Wicked Pleasures (7 page)

She nodded. Together, they walked back inside. Miss
Deveraux waited for them with warm towels and a look of disbelief.
“Roark, how dare you take her outside. She’ll catch cold.”

“We needed to lighten things up,” Roark said as he
winked at Bronte who was now frowning, although he could see she
tried very hard to hide her enthusiasm. “Let’s eat.” He sat down
and Bronte made her way to the extra plate setting. “You’re hungry
after all,” he said. “Admit it, our body needs nourishment.”

She didn’t even glance his way when she said, “You
can take your chicken, stick it up your ass and see if you can take
a flying leap off the nearest cliff.”

He wanted to laugh but he didn’t. No reason he
should inspire any verbal assault. And he found delight in watching
her dig into her food. They ate in silence, but it was a different
quiet than he’d known over the years. He actually found it quite
pleasurable to have company at the dinner table.

Chapter 4

NIGHT WAS FALLING. Roark stood on the balcony, as he
did every evening. His body ached but he still had the strength of
three male humans. His mind was lucid, yet time was ticking. He
didn’t like feeling out of control. If only he could tell Bronte
everything he knew, but she’d never believe him. In fact, she’d
want to flee even quicker. It was imperative that he not rush
things.

He went back into his bedroom and reached for the
old, worn journal from his nightstand. The book had become his
place of solitude—a refuge from a world that didn’t understand his
way. He picked up the pen and began writing his thoughts when the
doorbell rang. He dropped the book into his drawer, locked it into
safekeeping and placed the key into the crystal glass. He headed
downstairs and opened the front door. Shelby stood on the doorstep,
wearing all black and a cunning grin. “Opening your own door these
days, Roark? Did you finally give that old Jasper retirement?”

“Fuck off. You know I couldn’t have Jasper here with
Bronte. He’d have made a mess of things.” Shelby passed him and
Roark closed the door. “Up for a drink?”

“Maybe two or three,” Shelby answered.

Roark led the way into the den. He went to the
whiskey bar, poured two large glasses full of scotch. He handed one
off to Shelby. “Have a seat my friend and tell me what has your
hair standing on end,” Roark said.

Shelby took a seat on one of the leather chairs and
stretched his long legs. He sipped from the glass, seeming to
gather his senses before he spoke. “It appears we have a
problem.”

Roark didn’t let Shelby’s words frazzle him as he
drank, enjoying the burn of the expensive liquor. He didn’t indulge
often. “Tell me the details.”

Shelby nodded, running his hand through his locks, a
sure sign he was concerned. “A woman by the name of Fallon Montreal
has been burning up Bronte’s phone.”

“And what exactly is the problem? Bronte is on
vacation. People aren’t supposed to answer their calls while
relaxing in paradise.”

“Apparently this woman,” he tilted his head, “is
different than most people.”

“How so?” Roark asked.

“She’s Bronte’s assistant,” Shelby answered.

“Where’s the phone?”

Shelby reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out
the slender, white cell and tossed it to Roark. “Send the
bothersome woman a message, pretending your Bronte, assuring her
things are okay,” Shelby said.

Roark pushed buttons on the phone and meddled
through a few of the messages. “That won’t work. This woman,
Fallon, she’s worried. She’s a smart woman and looking out for
Bronte. Apparently, something was forgotten when you took Bronte
from her office. What would that be?” He looked across the short
distance to Shelby who had sweat beading his brow.

“We didn’t see the briefcase Bronte had left outside
of her office. I told Crenshaw to clean up but he didn’t do his
best,” Shelby said.

“Bronte would never forget her case. That would
definitely alarm someone who knew her well.” Roark set the phone
down. “But mistakes happen. We’ll just have to figure out a
solution.” Shelby didn’t show any unrest, but Roark sensed his
unease.

“You’re taking it pretty easy, buddy. Crenshaw
almost pissed himself when I confronted him. He thought you’d have
his heart on a silver platter.”

“I have more important things on my mind,” Roark
emptied his glass and went to pour another. He brought the decanter
and filled Shelby’s glass too. He set the crystal down and chose a
seat on the leather couch. “Why are you still uncomfortable,
Shelby?”

The older man slid forward in the chair, resting his
elbows on knees and clasped his hands together. “The Bitches
fiancé, Gage Dell, has also been calling. He doesn’t like that
she’s not returning his calls.”

