Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

Being mindful of my twenty minute time limit I stepped out of the shower and found the clothes I was to put on, a clingy Versace wrap dress and Stella McCartney underwear. I hoped the lingerie was not chosen with a purpose in mind. My stomach dropped. Holy shit, was I going to be sold into a sex slavery ring? My dad was not Liam Neeson; my chances of him recusing me were slim to none.

I failed to forget about my biker family. They would not hesitate to come and rescue me. I couldn’t control my yearning for one man in particular to be my knight riding a Harley. Too bad he didn’t know where I was. They all thought I was in New York. Even if he did know where I was I doubted he would come to my aid after the past year. He hated me. No, it was worse than hate. He was indifferent. I couldn’t think about him now. I had to focus on the more pressing scenario, the one that may involve me being sold into a sex slavery ring. No one was coming to save me; of that much I was sure. My family in Amber thought I was in New York and my family in New York couldn’t care less about where I was. I was on my own.

I put on the dress and accompanying heels before pulling my damp hair into a French braid. My reflection stared at me blankly as I regarded myself in the mirror. Free of makeup I looked vulnerable, my freckles making me look childlike. I didn’t need that. I needed my war paint to look strong. Stronger than I felt. A sharp knock on the door made me jump.

“Time’s up, Red.”

The bathroom door opened and Blue Eyes appeared, inspecting me in a way that made me want to hop right back in the shower.

“It’s a shame you had to be a good little girl and do what you were told. I was looking forward to teaching you a lesson, cara,” he sneered, grabbing my arm roughly and directing me out the door.

I noticed he was limping slightly and smirked. “It looks like you’re the one that got taught a lesson. Seems like your kidnapping skills aren’t up to par since you let a half-drunk woman put a hole in your expensive shoes. How’s your foot?” I asked sweetly. He stopped me abruptly and his grip on my arm tightened painfully.

“You’re not going to be so mouthy once I’m allowed to play with you. I promise you that, bitch. I’ll enjoy making you scream.” His attractive face morphed into a sneer and I refused to let the fear I felt show.

I stared at him silently and ignored the throbbing in my arm. He gazed at me a moment longer then yanked me along.

After a silent journey through the expansive and impressive house I was roughly pushed into a dining room. It was huge and sliding doors opened onto an outdoor terrace and a pool. It looked like paradise, apart from the men strolling around with guns. Oh, and the fact I was being held against my will.

My gaze moved to a man sitting at the far end of a long table. His greying head was bent reading a paper, a plate of food sitting in front of him. The entire table was full of platters of delicious looking food. My stomach rumbled on cue; I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. My hangover, coupled with my abduction, made me hangry.

“Sit,” Blue Eyes commanded, shoving me toward the chair at the opposite end of the table. The man still hadn’t lifted his head. Deciding to do as I was told I sat gingerly, ignoring the plate of food in front of me.

“Miss Abrams, good morning. I see the clothes are a perfect fit. You look stunning. Please eat. I had some pain au chocolate flown in from Paris—I understand they are your favorite. And of course coffee.” The man waved his hand and a woman bustled into the room. She was Mexican, older and looked like someone’s grandmother. She smiled at me as she poured fragrant coffee into my cup. I struggled not to salivate; I needed ten gallons of coffee right about now. I resisted the urge to cling to this woman’s skirt, knowing there was not much she could do to help me. I wondered if she knew she was serving a kidnapping victim. I sat stiffly as she walked out, fighting the urge not to clutch the coffee.

“Who are you? What do want with me?” I demanded, glaring at the man at the other end of the table.

“Eat, Miss Abrams. I imagine you are starved, considering it’s been almost twenty-eight hours since your last meal. I’m sure you need your coffee. We will talk after.” The man didn’t look up as he sipped his own cup.

My hand twitched, my need for caffeine messing with my brain. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal, my fix within arms’ reach. I resisted. I had bigger fish to fry.

“I will not sit and eat while I’m getting held against my will. This isn’t a fucking brunch date. You kidnapped me. What the fuck do you want?” I hissed, clutching the arms of my chair. Fury had momentarily replaced my fear.

The man glanced at me over his paper, his gaze almost disinterested. He sighed and put it to the side, clasping his hands together. “My reports are not wrong—you are spirited.” He seemed almost amused.

“Well, excuse me for not praising you on what a lovely kidnapping you’ve thrown—it’s the best I’ve been to. I’ll be sure to let my friends know the caliber of pastries present. What do you want with me?” I continued to manage to keep the tremor out of my voice. I was proud.

The fact this wasn’t your traditional kidnapping didn’t take away the reality of what was going on here. If anything it made it scarier; I didn’t know what was going on. The man in front of me seemed familiar. Not in the fact I knew him personally but I knew his type. I grew up surrounded by men like him. He could have been one of my father’s golf buddies or business associates. His greying hair was cut close to his head and styled expertly. His suit was Tom Ford if I wasn’t mistaken; a gold Rolex adorned his wrist and he was wearing a pocket square. He just didn’t fit the bill of kidnapper. Not that I really knew what your run of the mill criminal looked like, but I expected tattoos or at least a greasy haired man wearing thick gold chains. Not someone this sophisticated and not someone who looked a lot more like George Clooney than Dr. Evil.