Chayton (2 page)

The prickle on the back of his neck confirmed his initial suspicion: someone was in the suite. Weaponless, he flexed his bare hands to loosen the stiff muscles, and began stalking the room. The material of his clothing—a black button down and black suit slacks—shifted silently against his skin with every step. He found no one under the bed or hiding behind the sofa near the wall. Advancing into the master bath, he cleared the shower, jetted tub and the nook beside the counter.

Nothing.

That left the closet.

Chayton approached, quieter now that he knew where to find his adversary. The half-cracked door didn't allow enough room for him to slip inside, risking a creaky hinge that would give him away when he opened it further. There was no other way in. Grasping the door's edge, he eased it wider, pleased when the hinges made no noise at all.

The attack came from the left, a wild flurry of motion and pale color and something sharp that jabbed him right below his eye. Grunting, he recoiled and reached out to grab, then pin, the flailing arms of his attacker. Chayton didn't feel blood trickle down his cheek from the new wound, small mercy. Likewise, his eye wasn't aversely affected by the impact. He wrenched a hanger out of the grip of someone much smaller than himself and tossed it aside on the floor.

Had the weapon been a knife, the attack would have rendered him blind in one eye.

“Get off me! You're not taking me back there!” the woman spat. She flung her head forward, attempting a headbutt. Her forehead glanced off his chin, a near miss.

“Hold still,” he snarled. It was like trying to hold down a wildcat. For such a small frame and delicate limbs, she had a lot of fight in her.

“The hell with you!” she shouted.

Chayton pinned her arms behind her back this time, senses filled with the same perfume that had tipped him off near the door. Alcohol, too, though this came from her breath. If the trafficking ring had sent her to 'deal with him', they'd chosen poorly.

He muscled her out of the closet and into the large, master bathroom. Here, where there was a little more light, he caught a glimpse of a maid's uniform and had a momentary setback. Was this part of the disguise to get her into his room under everyone else's radar? Or had he just startled a maid who decided to defend herself first and explain later?

Struggling, she gasped when he trapped her body against the sink, effectively blocking her in. She said, “Get
off
me, you heathen.”

“Not until you tell me what you're doing lurking in my closet,” he said, his voice a quiet growl. She'd almost put his eye out. The woman couldn't be more than five-five, even with shoes on. Built delicate, he noticed the uniform seemed a bit of an ill fit, a shade too big around the waist and bust. Blonde hair had been piled into an artful knot, accentuating the sweet oval shape of her face. Smooth skin offset a pair of stormy gray eyes. The glow coming from a nearby window highlighted her fragile bone structure, pronounced jaw line, and gently curved chin. Her mouth was soft and lush and very slightly pink, as if she'd spent the better part of the evening gnawing the flesh with her teeth. She was the kind of woman you found on the arm of a wealthy man at some extravagant party, not someone who dealt with the hard men of the trafficking rings.

“I don't have to tell you anything,” she said between one heavy breath and the next. “And I'm
not
going back. He can't
make
me marry him. You tell him I said so.”

Chayton frowned, towering over her and using his body to keep her pinned against the counter. He had no idea what she was talking about. “You need to start explaining. Right now. Who is trying to make you marry him? Or is that just a clever ploy to throw me off track?”

For several minutes, they stared at each other. Wearing a frown, the woman—Penelope—searched his eyes while he searched hers. Something felt very off here, Chayton thought, and started to believe that she really had nothing to do with the trafficking ring. The strident nature of her retort struck him as coming from the heart, rather than a contrived reply. Still, he'd been around the block a time or two and knew really good actors could pull off just such a stunt, throwing their adversary off track.

“You know very well who I'm talking about. You've been stalking me for the past two weeks.”

“I'm going to give you ten seconds to tell me what's going on, and then things are going to get ugly. Your choice—the easy way, or the hard way.” Chayton threw down the gauntlet. There was more than one way to get to the truth and he would pull out all stops in his quest for answers.