Roark shrugged. “Why should this concern me?”

“You don’t read the newspapers or watch the news, my
friend. The man owns DellCorp. He has enough money and influence to
stir things up, and the more people who know that she’s missing,
the harder it’s going to be.”

“So the man has money and power. Bronte told him she
needed time. He can search all he likes and he won’t find her.”
Roark rubbed his chin. “Now, do what you need to do on your end
with Dell. Tell Crenshaw he’s safe, unless he fucks up again. I
can’t have any screw ups when it comes to Bronte.” Shelby started
to reach for the phone, but Roark lifted a hand to stop him. “I’ll
keep this.”

Shelby sighed and relaxed back into the cushions.
“Where is she now?”

“Locked in her bedroom,” Roark answered.

“Not in your bedroom performing her duties?”

Roark looked at the other man over the rim of his
glass. He took a slow drink and then finally said, “I like women
warm and willing.”

“Meaning you haven’t persuaded her yet? Are you
losing your touch?” Shelby laughed.

“I’m a man of honor.”

“What are you waiting for?” Shelby narrowed his
eyes. “Don’t tell me that you’re allowing the feelings you had for
Ji—”

Roark made a growling sound, and Shelby clamped his
mouth. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Come on, Roark. Bronte’s a mere human. Give her the
best night of her life and she’ll be thanking you,” Shelby
snickered, which ground through Roark’s patience.

He wasn’t sure why the man irritated him, but the
tension building in his abdomen spoke volumes about his tolerance.
It wasn’t any of the man’s business or concern what he did with
Bronte. He heard Shelby’s clearing of throat. Roark looked at him.
“Yes?”

Shelby placed palms down on the chair arms and shook
his head. “Fuck the Bitch and get it over with. Then I’ll tie her
back up and send her where she came from.”

The energy changed in the room. Shelby noticed it
also because his eyes widened and his jaw tightened. Roark
considered himself a man with phenomenal tolerance, but when he
lost control, he didn’t take pains of keeping his agitation
undercover. In a dash, he was standing within inches of Shelby,
peering down on the other man in anger. Roark didn’t need to prove
that he was the dominant of the two. Although Shelby had a few
inches on Roark, his strength was matchless. “Your attitude is
stinking up my home, Shelby.”

“I apologize if I said something—”

“Bitch isn’t a very nice name. It’s bad mannered to
degrade the mother of my child and the woman I—” He swallowed the
rest of his words. He had to keep his emotions under wrap. And
where his temper came from, Roark wasn’t sure. Furthermore, he
didn’t know why Shelby was showing lack of respect. They both
understood the importance of Bronte’s role. “I’m not happy how this
has gone down. We’re not savages and we can’t sink to those depths,
no matter how pressing time is or what’s at stake. We can’t forget
what brought us to this situation to begin with.” He backed away
from Shelby, detecting the man’s fear and sweat. “Are we
clear?”

Shelby nodded, his adam’s apple bobbed.
“Definitely.”

“Come now, have another drink and relax” Roark said.
“Then you can tell me more about this Dell. The information could
be very useful.”

An hour later, after Shelby had gone, Roark dialed a
number on his phone. It was answered on the second ring. “Roark
here. I need you to pay a visit to someone. Her name is Fallon
Montreal.”

****

Bronte stretched and smiled, the luxurious satin
sheets felt heavenly against her body. Then she opened her eyes and
remembered where she was.
The Roark Prison
. Her gut
tightened.

Sitting up, she noticed a blue jay perched on the
outside of the window. She got out of the bed and stared out into
the new day. The sky was bright and the sun filtered into her room,
lifting her mood slightly. She wished she could open the windows to
let fresh air in, but she knew they wouldn’t budge. Warden Roark
had all of his bases covered, but she hadn’t lost confidence.
Eventually he’d let his guard down.

A knock came at the door. Bronte quickly grabbed the
blanket and dragged it across her thin gown. “Go away.” She wasn’t
ready to see Roark this morning.

She expected to hear his husky voice, but it was
Miss Deveraux who said, “I prepared breakfast, my dear.”

Bronte wondered if the other woman knew Roark’s
business. If she did, that made her an accomplice. How could she
not be aware of the circumstances? Roark had told her yesterday
that Miss Deveraux wouldn’t help.

