Wicked Pleasures (8 page)

He brushed his fingers through his thick, coal black
hair and blew out a long breath between his teeth. “I was gone this
morning and thought you’d be hungry. And if you consider this a
cell, count your blessings. I have a room in the basement if you
prefer cement, open toilet and a sleeping bag.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for your consideration?”
She huffed.

“Like this is any fun for me either,” he said with a
rolling of eyes.

“I want to go home.”

“And you will, once you’ve provided me with an
heir.”

“That’s not going to happen.” She wanted to pick up
the vase of flowers from the nightstand and throw them at his head.
It probably wouldn’t faze him.

“Then you’ll be with me for a very long time.” He
turned and walked to the door. “Wear whatever you see fit, but I
expect to see you downstairs in my den in ten minutes. Time is a
valuable resource that I no longer wish to waste.”

On second thought, her first idea was too tempting.
She grabbed the budvase and threw it over his head. The glass
splattered into pieces against the door, sending the flowers and
water into a large puddle at his feet. He spun on heel and his look
was one of shock and irritation. A drop of blood left a crimson
path from his temple, down along his cheek. He reached up and
swiped it away. There was a sliver of satisfaction that rolled
through her knowing he bled just like she had. “Too bad that I
missed your head,” she said with a grin. She’d never been a violent
woman, but he deserved everything he got.

“Is that so?” He stomped toward her, his gaze buried
into her with a promise of vengeance.

He reached for her and she pulled back. “What are
you doing?”

“I’m going to teach you a lesson.” The gruffness of
his voice told her he was pissed.

Bronte backed up until she pressed against the wall.
“Don’t you dare lay one finger on me.”

He was upon her now, so close that she could smell
his scent of mint and musk. The trail of blood was bright against
his olive skin and she had an urge to wipe it away, but she refused
the action. His eyes appeared blue with yellow in the center, a
color she’d never seen before. He blinked twice and the paler shade
disappeared. “What is a man to do with a woman who needs her fanny
smacked?”

“Get away from me you tyrant!” There was nowhere for
her to go.

“You’ve left me no choice.” He constrained her
against the wall with his strapping frame. His gaze pulled her in,
like a magnet and the force was strong. His breathing was ragged,
matching hers. She knew what was coming and for the life of her she
couldn’t manage to make a peep in rejection. His mouth fell on
hers, rough at first as he forced his tongue past her tight lips.
Heaven help her!
It felt nice…better than nice. She was
overcome with urgency and opened to him as his touch became softer,
more passionate. He tasted her, explored her and she became sweet
liquid. A moan sounded and she realized it came from her. She’d
never been so needy in all her years.

His tongue swept across her bottom lip and she
tasted coffee and sugar. He was like fine aged bourbon shooting
straight into her veins for the highest of high. She stood on
tiptoes, pressed her breasts against his broad chest and wrapped
her arms around his burly shoulders. With a soft purr, she smoothed
her hip over his hard cock and knew turmoil had him by the balls.
Knowing he wanted her, needed her, made her sink into an
irresistible nirvana. She no longer cared that he was her captor
and she was his prisoner. Seduction was her only captive.

He brought his hands up and cupped her face into his
tender hold. His long fingers threaded through her hair, tugging
gently as his large frame devoured her smaller one, but instead of
feeling overpowered, she felt safe and secure. Something about his
touch was comforting—and secure.

She was a goner and didn’t care one damn bit!

He pulled his head back and she moaned in protest.
Opening her eyes, she stared up into the most intense gaze she’d
ever seen. “I’ll thrust my cock deep inside of you and make you
mine. I’ve longed for the sweet comfort of your body. The scent of
your sweet pussy intoxicates me like nothing I have ever
experienced. I want to satisfy your every need, every desire, to
have my name fall from your lips. All you must do is ask.”

“Is that what you want? For me to ask you to have
sex?”

“Yes, I need to know.”

You can go to hell!” she said through tight lips. A
little thread of resistance remained.

