Kidnapped by the Billionaire (12 page)

Elijah wasn't any different.

You might even quite like it yourself.

Violet shoved that particular thought way. No, this was only about getting away and getting free, nothing more. She shouldn't think about it in any other way, especially not
that
way. Elijah wasn't one of her professors, or a fresh-faced college boy. He was a killer and simply far too dangerous for her not to be fully focused on what she needed to do.

If this was the approach she was going to take, she'd have to be very careful about it indeed.

Giving her hair another quick tousle—finding the shortness of it weird all over again—she turned from the mirror and went back out into the living area.

Elijah was standing near the front door, his phone in his hand. He turned as she came out of the hallway, his gaze running expressionlessly over her, betraying nothing.

He was good, she had to give him that. She might as well have been a block of wood judging from his reaction.

“It's a little short,” she said, tugging at the T-shirt, and sure enough, his gaze dropped to the length of her legs revealed beneath it.

Again though, there was no discernible reaction. “It'll do,” he replied. “Put your boots on, then this.” He reached for a long black coat hanging from a peg next to the door then tossed it in her direction.

She caught it, the soft weight of quality cashmere heavy in her hands. It was beautifully tailored and expensive, and would cover up most of what his long-sleeved shirt left bare. Just as well really, since the weather outside the apartment's windows was looking dire.

Going over to the couch, she sat down to put on her boots, noticing as she did so that her cut hair had all been cleaned away. And weirdly there was no pang of regret or even of anger at the thought, as if those emotions had been cleared away along with her hair. Just as well. She had no time for those kinds of feelings, just steely determination. That was the only thing that was going to get her out of this.

After she'd put her boots on, she picked up the coat and slid her arms into it. As she'd expected, it was deliciously warm, the by-now familiar scent of snow-clad forests filling her senses. His coat. For some reason she had a ridiculous urge to wrap it around her and snuggle into it.

Instead she rolled up the too-long sleeves and buttoned it up, and then, spying what looked like a scarf hanging from another peg by the door, she went over and grabbed it, tying that around her waist to keep it belted tight.

Elijah watched her expressionlessly. Then he raised his phone and took a couple of photos of her.

She frowned. “Hey, what's that for?”

He didn't respond, putting away his phone in his jeans pocket. “Couple of things before we go,” he said flatly. “You stay close to me and you don't pull away. I have my gun and I
will
shoot you if you try anything. It has a silencer on it so no one will hear if I pull that trigger.”

Violet pushed her hands into the pockets of the coat. “Oh sure, and no one's going to notice if I suddenly start bleeding from a surprise gunshot wound either.”

“Are you willing to risk that?”

She didn't look away. “I slit my wrists yesterday. You tell me.”

“You have no money, no ID. How far do you think you'll get if you somehow manage to slip away?”

“I can find a cop. It won't be that difficult.”

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze opaque. “You can run, princess. But I will find you.” His voice was soft but as cold as the sleet against the window outside. “I will hunt you and hunt you, and I will never stop until I have you. I'm not the kind of guy who gives up, understand?”

An icy shiver went down her spine, part fear, part that strange excitement. She ignored both sensations. “Sure. I understand.”
I don't give up either, asshole.

But she didn't say that last part aloud.

*   *   *

Elijah gripped Violet's upper arm and drew her in close as they stepped out of the building and onto the sidewalk. She gave a little shiver, but didn't try to pull away. He'd given her a black beanie to wear, both as a disguise over what remained of her hair and for warmth, yet even despite the hat and his coat, she must have been freezing because the wind cut like a knife.

Or maybe the shiver was because of
you
.

He frowned. Why the hell was he thinking about that? And why the hell did it matter to him why she shivered?

Dismissing his thoughts, he tugged her harder against him, one hand wrapped around her arm, the other in the pocket of his leather jacket, fingers curling around the grip of his gun. Ready to pull it out if she ran.

She hadn't been wrong up in the apartment. If she tried to run, shooting her would only draw unwanted attention so if he was prepared to do that, he'd have to pull the trigger while she was still standing next to him, so he could pick her up and take her back to the apartment to treat her with a minimum of fuss. In other words, not particularly practical.

Which left only the hunting-down option.

She hadn't liked that, but then that was the general idea, especially since he was running out of ways to keep her in line. She was turning out to be a far trickier prospect than he'd anticipated. Shit, even cutting her hair off hadn't quelled her. In fact, as she'd come out of the hallway, wearing his shirt, her hair all in short, soft golden spikes around her head, she'd looked tough, meeting his gaze as though he was an opponent she was taking on.

He'd had to fight with himself not to react to the hard kick of possessiveness at the sight of her in his shirt, to the surge of desire as his gaze had traced the soft curve of her bare shoulder, the press of her hard nipples against the cotton, the long length of her bare legs.

It was madness, especially the possessive part. There should be no reason for that, none at all, because he hadn't gotten possessive with Marie, and she'd been his goddamn wife. Then again, he'd been a different man back then. An easier, more laid-back man.

You were soft. If you'd been who you are now, she'd never have been taken.

His fingers dug into Violet's upper arm in unconscious reaction, and she made a little sound. But he eased off only slightly. At least this one wasn't getting away. Not today. Not if he could help it.

The sleet had stopped by the time they'd gotten outside and it was mainly the wind that blew around them as they began walking. He'd debated about where to take her since he wanted to stay away from the subway and any surveillance cameras. Luckily while he'd been out on his various different reconnaissance missions, he knew there was a women's clothing store a couple of blocks away from the apartment building. It was situated on a particularly busy street, but he hoped that might work in their favor and make them more easily lost in the crowd than if they were by themselves.

“So,” Violet said conversationally, “are you going to tell me anything about this Jericho guy and why he wants me?”

