Devil's Pawn (Devil's Pawn Duet 1)

“What do you think?” I ask. I’m exhausted, thirsty, my throat so dry I can barely swallow not to mention how cold I am.

“Would you like to spend two more nights down here?”

I fold my arms across my chest as a voice in my head tells me to tread carefully.

“Is your silence a yes? If so, I’ll…” he trails off and takes a step backward.

“No!” I jump off the bed. “I don’t want to be down here.” I grit my jaw but he’s waiting so I swallow the shredded remains of my pride. “Please.”

He smiles. “Better.” He steps aside and gestures to the hall.

I hesitate, knowing he could still be playing with me, but I have no choice. I walk past him, taking care not to touch him, which is hard considering his size. Once I’m in the hallway he captures my arm and turns me to face him.

“Not a sound, understand?”

“Why? So whoever else is upstairs doesn’t know you kidnapped me?”

He smiles. “Oh, they already know. But it’s early. My daughter is still sleeping.”

That takes me back. “Your…daughter?”

He gestures to the stairs. “Move.”

He has a child? Does that mean he has a wife? Is she lying in his bed now? Then why did he do what he did last night? Why strip me? Touch me? He was hard. I saw and felt it. Weirdly, this feels like a betrayal although I don’t know how it could. If anyone should feel betrayed it would be his wife.

I walk, glancing over my shoulder at him.

Maybe they have an open relationship? Maybe she doesn’t mind if he’s with other women?

But then I remind myself he wasn’t with me. He humiliated me. It was what he wanted to do, and he succeeded. That’s all.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs because the door above is open, and I see light.

He nods and I hurry up. Once we’re out in the hallway, I look around, see light coming from around a corner where I hear the sounds of pots and pans. Of water running. Someone lighting a gas stove. The normal noises of a normal household.

I wait as he closes and locks the steel door. I follow him back down the hallway Dex dragged me through last night. All the doors I pass are closed and I’m glad they’re all old, wooden doors, not steel. We reach the circular foyer and ahead of me I see the double front doors.

“Remember, if you run, you spend two more nights down there,” he says, not bothering to look at me as he begins to ascend the stairs.

I look at his back as he climbs, glance at the doors and I know there’s no point in running. The house is set on a huge parcel of land. It took several minutes for the Rolls Royce to make it from the gate to the circular drive. So I follow him up the stairs, the marble like ice under my feet. On the landing is a rich, deep royal blue runner to cushion the sound of his shoes and to provide me some protection against the cold. He turns left and I follow him, counting doors, six of them on this side of the staircase, before he reaches the double doors at the very end.

He opens one and gestures for me to enter.

I glance inside, my eyes landing on the huge four-poster bed in the center before I step inside. I stop and take in the room as he follows and closes the door, locking it. He doesn’t pocket the key but leaves it in the lock and I wonder if it’s to make sure his daughter doesn’t enter. Which brings me back to thoughts of his wife, but only one side of the huge bed has been slept in. All I see are masculine things, furniture, a jacket over the back of a chair, the scent of cologne—his cologne—hanging in the air.

I’ll always associate that scent with him. It’s not one I’ve smelled before—black leather and earth and wood and darkness—but I know if I ever smell it again, I’ll remember Jericho St. James.

I take in the papered walls, a rich black on midnight damask with velvet curtains in obsidian that must be twelve feet long. It’s how high the ceilings are, and the drapes hang from ceiling to floor. They’re still closed tight blocking out any natural light. The only light in here is from the bedside lamp that’s still on. The furnishings are minimal, rich cognac leather chairs and ottomans, dark wooden dresser and nightstands, all clean lines, although not quite modern, but stylish. And all entirely masculine.

He’s watching me when I turn to him.

“You need a shower,” he says, and I narrow my eyes.

“Do I smell like damp cellar? Or molding mattress?”

“All of the above and fear,” he says, leading the way to the bathroom door which stands open. He switches on the light and waits for me.

I walk toward it. I would love a shower, but I don’t tell him that. I pass him into the large bathroom with its black and gray tiled floors and walls. A rectangular mirror spans the length of the counter with its double sinks and a black claw-footed tub stands against the far wall. The shower stall is glassed and built for two.