Oh, this was not going at all how she'd hoped. Upon hearing the door open, she'd hid in the closet out of an irrational fear that the henchmen had found her. The following silence had unnerved her to the point she'd slipped a hanger off the rack for self defense. Had it been a normal guest, she would have heard the usual things: shoes coming off, a television turning on, perhaps a conversation via cell phone.

Not only didn't she hear those things, she hadn't heard
anything.
Not the slightest sound. The looming shadow appearing in the closet solidified her worst
fears—they knew she was here.

Staring up at the henchman with all his wounds and frowning eyes, Kate considered her options. Tell him what he already knew, or fight for all she was worth in hopes she got lucky and escaped. He was strong, though, pinning her against the counter with almost too much ease. Rather than an overload of obscene muscle, he was built leaner, more honed and sleek. Kate didn't think she could take him.

“Look,” she said with a desperate swipe of her tongue across her lower lip, “I'll pay you three times what he's paying you. All you have to do is let me go. I'll give you cash, and you can just say I surprised you and got away.”

The man's brows arched. “Who, exactly, do you think is paying me?”

“Are you going to make me spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“Anton Bertini. That low life, murdering swine. Are you happy now?” The few swallows of alcohol she'd imbibed threatened to unravel her fury and bring tears to her eyes at the mention of murder. No, she wouldn't give any of them the satisfaction of seeing her pain. And that slightly bemused look on the man's face wouldn't sway her one bit. This bastard was trying to play her like a fiddle.

“What if I told you that I had no idea who Anton Bertini is, and that I had nothing to do with...whatever you're involved in? What if I could prove it?”

Surprised, Kate frowned. He looked and sounded quite sincere. Could she have the wrong person? Had she been totally mistaken? Then why had he crept through the suite and how had he known just where to find her?

“How are you going to prove it?”

“Have you ever heard of Luxe Resorts?”

She scoffed and nearly announced she was a member. The exclusive Resorts, spanning the globe, were one of her favorite getaways. “Of course I've heard of them. Everyone on God's green earth has.”

His mouth tipped into a tight smile. “Who owns and operates them?”

“Are you ever going to get to the point?” she asked with no small amount of irritation.

“Just answer the question.”

“The Black family.”

“That's right. Will you hold still for a moment if I release you?”

“Yes.” Kate would do anything to put some space between them.

He hesitated, searching her eyes again. Then he released her hands but didn't move his body. Reaching into a back pocket, he withdrew a leather wallet and produced a Montana driver's license with his picture clearly on the front. Along with his name.

Chayton Black.

“You don't expect me to believe
you're
related to the Black family that owns the Luxe Resorts, do you?” Being a member, Kate thought she recalled literature somewhere that had Chayton's name on it. A niggling feeling remained, even after he slid the identification away and re-pocketed the wallet. Perhaps she'd heard it in the elite circles she frequented right up until her untimely disappearance from society.

“We can even look it up on the internet. Yes, I'm one of the heirs to the empire. Which means you should realize that I can't be whoever you think I am, and if I step away, you won't take a swing or stab me with your mascara wand.”

“That's brilliant. Provoke me while I'm angry, and there's no telling what I might do.” Bristling from the entire confrontation, Kate stared at Chayton, tempted to push against his chest with her hands. He stood somewhere just over six-feet, and though lean, seemed immovable unless he wanted to move.

“Like an annoyed little badger, hm? Are you going to grace me with your name in return, or are you going to force me to backtrack using Anton Bertini?” he asked.

“You wouldn't dare.” Kate didn't want him doing any such thing.

“Not only would I dare, I plan on it. Save us both the time and energy.”

“My name, obviously, is Penelope.” She flicked the name tag on the uniform.

“Penelope what?”

Unprepared to come up with a last name, she floundered. Then said, “Penelope Smith.”

“Mhm.” Chayton didn't sound like he believed her. At all.

“Listen, Mister...Black. We've established who you are. Being an upstanding member of society, you must realize that you can't hold me here against my will. That's kidnapping. And if that got into the news, it wouldn't be--”

“Before your little threats go too far, know this. I can and will hold you as long as I deem necessary. You've convinced me of nothing useful, and I'm not entirely sure you aren't a member of the trafficking ring I've been hunting. Your evasive tactics aren't exactly inspiring, if you know what I mean.”

