Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

His voice is hoarse. “Cas.” He closes the distance and stops short of me. “You look…”

“Nice?” I ask with a smile.

He gives a terse shake of his head. “I can’t put words to it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to feel like murdering a few men tonight because everyone will be staring.”

I go on tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck. “It doesn’t matter, because I belong to one man only.”

Possession sparks in his eyes as he cups my ass. “Who?”

“You.”

“Ian,” he says.

“Ian.”

His voice is low, intense. “Ian Hart.”

“Ian Hart,” I agree.

“I hope you like the sound of that,” he says, lowering his head and pressing the words in a dark, soft tone against my ear, “because one day, I’m going to make you Cassandra Hart.”

My stomach flutters, and my heart answers with an echoing beat. This is happiness, whole and complete.

He brushes our cheeks together, his stubble grazing my skin as he meets my gaze to measure my reaction. Anticipation burns in his eyes. The non-negotiable light that sparks in their depths communicates a dangerous message, but the flash of uncertainty gives him a vulnerable edge. He’s still afraid I’ll reject him.

“I like the sound of that,” I whisper. “Very much.”

The tension melts from his shoulders. The tightness of his face relaxes, but his gaze doesn’t lose its feverish light. Dragging his hands from my ass to my hips, he says, “I’ve got something for you.”

“For me?”

He sets me aside to fetch a small, square box from the dresser drawer. I drag in a breath when I catch sight of the logo. He flips back the lid to reveal a classic ladies’ Rolex.

“Why?” I look from the expensive watch to his face. “It’s not my birthday.”

His gaze softens. “You’re always asking me for the time.”

“Oh. I’m used to checking the time on my phone, and when I didn’t have a phone…” I bite my lip, not wanting to bring up the kidnapping.

“You’re still welcome to ask me the time as much as you like, but at least now you also have your own time,” he says as he lifts the watch from the box. “Give me your wrist.”

I extend my arm, letting him slip the watch over my wrist. Holding my gaze, he takes my hand and turns it palm-up. He gives me a gorgeous, private smile before dropping his gaze back to my wrist and closing the clasp. The band fits perfectly. He must’ve ordered the watch with the band already adjusted for the circumference of my wrist.

“It looks good on you,” he says.

I reciprocate with, “Thank you,” but it’s not at the watch I’m looking. It’s at his handsome face.

He brings my wrist to his lips and plants a kiss on my pulse. “You’re welcome.”

“I have something for you too, but after this,” I turn the watch from side to side as I admire it, “it feels kind of silly.”

“You got me something? I’m touched.”

“It’s just something small.”

“Go on. Don’t make me wait.” He grins. “I’m a curious bastard.”

Going to the drawer, I remove the Nyaminyami necklaces and carry them back to him. “It reminded me of you,” I say, placing the ebony one in his hand.

He studies the charm. “Is the white one you?”

I shrug. “They go together.”

“They do.” He takes the necklace from me and hangs it around my neck before fitting his own. “I’ll never take it off.”

I consider his stylish attire. “It doesn’t go with your outfit.”

Shooting me a boyish smile, he says, “I don’t care.”

Neither do I, and I love that he’s not that boringly conventional to match his jewelry with his clothes.

“Come here,” he says.

I close the single step between us.

Putting his arms around me, he kisses my forehead. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he releases me, I reach for my clutch on the bed, but he says, “I’m not done yet.”

The wariness in his tone makes me pause. He hesitates only for a milli-second before he goes back to the drawer, but I notice. When he returns, I understand the reason for his reaction. A Star .55 pistol lies in his palm, the barrel pointing away. It’s a beautiful model with roses engraved in an ivory-covered shaft. Wow.

“Take it,” he urges softly.

I wrap my fingers around the shaft and let it sit in my palm. It’s light but sturdy. It fits in my hand as if it was made for me, allowing my forefinger to easily caress the trigger.

“Have you used this caliber?” he asks.

Supporting my forearm with my free hand, I check out the aim. “Yes.”

He produces a box of bullets. “Let’s load it.”

I release the magazine and pop the bullets inside. The piece slips back with a satisfying click. The barrel moves back smoothly, the spring soundless and the metal well-oiled. The bullet enters the chamber, fitting snugly in front of the hammer.