A smile curved one corner of his mouth. “Soon,
sweetheart, you’ll beg me to extinguish the fire.”

He’d made her a fool and she didn’t like it one bit.
“You bastard!” She brought her fists around and pounded his chest.
She compared it to a child pummeling a wall; it didn’t do a bit of
good but hurt her hands.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her
and carried her to the bed. He tossed her onto the mattress as
effortlessly as if he were throwing a bag of seed. She stared up at
him, seething with anger. He began to unbuckle his belt and she
thought her heart would beat out of her chest. “No, Roark.” Her
plea fell from tingly lips. As much as she had wanted him seconds
before, and if she searched deep enough she knew she still did, but
not like this.

He didn’t respond. It was as if he didn’t hear her.
He pulled the strap from his belt loops and he held the leather so
tightly that she could see the white of his knuckles under his
skin. “When will you understand I would never force you to have
sex?” His gaze narrowed. “I’d never hurt you. I was only removing
my belt because I’m confined.”

Lowering her stare to the bulge behind his zipper,
she understood his meaning. “Okay.”

“Now, you have a choice!” His tone was harsh. “You
get dressed in the outfit, any outfit for Christ’s sake, or I’ll
dress you myself.”

No rebuttal came to mind. Bronte hated to admit it
but she was exhausted. She certainly didn’t want him to dress her.
“Get out then,” she said.

“Hell no, my lady. You were given the opportunity to
dress alone but you lost that right. We have plans and I’ve had
enough of your anger. You’re the reason why we have come to
this.”

“You keep saying that but you won’t tell me what you
mean!”

His jaw tightened. “You can’t bear the truth. We
aren’t having that conversation with you half dressed and my cock
as hard as wood.”

Her cheeks burned. She tugged her robe tighter
around her chest. “I will not dress with you watching me.” Her eyes
moistened with tears. Her adrenaline was slowing and her emotions
were out of whack.

“I didn’t say I’d watch.” His voice softened as did
the lines of his face. “Go to the bathroom for privacy.”

She got up from the bed, gathered the clothes Miss
Deveraux had lain out for her and headed for the bathroom. Roark
was already sliding his belt back into place on his waist when she
closed the door behind her.

Ten minutes later, Bronte emerged wearing the
outfit. The tan breeches, long sleeved white button down and black
boots all fit her to perfection. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed
to arrange for her clothing to fit flawlessly, but everything
did.

“You look lovely,” Roark surprised her by saying. He
was sitting on the chair with legs propped on the bed.

At first, Bronte thought he was being sarcastic, but
she could see honesty in his expression. She moistened her lips and
asked, “Am I riding?”

He removed his feet from the relaxed position and
stood up. “Correction.
We
are riding.”

She ran her gaze down his casual clothing. “Then why
do I have to be dressed in riding breeches and you’re not?”

“Don’t you like the clothes?” One thick eyebrow
curved.

“The clothes are fine. I’m just wondering why I had
to have riding apparel.” She shook her head. A tendril of hair fell
from the side bun and she tucked it behind her ear. “Never mind. It
doesn’t matter.”

“Then let’s go. I’m prepared to offer you a
deal.”

Chapter 5

ROARK’S WORDS OF a deal spiraled through Bronte as
she followed him downstairs and into his den. She started to ask
him what “deal” he referred to, but then she saw the phone on his
desk—
her phone
. “That’s mine,” she said.

“Yes it is.” He sat down at his desk.

“What are you doing with it? Are you being nosey and
reading my messages?” She wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t get
past the enthusiasm of seeing the phone.

“Are you mistaking me for a jealous lover?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” She
swallowed the tightness building in her throat. “But you didn’t
answer me. Why do you have it?” The phone had been in her purse,
which was also missing. “And where is my purse?”

“You have no use for your purse,” he said.

“And I do for my phone?” She moved to grab it when
he snatched it up.
Not surprising.
“I have a feeling this is
where the “deal” comes into play.”