She gasped. A member of a trafficking ring? Did he mean human trafficking, or drug trafficking? Did it matter? Both were equally awful. “That's absurd.”

“Not really. You wouldn't believe what people would stoop to in order to get out of a tough situation. Tell me who you really are, and what's going on, and perhaps I'll reconsider.”

“You have no right--”

“I have every right. You were hiding in
my
room, remember? You attacked me--”

“With a hanger!”

“...and I'm sure the police would be very interested to ask you the same questions I'm asking.”

Kate couldn't believe the nerve of the man. Threatening her with jail. Yet he had a point; if he called security, they would discover she'd stolen the maid's uniform and that she wasn't who she said she was. She'd broken into Chayton's room and although a hanger couldn't be considered a serious weapon by any means, the police might haul her in for questioning. At least she would be out of the reach of Anton—or would she? Would he pull strings and get the police to release her to his custody? She didn't want to go to jail. Period. She also didn't want to remain under Chayton's scrutiny longer than she had to.

“I said, my name is Penelope Smith.” It would take Chayton a while to find out the truth. Even if he
did look up Anton Bertini, all he would find was a tale of mystery and heartbreak. The real heartbreak, the real terror, would never be found in print.

Chayton's mouth thinned into a hard line. “And who is it you don't want to marry?”

“That's none of your business.”

“I'm making it my business. You're in my suite, remember?”

“Someone. Just someone. I—you're bleeding.” Kate attempted to distract him with his injuries. The cut high on his forehead, half into his hairline
was
bleeding, a red streak trailing all the way down his cheek to his jaw. She could use his wounds to her advantage, throw him off her scent.

“But I'm not dying. Answer the question.”

“You should let me stitch it up. I know how.”

He arched a brow, which made the wound weep even more. “I just bet you'd love to get near me with a needle.”

“What do you think I'm going to do, poke your eye out with it?”

“You've already tried that once.”

She had the wherewithal to look sheepish. “I wasn't aiming for your eye.”

Wearing an openly skeptical expression, he seemed to consider her offer. He took a step back. “All right. But we need a first aid kit and we don't have one. If you think I'm leaving you here to go find one, you're wrong.”

Kate breathed a little easier. He'd been so close, so immediately in her personal space, that the foot he put between them seemed a much larger chasm than it really was. “I know where we can get it. There are stacks of them in the maid's utility closet just down the hall. Actually—they're for restocking. I bet each suite has its own kit.”

Chayton stared at her, then said, “Don't try to dart out the door when my back's turned.”

She couldn't make that promise. So she said nothing.

Chayton crouched to start going through the bottom cabinets and drawers in the bathroom. He moved with sleek efficiency, as if whatever wounds he'd sustained had no bearing on his ability to function.

She glanced past to the main room of the suite and the door. He would be on her before she got halfway. Frustrated, she decided to help him search. The sooner she stitched him, the sooner, perhaps, he might let her go.

The first-aid kit, sitting in the last drawer she searched, had everything they needed and many things they didn't. Gauze pads, antiseptic, cotton balls, sunburn spray, band-aids, a sewing kit, numbing gel and numerous other safety items. Kate closed the drawer after a quick scan of the first-aid contents.

“Found it. I'll need better light.”

Chayton closed the cabinet he'd been pawing through and exited into the main room, returning with an armless chair. He positioned it directly under the lights, which he switched on next.

The bathroom lit up, allowing Kate to get her first good look at Chayton Black. His dark skin looked enhanced by hours in the sun, the sharp features of his face handsome to say the least. High cheekbones, a broad brow and narrow chin framed a straight nose and surprisingly blue eyes. The contrast between his eyes and his skin was striking. As was the long length of his black hair. Caught back at his nape with a band, it fell halfway to his waist. She vaguely recalled that his family was of Native American blood. His father's side, if she remembered correctly.