Pretty Daring

I’m always fascinated watching my best friend interact with her new husband and this time is no exception. Grant walks into my bedroom like he owns the place—owns the world—in his starched black suit, sharp blue eyes riveted on Sienna. “Time’s up. You’re coming home now, angel.”

“Okay,” she whispers, her hands raking up the front of his jacket, eyes big and innocent. “Can we have ice cream for dinner?”

“Every flavor you can think of.”

Without sparing me a glance, he scoops Sienna off the bed and carries her out of the room. “Keep me updated, Ophelia!”

“Will do!” I call back, well used to our visits ending abruptly. “Bye!”

“Bye!”

Footsteps, courtesy of Sienna’s army of security, fade after a moment and I finally pull my phone out from beneath the pillow. This time, Wagner has sent me a photograph, instead of a simple text message. It’s a drafted email addresses to the New York Times, outlining my father’s involvement in a bribe to get me into Princeton. I drop my phone before I even finish reading but pick it up again with trembling fingers when it beeps again.

Just in case you’re having second thoughts.

I’m not sure how long I sit in my room, staring into a void, waiting to wake up from this awful nightmare, but afternoon turns into evening and I realize I have no choice. I have to meet with Wagner and hand over my body as a sacrifice. Ezra still hasn’t shown up. He’s probably decided a spoiled brat from the Upper West Side is more trouble than she’s worth and moved on to greener pastures. Tears spring to my eyes at that thought, but I force myself to climb off the bed and stumble to the shower.

An hour later, my hair and makeup is done and I’m standing in front of my closet in a robe. My skin crawls as I drag a black, lacy thong up my legs, knowing Wagner will be the one to take it off later. God. I’ll be lucky if I don’t puke all over the place the second he opens the door tonight.

After some debate, I defiantly yank a leather mini skirt off the hangar and pair it with a low-cut white tank top. No bra. If I’m going to be a sacrifice, might as well go the whole nine yards. No way I’m going to let Wagner see my horror or fear. No, he’s obviously the type who preys on those weaknesses. I’m going to show up with my chin held high.

I talk a big game while getting ready, but my bravado fades as I leave the townhouse, locking the door behind me. Thank God it’s Leeza’s day off because one look at my face and she’d know something is wrong. And something is wrong. So terribly wrong.

Hot moisture pushes at the backs of my eyes and I descend the stairs on shaking legs.

Ezra, where are you?

Ezra

Where the fuck is Ophelia going dressed like that?

I snarl into the cup of coffee I’m drinking in the cafe across the street from her townhouse. I’ve been sitting here for hours, restraining myself from going to see her. I couldn’t allow it until I have a rock-solid plan. No way I can ask Ophelia to give up so much for me. No way. I need something tangible to offer her—and I think I’ve just about figured out my play.

I told Ophelia’s father that I would beg, bargain and steal to have her in my life. Turns out, that won’t be necessary. I made a call to my colleagues in Michigan this morning, letting them know I had business to deal with in New York—also known as the hot brunette sashaying up the busy avenue in a scrap of leather—and might be delayed a while. That’s when they informed me of the sizeable fund they’d set aside in my honor. Money. Enough to keep Ophelia comfortable until I get my business off the ground.

Seven years ago, I wasn’t the only man my asshole employer made culpable without their knowledge. A handful of my co-workers were working in human trafficking without even knowing—and those men are still pissed about being duped, to this day. I avenged all of us when I burned down the warehouse. Not to mention, I saved them from eventually being investigated and possibly sent to prison for crimes they participated in against their will.

Some of the car parts were salvaged and sold to chop shops after the fire—and the money from those sales was set aside with my name on it.

I’ve got half a mil sitting in a bank in Michigan and I had no idea. My plan was to approach Ophelia’s father again tonight with a solid, yet frugal, plan to care for his daughter, but looks like plans have changed. Taking care of her is going to be a whole lot easier now, thank Christ.

Leaving my coffee steaming on the counter, I stride out of the small café and follow Ophelia, wondering where she’s headed. Every man that passes her does a double take and I warn them off with bared teeth and deadly glances. She’s mine. Don’t even think about it.

I’m getting ready to make my presence known by calling out to Ophelia, but she stops at a crosswalk and I get a look at her face. She’s pale as a ghost, her eyes huge and nervous in her beautiful face. What the fuck is going on?

