Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

Just when I think he’s going to either tell me what’s on his mind or grab me again, he asks, “What did the police say?”

It takes me a moment to disconnect from the wild sex we’ve just shared. I gather myself to pull out of the present and go back in time. “They wanted to know if I could identify you.”

“What did you say?”

“What you told me to, that I was stressed and the lights were in my eyes, and then you blindfolded me.”

He takes my hand, rubbing a thumb over my knuckles. “Did they believe you?”

“I don’t think so.”

He nods. “What else?”

“They asked where you took me. I said a house, but I’d lost track for how long we’d been driving. They asked if there was anyone else.”

He lifts a brow and waits.

“I said no.” Come to think of it, the two beds in the bedroom should’ve told me Ian wasn’t alone. If there were three of them, they probably took shifts sleeping while one of them stood guard.

He squeezes my fingers. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good.” He lifts my hand to his lips, the hand he’d told me to rub myself with so I could come with him, and inhales deeply. “Stick to the story, no matter how many times they ask the same questions.”

I tense. “Do you think they’ll question me again?”

“It’s probable.” He rubs my fingers over his lips, looking apologetic. “They may pester you for a while.”

I shake a little thinking about that. “Lying doesn’t come easily for me.”

“I know.” He lowers my hands and kisses my nose. The act is tender. His words are quiet, but their meaning harsh. “Don’t think for a moment I won’t come after you if you change your tune.”

Taking a shaky breath, I pull my hand from his.

“Shower,” he says again, taking us a few steps back as if he never threatened me.

We shower and dress together. I use the hairdryer in the bathroom to dry my hair. My hair is thick. It takes an insanely long time to dry. When I finally step out of the bathroom, the linen is stripped from the bed and the kitchen is clean. The dirty sheets are neatly folded and stacked on the counter next to the dishcloths and towels. The floor is spotless.

Ian offers me a hand. “Come.”

His smile is warm, encouraging. He’s wearing a clean set of clothes while I’m dressed in the outfit of yesterday. A travel bag is thrown over his uninjured shoulder and a gun peeks from the waistband of his jeans. In his other hand, he holds a piece of paper.

When did he fetch the gun? Last night when he ordered me to the shower? I glance at the weapon again and swallow. If Ian was any other man, I would’ve grabbed that gun, but he’s too strong, too fast, too clever. Now that the opportunity presents itself, the reality is very different to my opportunistic dreaming. Considering overpowering him last night was nothing but wishful thinking.

A note of impatience slips into his voice. “Cas.”

When I place my palm in his, he pulls me closer and pushes the paper in my free hand.

I look at the folded sheet. “What is this?”

“Yours.”

“What?” I frown, turning the paper over.

“Open it.” He lets my hand go to allow me to execute the order.

Carefully, I unfold the paper. It’s a bank statement. In my name. Five million rand. My heart stops beating. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s an offshore account. The police shouldn’t be able to trace it.”

“Why?” The beat of my heart resumes painfully. “A buyoff?” Bribe money to keep my mouth shut?

He traces my jaw with a thumb. “I’d never try to buy you.”

“What then?” I ask as pride ignites my anger. “Payment for last night?”

He winces like I’ve punched him in the face. “You’re not a fucking prostitute.”

“Then why?” I exclaim. “Because I lost my job?”

He watches me quietly. “I set that up before I knew about your job.”

I won’t let this go. “If not to buy my silence, why are you doing this? To ease your guilt?”

His statement is flat. “I don’t suffer from guilt.”

No, I guess he doesn’t, or he wouldn’t be the most wanted criminal in the country. “You don’t owe me anything.” A promise not to make me look over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Not five million rand.

“I want to give it to you,” he says with a soft expression.

Five million—the worth of the money his gang stole from Sun City. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

Taking my arm, he leads me to the door. Just like that, the subject is closed for discussion. He shuts down, making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it any longer.

The sun is rising, painting the tops of the thorn trees with a golden glow. The air is fresh, but it’ll turn warm and humid soon. Birds chirp above us in the Acacia trees. He looks around when he gets my door and helps me into his truck. He scans the distance as he takes the wheel. Seemingly satisfied that there are no lurking threats, he starts the engine and drives me home.