“No.” Elijah kept his reply curt as he studied the street, keeping an eye out for any potential threats. So far there was nothing overtly suspicious, but then it paid to never be too cautious about such things.

“Do you even know why he wants me?”

His jaw tightened. How did she manage to ask the questions he didn't have the answers to? Because no, he had no idea why Jericho wanted Violet. Fitzgerald had never mentioned it and it hadn't seemed important enough for Elijah to find out. Even now, he didn't really care why. All that mattered was that Jericho wanted her and would hopefully make a personal appearance when it came to retrieving her.

“Why is not important,” he said as he guided them around a group of tourists standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at a map and gesticulating. “And no, you don't need to know anything about him.”

“I hate to disagree with you, but considering I'm the one who's going to be given to him, it's kind of important to me.”

He didn't reply. This conversation was futile and he saw no point in continuing it.

But Violet clearly hadn't finished.

“He might want to kill me,” she said. “Have you thought of that? You might be giving me to him so he can torture and kill me. Does that mean anything to you?”

Wasn't that what happened to Marie? She was taken, tortured, then killed.

A needle slid beneath his skin, and he had to clench his teeth against the sensation. No, fuck that. He couldn't let himself be concerned for Violet, not after he'd spent so many years turning himself into the kind of monster that could take down other monsters. Not after sacrificing the man he'd once been on the altar of his vengeance. He was too far down the path and couldn't turn back, not now. Not for one particular woman. He had no conscience. No scruples. No mercy. Not anymore.

“That,” he said coldly, “is no concern of mine. You can stop talking now.”

She didn't reply, her attention focused ahead of her. He was walking quite quickly and she had to trot to keep up with him, her breath fogging in the cold air around them. Her body was warm next to his and he could smell that tantalizing sandalwood scent beneath the smells of the outside world, the wet asphalt and exhaust, the trash and the drifting perfume of freshly ground coffee from a café.

It is a concern of yours. Wasn't that the whole point of this? Avenge Marie, take him down so no other woman gets hurt?

The needle slid deeper.

Elijah gripped her harder, and ignored the slight pain. He couldn't afford to care. Violet was a sacrifice for the greater good, and that's all that mattered. That's all that could be allowed to matter.

They continued on down the street in silence for a couple of blocks, the wind whipping Violet's coat around her legs and sending cold tendrils beneath the hem of his leather jacket.

Christ, she must be freezing and yet she hadn't said a word, her gaze steadfastly ahead.

Music drifted on the icy air, hard and fast, a driving beat coming from one of the stores on the corner of the block. It was the one he was heading for, the one that sold women's clothing.

He did another quick scan of the surroundings, but again there were no threats so he headed straight for the store entry.

“Here?” Violet muttered as they stepped inside.

“If you were expecting Fifth Avenue, you're shit out of luck. You get something here or you stay in my shirt.” He glanced down at his watch. “You have ten minutes.” He didn't want to stay out longer than strictly necessary, since the longer she was out of the apartment, the greater the risk of discovery.

Violet threw him an enigmatic look before moving over to a rack of what appeared to be pants. He followed her, keeping hold of her, his attention on the rest of the store.

There were a few other customers, none of them looking in Violet's direction, and a sales assistant behind the counter wearing black ripped jeans and a lot of silver jewelry, talking animatedly on her phone.

Violet's attention was on the rack of clothes, but he could feel the tension in her arm beneath his fingers.

“Do you have to loom over me like that?” she murmured, pushing aside a hanger. “Give me some space for God's sake.”

Was she serious? Give her some space so she could take off? “No. Choose something quickly. This isn't a fashion show.”

She didn't reply, shoving aside another hanger.

His phone vibrated and he let her go momentarily to reach for it, keeping one hand on the gun in his other pocket. There was a text from the number he was using for Jericho, the one he'd sent the photos he'd taken earlier to.

What do you want?

Short and to the point. Nice. He liked dealing with people who didn't beat about the bush. Quickly, he texted a response.

To talk. Fitzgerald is dead. I want in.

There was no immediate reply for a couple of moments. Then suddenly the phone began to ring.

Violet glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. He gripped her hard, hauling her back out of the store and onto the sidewalk, away from the store's loud house music, ignoring her startled protest. Then he hit the accept button.

“You are not the one to be making demands,” a male voice said in French. “You will have the girl at—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen,” he interrupted harshly. “I want to talk to Jericho. In person. That's the only way he'll get the girl, understand?”

“You cannot—”

“If I don't get what I want, then he won't.” Not waiting for a response, Elijah hit the end button and pocketed the phone. Ball was in Jericho's court now, let him deal with it.

Violet was staring at him, her eyes vivid in her pale face. “Why do you want to talk to him?”

Elijah bared his teeth. “None of your fucking business. Now let's go get these goddamn clothes.” He curled his fingers tighter into her arm, making a move toward the store again.

But she stood firm. “If he doesn't agree, are you going to kill me?”

For some reason, the starkness of the question felt like a small electric shock, jolting him. He'd killed before, many times in the course of seven years, and he'd gotten to the point where it no longer concerned him. Everything he did had been for Marie, for the greater good of taking down Fitzgerald, and if that meant killing a few people who deserved it, then he was okay with that.

But he never killed women—that was his line in the sand. And the thought of killing Violet …

That fucking needle slid all the way through him. Yet he couldn't betray any softness, give away any sign that the thought bothered him, because he needed her compliant. And fear was the best way to get compliance.

So he said nothing, jerking her with more force toward the store.

She must have realized she wasn't going to get anything from him, because she didn't say another word, going with him as they stepped back inside. And when he went over to the rack she'd been looking at earlier, she went without protest.