Bronte wanted to be alone.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t have a—” The key in
the lock sounded then Miss Deveraux appeared in the open doorway.
So much for privacy.
Miss Deveraux walked in, smile in
place, carrying a tray.

“Here you go, dear.” She set the platters of food
onto the desk. “Mr. Roark said you should have breakfast in bed. I
wasn’t sure what you liked to eat in the morning so I made a
smorgasbord of some of my favorites. I hope you enjoy.”

The effervescent woman reminded Bronte of someone.
It was as if they’d met before, but she wasn’t sure how. Bronte
didn’t want to like Miss Deveraux, but how could she dislike
someone who reminded her of a grandmother? The older woman had
sincerity and kindness written all over her cheerful features,
making her seem innocent. So then why was Miss Deveraux involved in
Roark’s scheme? Bronte wondered if she gained the older woman’s
friendship, could she convince her to help in a getaway.

“This all looks delicious, Miss Deveraux.” Bronte
looked over the variety of plates. They were full of fluffy
scrambled eggs, French toast, fresh fruit, blueberry muffins and a
pot of steaming coffee. The scrumptious savory and sweet smells
made her mouth water and her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten much
during dinner last night and she couldn’t wait to dig in, but held
back.

“Thank you.” Miss Deveraux nodded and started for
the door but she stopped. “Oh, I’m losing my mind. I almost forgot
that I’m supposed to get something.”

Bronte popped a piece of fruit in her mouth as she
watched the other woman disappear into the walk-in closet. She came
out seconds later holding a pair of tan riding pants and a
long-sleeved button down. Bronte stopped chewing. “What are you
doing, Miss Deveraux?”

Her expression turned into one of uncertainty. “Mr.
Roark requested that I gather this outfit for you to wear today.
After your meal, he’d like for you to meet him downstairs. He has a
day planned for the both of you.”

Adding to being captive, she was being dressed.
Anger shot up her backbone like a rod of contention. She couldn’t
hold in her frustration. “I won’t be wearing that today,” Bronte
stated.

She’d had enough of Roark’s demands and orders. He
could keep her hostage but she wasn’t about to succumb to every
command he dished out. “You can tell Mr. Roark that I am
not
putting on
that
outfit, and neither will I meet him.” Miss
Deveraux’s gasp cracked the air. Bronte wanted to include that she
wasn’t going to eat his food either, but under the basic principle
that he was keeping her against her will, she believed it was her
job to keep herself healthy. She needed her strength—definitely
mental strength. One never knew when she’d have to claw her way out
of this place.

Bronte thought Miss Deveraux couldn’t have looked
more shocked. A sliver of guilt sped through Bronte. She didn’t
mean to cause the other woman such dejection, but Bronte wasn’t the
bad one in this scenario. She owed no one an apology. It was
Roark’s fault for making the woman the go-between. Bronte would
rather have told him herself where he could stick his orders. It
would have given her much more pleasure.

“I’ll tell Mr. Roark,” Miss Deveraux said and left
the room.

Bronte sat by the window and relished the breakfast
fit for an empress. She ate until she was stuffed. She had poured
herself another cup of coffee when she heard the key in the door
again. There was no guessing who it was and why he’d come. She was
certain Roark wanted to complain for her disobedience. Roark
stormed into the room, a look of agitation marring his clean-shaven
features. Nothing pleased her more than to see his feathers
ruffled. “Don’t you knock?” She tugged her robe belt tighter.

“Don’t play dumb. You were expecting me.” He slammed
the door shut behind him with his foot.

“I had a feeling you’d pop in sooner or later. And
poor Miss Deveraux, using her to deliver your commands. Too bad
your demands work no better coming from her.” Bronte got up from
the chair, straightened her back and faced the ogre. “If you’ve
come to dictate me like I’m an inmate, you’ll get nowhere.” She
could have sworn his broad shoulders slumped a bit.

“How am I treating you like an inmate, Bronte?”

“First, you lock me away in my cell. Then you have
my breakfast brought to me. You have Miss Deveraux lay out my
clothes for me as if I’m a child. You can’t force me to wear what
you want.” She was fuming and couldn’t see straight. She tried to
focus on his pale blue button down, but unfortunately, her mind
then wanted to advance to how good his clothes fit his toned body
and remembering what he’d look like naked. This only made her
angrier.