He dropped the phone into his lap. “Your assistant,
Fallon, has been worried about you.” Her excitement deepened. “She
must think vacation means you answer business calls from a
different location. Why do you tolerate that?” he asked.

“Fallon is a great assistant, and friend, and I’m a
great editor. Proficient people are always needed and very seldom
get vacation.” She was curious where this was leading, and guessed
she probably wouldn’t like what he was about to say.

“If that’s how you justify your workaholic ways.” He
shrugged and she sighed. “You will call her and let her know you’re
okay.”

“And why would I do something stupid?” She shook her
head.

“Because you care for your friend and don’t want her
to worry needlessly.”

“Needlessly isn’t the word I’d use. Necessarily is
more appropriate.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re safe here. Now call and
tell her.”

“I won’t, no matter what you say or do.”

“Even if it means you’ll get answers?”

“Answers?” Was he serious?

“Make the call and you’ll get information.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?” She didn’t even
trust herself at this point.

He nodded. “Yes, you are. I haven’t lied yet.”

“You’re too good to lie, but you’ll sink low enough
to keep me hostage. Great values and ethics you have, Roark.” She
folded her arms over her chest and kept her chin held high.

“This is going nowhere fast. Make the call or not.
Your choice.” He relaxed back in the executive chair and closed his
eyes.

Bronte waited and watched. There was no physical
sign that he cared whether she made the call or not, which made her
suspicious. “What if I choose not to make the call?” she asked.

He lifted one lid. “Then I’ll tell Shelby to handle
the issue.”

“You wouldn’t dare! He’s even more of an ogre than
you!” Bile rose into her throat and she thought she’d be sick. “If
what you threatened is true, that I am to have your baby and stay
here for nine months, my friends and co-workers would suspect that
I’m not okay. Did you fail to look this far ahead in your
scheme?”

He then sat up and swiveled the chair so that he
faced her. “If something should happen and my plan miscarries, I
want you to have your life to go back to. If she calls the police
and they start an investigation, this could go seriously wrong.
It’s nothing we can’t handle if needed, but why involve so many
people when it’s unnecessary? Faking your death would be very
messy.”

Her head began to throb. He
had
thought his
arrangement through. She couldn’t allow anyone to be dragged into
this mess, and she certainly didn’t want people to believe she was
dead. “I’ll make the call. What shall I say?”

“You’ll tell her that you’re enjoying your vacation
and you hadn’t called before now because you’ve met someone who’s
kept you occupied.” He got up and came around his desk. The phone
was in his hand. “I really don’t care what you say, as long as she
understands that she needs to stop worrying. I’m sure you can
handle the situation.” He held out the phone to her.

Mind buzzing and adrenaline rushing, she couldn’t
think logically as she took the phone. Even if she could alert
Fallon to her situation, that may put the other woman in danger. A
part of her didn’t believe that Roark would harm Fallon, but if he
sent his thugs, Bronte couldn’t trust that they’d be as
understanding. She had seen the look in Shelby’s eyes when he
showed up at her office and he’d looked at her like he despised
her. No, he couldn’t be trusted, even if Roark believed in him.

Dialing the familiar number, Fallon answered on the
second ring. “Hello, Fallon. It’s Bronte.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you.” Fallon’s sharp tone
rattled the phone line. “Why haven’t you answered your phone? Is
everything all right? I found your briefcase and I’ve been
worried.”

Bronte looked over her shoulder and spotted Roark
leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, looking like
a wolf ready to pounce. She knew he listened closely and probably
waited for her to say one wrong word. She could risk everything and
alert Fallon, but Bronte wasn’t worried about her own safety. As
foolish as she knew it sounded, she didn’t believe Roark would hurt
her, but she had no doubt that he’d send Shelby to get Fallon…and
then her assistant would be in the same situation. She gripped the
plastic in her palm, teetering between desire and practicality.
“I’m fine, Fallon. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to return your
call. But I’m on vacation, after all.”

“That’s never stopped you from doing business
before,” Fallon said.

“Other times were different. I’ve met someone—”

“You have? In that short amount of time?”