I start to pick up my pace, intent on catching up with her, taking her in my arms and demanding to know who I have to kill for putting that expression on her face. But she crosses the avenue at a jog and after a deep breath, ascends the stairs of a white marble townhome. A split second before she rings the bell, I know this has something to do with what she’s been keeping from me.

Last night in her kitchen, she didn’t admit to there being another man. But I saw her hesitation. I saw it but convinced myself I’d imagined it. There’s no way she could give herself to me so completely if anyone else was in the picture. And I still don’t believe it.

Something is wrong. Something I’m not seeing.

Even before last night, when I showed up in her kitchen and she did everything under the sun to push me away—even though I could tell she wanted me—I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me. A secret.

This is it right here. I can feel it in my bones.

And whatever it is scares her. My Ophelia.

I watch in disbelief as an older man answers the door, takes hold of her elbow and pulls her inside, slamming the door closed behind him.

People on the sidewalk cower at my roar.

With murder raging in my blood, I cross the street at a dead run.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ophelia

I can’t do this.

The realization is such a relief, it makes me sag against the entry wall.

As soon as Wagner opened the door, the decision to leave was made. Whatever happens to my family as a result of me denying my father’s business partner? We’ll handle it. Or rather, our lawyers will handle it. But if I say yes to Wagner right now, who knows if it stops with one time? He’ll always have the means to blackmail me and my father. I have no way of stopping him from hitting send on that email to the New York Times in the future. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable.

And then there’s Ezra.

Even if I never see him again, I’m not going to soil the memory of our time together by letting this nasty lecher touch me. My body belongs to Ezra, one hundred percent.

A sob rises up in my throat. I miss him so much.

“Come along, Ophelia. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Gross. I’ve been eighteen for like, two seconds.

Bugs crawl on every inch of my skin.

Wagner is wearing a silk dressing gown and house slippers. He smells like Tums.

I wouldn’t have made it five seconds without gagging anyway. I’m out of here.

“I’m not letting you touch me,” I breathe, spinning toward the door—

He grabs my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my bicep. “You will hold up your end of this bargain, sweet cheeks, or your father’s face will be all over the evening news.” His hot breath wafts into my face and he starts dragging me forcefully into the living room. “This works out perfect for me in so many ways. I get to stick it in the little brat everyone at the office pants after. And your father will be forced to resign his position, leaving the firm to me.”

“Let me go!” I screech, digging my heels into the carpet.

Wagner grabs a section of my hair, using it to pull me toward the back of his townhouse. I scream and stumble—and that’s when the front door of the house is kicked open.

Ezra stands in the frame, his huge body vibrating with rage, hands in balled fists at his sides. He takes in the scene with one vicious glance—me struggling to get free, Wagner ripping at my hair—and his growl sounds like something out of the deepest, darkest jungle in Africa. It’s so loud and menacing, Wagner lets go of my hair and scampers toward the nearest wall, recoiling against it. “Wh-who are you?” Wagner snivels. “Get out of my house!”

The door rocks on its hinges under the force of Ezra kicking it shut. He advances into the room, light from the chandelier traveling over his murderous expression. “I knew you were keeping something from me, Ophelia,” he rasps, walking slowly toward Wagner. “Never again. Do you understand me? Your problems are my problems.”

I’m so relieved to see him, I can only nod dazedly.

“What does he have on you, princess?” Having reached Wagner, Ezra goes down on his knees and wraps a fist around the older man’s throat, squeezing. “Whatever it is, I hope treating my girl with anything less than respect was worth dying over.”

“Ezra, no.” I dive for Ezra and wrap my hands around his thick bicep, trying to pull him away. He doesn’t budge an inch and I start to sob. “Please. This is one of the reasons why I didn’t tell you. You’re going to kill him and go back to prison. Please. I can’t be the reason you go back there. Don’t get taken away from me, please.”

“He put his goddamn hands on you,” Ezra says through clenched teeth, his grip tightening and turning Wagner’s face a mottled purple. “He put his fucking hands on my Ophelia. He’s lucky I’m making it this quick.”

“No!” Knowing I’m almost out of time, I grasp the sides of Ezra’s face and turn it toward me. His anger steals my breath—his pupils are almost black with the emotion. I do the only thing I can think of. I kiss him. Once, twice, twisting my fingers in his hair. “I need you. I need you. He’s not worth losing each other over, Ezra. Please.”