Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

“Go on, baby doll.” His lips stretch into a sensual curve. He’s patient now, letting me take my time. “I won’t bite.”

I’m feeling weaker by the minute. If I don’t sit, I’m going to collapse in an embarrassing heap at his feet.

Swallowing, I take the key like it’s dipped in acid that will peel my skin off my fingers. I look back at his handsome face, searching his expression, but there’s no malice or lust, only more patience. My dad was patient with me. He’d explain algebra to me for hours without getting frustrated. This man wears the same expression, like he has all night.

My legs make the decision for me. Before they fold, I insert the key into the lock and turn it. The key turns without effort. The lock looks new. It must’ve been fitted to the old door recently.

He reaches around me to push the door open. Another whiff of leather and tobacco steals over my senses. He steers me inside with a hand on my lower back, lights a paraffin lamp, and locks the door before pocketing the key.

I blink and look around. The floors are raw concrete, and the flaking plaster of the walls reveals the bricks behind. Graffiti speaks of other invaders who’ve been here. A ratty sofa covered with a throw and a couple of empty beer bottles on a coffee table are the only signs of life.

He ushers me through the lounge to a door on the left that leads to a kitchen and lights another lamp. A wooden table and two chairs stand in the center of the floor. Battered cupboards line the walls. Some of the doors hang on one hinge. The linoleum is an ugly green color. It curls in the corners like paper, exposing the splintering pressed wood underneath. It smells of a wood fire inside. A small heap of burnt-out ashes and charcoaled logs in the corner explains the smell.

The man stops at the table and releases my arm. I back up to the sink, as far away from him as possible. Pressing my backside against the steel of the sink, I watch him. I wait for the lie, for the moment he’s going to pounce, but he leaves the gun on the table and zips open my bag to take out my wallet.

He goes through the contents meticulously, checking the empty compartment where I normally keep bills, the few business cards I store in the second compartment, and my loyalty cards in the card slots. He studies each one and lastly pulls out my driver’s license. His gaze flickers to mine after reading it. Then he pushes it back into the slot and returns the wallet to my bag.

“What do your friends call you, Cassandra Joubert?” he asks in his deep, low voice.

“Cas,” I say, licking my dry lips.

He hangs my bag over a chairback. He unzips his jacket and pulls it off, wincing as he does so. A black T-shirt stretches over his chest. The dark fabric molds to his broad shoulders and flat stomach.

“Can I call you Cas?” he asks as he picks up the gun.

As long as he’s got the gun, he’s going to call me whatever he likes.

He advances on me. “I’m Ian.”

“I didn’t want to know that,” I whisper, terrified.

“Doesn’t matter that you know.” He brushes my hair from my face. “You’re not going to tell.”

I stare up at him in petrified shock. In the yellow light of the lamp, his face is more formidable. He’s ruggedly handsome. His eyes are striking—a rich, dark brown like fertile soil mixed with the amber of a warm sun. Standing so close, I register his height and strength. He’s packed with muscles, lean and in shape. I bet he can really kill with his bare hands.

I lean back when he reaches out again, escaping with just a brush of his fingertips over my cheek. “What do you want from me? You’ve got the car. Let me go.”

“In the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere?” He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t know in which direction to run.”

Actually I do know. I grew up on a farm in the area. We’re in Botswana, about half an hour’s drive from the South African border. I recognized the dam and the windpump. We used to drive past here to buy kudus and springbok for the farm from the Pilansberg Reserve when they had an overpopulation of antelope.

“I’ll take my chances,” I say, holding his piercing gaze.

His hair drops over his forehead as he stares down at me. “Too dangerous. I’ll never risk you like that.”

The statement surprises me. My lips part. I try to think, but it’s getting harder when I feel this weak. I sag against the counter, leaning my palms on the sink. He could’ve just driven here himself. I try to be firm, but the exhaustion sounds in my voice. “Why am I here?”