands.
I try to head butt him, but he dodges away, laughing softly.
Only then does he step into his suit trousers, buttoning them slowly. He’s still dripping with water and his chest glistens in the sunlight.
I glare at him.
My kidnapper is irrefutably beautiful. He has a boxer’s physique, with taut muscles and broad shoulders. He’s all grace and tightly held power that would shatter worlds if he unleashed it.
He’s gorgeous, menacing, and has me completely within his control. Shamefully, that last one heats the core between my legs. He cannot find out that he turns me on. That would be the end.
I test my bonds, not bothering to hide what I’m doing. He expects it.
“They’re tight, Olivia.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He heaves a sigh, crosses his arms, and scowls at me like this is my fault that he kidnapped and tied me up.
“I guess we’d better go home,” he says under his breath, resigned.
I shake my head desperately. Not where my father went missing, Trudy died, and Henry Senior’s ghost is said to walk. There’s a reason I escaped. I can’t go back there.
I don’t expect my response to do anything, but King’s brows snap together, then relax.
“No, not the castle. My home.”
Oh.
I didn’t know he had another home.
“If I untie your feet, will you try to escape?”
I roll my eyes in the only reply that idiocy of a question deserves.
“Yes, of course you will. I’ll carry you.”
I expect him to put me over his shoulder in an undignified fireman’s lift, but he scoops me up in his arms like a lover carrying his bride over the threshold.
Except I’m his captive.
And tied up.
And I’m the furthest thing from his bride.
How the hell am I going to get away? About all I can do is headbutt him, and I’m already exhausted from fighting and he is utterly unperturbed. There’s no point and his warmth is strangely comforting against my side.
I turn the situation around in my head, twisting it like a Rubik’s cube, but I can’t see a way out. I can’t see a solution. I’ll have to wait for my opportunity. Then we’re at his car—a massive black SUV that says luxury and bulletproof glass—and he’s placing me carefully into the passenger seat.
He killed Trudy, Henry Senior, and quite possibly my father. Maybe people in Camden blamed him for my death, even though I escaped.
Now, he’s going to kill me.
Unless I get to him first.
We’re not in the car for long, since he can fly a helicopter. Of course he can. And there’s no one around to say, hey, maybe don’t kidnap that girl, as he carries me across the tiny airfield outside the city.
We head southwest, and I think we’re in Cornwall by the time he lands.
If only I didn’t have this tie in my mouth, I’d tell him how I’m going to kill him wherever he takes me. Slowly.
I blink in surprise as I see where we are. Instead of… I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t a cute little stone cottage nestled in the hills. There’s no one—not even another house—within sight.
King sighs when he looks across at me and shakes his head. “You’ll still run, won’t you?”
And that’s how it ends up he carries me—what am I, a bloody doll?—into what I suppose is his house.
“Where are we?” I demand as he removes my gag after placing me onto a squashy leather sofa. The room is small and low ceilinged. There’s a feature exposed stone fireplace, a plush carpet, and shelves and shelves of books. Cosy.
King, in his expensive suit trousers and nothing on top, is lighting a fire, even though it’s summer.
“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. There’s no point in escaping. I own the whole area.”
It’s not like I thought he’d answer truthfully. It hardly matters, as I’m on my own either way. My only defence outside of Camden was anonymity. There’s no one I can call.
“Why am I here?” More to the point, why hasn’t he killed me?
My wrists ache from trying to break out of my restraints, but while his back is turned again, I try to wriggle a gap.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go once it’s safe.”
What does that mean? “I was safe before you kidnapped me.”
“No. You weren’t.”
“Like hell.”
“Olivia.” He leaves the fire and stands over me. I drag my gaze up his body until our eyes meet. I’m flushed from my cheeks to my squirmy insides. He really needs to put on some more clothes so I can concentrate on escaping. As it is, all I can do is feel the echoes of him holding me to him. All I can think about is how it would feel to be pinned down by him again, but in a bed this time. To be pinned by a specific part of his anatomy. My imagination is hazy on that detail, but the thought of his weight on me, his strong hands making wicked mischief…
Despite the silver at his temples, King is in great shape. His still-bare chest is toned and scattered with black hair that leads down to the v pointing to where his trousers begin. His shoulders are wide and his arms bulge with muscles. Biceps? Triceps? Who knows. They make my mouth water.
He is, frankly, gorgeous.
He’s at least forty years old to my twenty, and it’s embarrassing how much that turns me on. All that experience and knowledge. And yes, the danger is part of the appeal. Not when it’s used against me, like Henry did, but in the abstract… I can’t help but want all that masculine force protecting me.
Except, that’s not what’s happening here, is it?
“I’m still dirty with river water, and so are you.”
I didn’t mean that to sound suggestive, but King’s eyes flare as soon as I’ve said it, and I would kick myself if I wasn’t tied up. But then… “Maybe we could shower?”
I can’t pretend that isn’t a hint. Because it’s occurring to me that this might not be as bad as I had first anticipated. There’s sexual tension crackling as brightly between us as the fire behind King.
“Right. And you need something better to wear.”
Quite honestly, I’m kinda liking his shirt, if not anything else about this situation.
Okay, I’m wet and horny as hell for him, but I’m not telling anyone that.
I swore I’d murder him for what he did to Trudy. I’ve been planning how to kill him and haven’t forgotten. I imagined it would be poisoning his food or blowing up his car. But no, I think I’ll revert to a knife. There must be one in the kitchen.
So this hint of flirtation and blaze of attraction in King’s eyes serves my purpose threefold. Gain his trust. Fog his senses with lust. Try not to lose myself in the process. Get revenge for Trudy and my father. Escape.
Simple.
