Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

“I will inform you that all exits will be locked, and I’m sure you’ve seen my employees.” He gestured outside. “Just in case you have any ideas about wandering off.”

I held a hand to my chest in mock shock. “Me? Never! Why should I want to leave such a pretty cage?” I swear I didn’t even think about my sarcastic remark, it just came out.

George ignored me again as if I was a troublesome teenager. “I also expect you to join me for breakfast every morning and dinner every evening. Whether you consume them is up to you, but I must insist on your presence, as well as you wearing the garments I supply you with.” His eyes moved over my dress, interest obvious in his gaze. I felt as if spiders were crawling over me.

George was a silver fox, no doubt about that, but he was also a crazy psychopath who may or may not try and kill me. My taste in men had gotten me into some shitty situations lately but I wasn’t insane.

I decided to ignore him, getting up to remove myself from his presence and to plot an escape using only a butter knife. I turned to leave.

“Oh, Miss Abrams? I would appreciate it if you left the knife here. I wouldn’t want my mother’s silverware getting lost,” he remarked casually.

Fuck.

I turned slowly and placed the knife on the table quietly. I spun to leave the room to plot my escape sans butter knife. My stomach swirled at how precarious my situation was. My spirits did lift slightly when Rafe limped toward me scowling. If I could do damage to a career criminal’s goon with only a Louboutin I had to have faith.

I paced the long stretch of room in “my wing’s” library for the hundredth time. It had been hours since my little breakfast meeting with George and I was going stir crazy. I was also pissed. Anger was a much better coping mechanism than fear. Fear was not productive. If I gave into the fear curled at the bottom of my stomach I might be crouched on the floor rocking back and forth right now. Walking back and forward for two hours was arguably just as bad, apart from maybe wearing down an expensive looking Persian rug. I sank down on a leather armchair in exasperation.

I had explored the rooms of my prison earlier this morning, looking for possible escape points and for any potential weapons. I had come up dry on both points. Even if I had found a way to slip out into an unguarded area of the property I would be facing a long trek in an unforgiving desert landscape. And who could forget Rafe following me around all day, his blue eyes burning into me with anger and a sick desire.

The rooms I was free to explore were exquisitely furnished and spotless. The man had a good decorator. Considering where I came from I knew how to spot serious wealth; to tell the difference between a cheap imitation rug for instance, or one that cost more than a down payment on a house. This man was hideously rich. Which made me wonder what the heck he did to accumulate all of this wealth to attribute the need for an around the clock security detail that rivaled the president’s. All of my guesses were not good. What the fuck had my father been thinking getting involved with this guy? I wondered what my father was doing now. Was he cooperating with the demands? Or had he called the police? I doubted my mother would want the “scandal” of her daughter being kidnapped. I imagine her greatest worry right now would be how bad the lighting would be in a police press conference. I couldn’t imagine my father becoming outraged or out of his mind with worry for me. He never really expressed much emotion toward me. We got along okay, even had some enjoyable conversations. My father had a dry wit and I enjoyed his company when he was around, which wasn’t often. He was never affectionate with me, but didn’t hesitate in getting me whatever I wanted and he did drop everything to help me when I needed it. He loved me in his own detached sort of way. He would do what it took to get me home I hoped.

My thoughts moved to someone who would have an entirely different reaction to news of my kidnapping. Or he would have. Before. Maybe six months ago before I had come home and refused to talk to him. Avoided him at all costs. And when he had finally had enough of my evasion and silence I had to flat out lie to him. I’d never forget the look in his eyes after I uttered words that broke my own heart. So maybe after that he might not have the reaction I would have thought. He might not have any reaction at all. I was solely to blame for that. I sabotaged any future I had with him. It would have been a fucked up future anyway, with the shadow of a dead man between us. No, it would have been doomed. I did us both a favor.

But now while I was imprisoned, facing the grim reality of my own mortality, I couldn’t help but think back to when I first saw him.

Brock.

CHAPTER THREE

One Year Ago

It wasn’t love at first sight. Fireworks didn’t explode between us, nor did my angelic good looks and womanly wiles ruin him for anyone else. Pure sexual attraction was what it was at the start. Nothing deeper. No romance novel, “you are mine for the rest of eternity” crap. All that magic was saved for my best friend. Not that I begrudged her, not for a second. She deserved every inch of that fairy dust that was sprinkled between her and Cade. I made sure none of that shit settled on my designer clad shoulders. I had been all sparkly eyed and struck dumb by love. By her very brother, in fact. I had been there, got the t-shirt and the kick to my lady bits. Okay, maybe more like a gunshot wound to the heart. The pain was as fresh as it was the day Ian yanked my heart out of my chest and stomped on it before handing it back to me.