Chapter Eleven

  Jax

  “What is so fucking important that this could not wait until morning?” Jax slammed into his home office at the front of the house, yanking on a t-shirt he’d grabbed from the dungeon. Ben trailed right behind him. Not only was he annoyed Ben had interrupted his moment with Carrie, but he was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he’d just taken her virginity. Christ, he hadn’t fucked a virgin since he was sixteen years old. Carrie hadn’t deserved to be taken like that. She should have had candlelight and music and wine, and hell, a fucking bed. He had to make this right with her. The sooner he could get rid of Ben, the sooner he could be with Carrie.

  “Jax, listen to me, the client is really upset.”

  “The client,” he said almost mockingly. “I am sick of this fucking client.” He needed to take his confusion and anger out on someone, and Ben had the unfortunate position of being directly in his path. “I don’t even know who this fucking client is, and at this point, I honestly don’t care. Tell him he will get his fucking painting tomorrow.”

  He started to shove past Ben when his partner grabbed his arm. Jax was about to shake him off when Ben said the words that stopped him dead in his tracks. “It’s Tate Wentworth.”

  Turning slowly, Jax clamped a hand to his mouth as if holding in a curse. He stared at Ben, his mind running wildly for a few moments before he finally trusted himself to speak. “Tate Wentworth? Is your client? Carrie’s brother?”

  Ben must have sensed that Jax’s temper was simmering slowly beneath the surface because he didn’t respond with a flippant comment. “Our client. And yes, but unfortunately, that’s not the worst of it.”

  Narrowing his eyes at his partner, Jax waited for the other shoe to drop. He watched as Ben swallowed deeply.

  “He wants her dead,” Ben finally said.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Carrie had no idea. He remembered the words she’d uttered earlier this evening. Thank God for Tate. On a sigh, he ran a hand over his face. What the fuck was he going to do? How was he ever going to tell her?

  As if echoing his thoughts, Ben asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, do you have any suggestions?” He gave Ben a grim look and jabbed a finger in his direction. “And don’t you dare fucking say kill her, or you’ll be the one in the body bag.” His partner’s reputation of a tough guy who killed first and asked questions later was well-known. So why did Ben look scared shitless right now?

  “I’m not going to say kill her.”

  “Really? Because you’ve said it plenty of times already tonight.”

  “Fuck,” his partner whispered. “Because Tate was adamant she was out of the way.”

  Wearily, Ben took a seat in the chair near the window and looked out into the night. “It wasn’t just the painting that was Tate’s priority. The gallery is the perfect vehicle for him to smuggle paintings in and out. The problem is Carrie’s the one running the place. She’s the one with all the knowledge of art.” Ben blew out a breath. “Apparently, she’s also the one with the conscience. With her in the way, it’s going to make … acquiring and moving art much more difficult for Tate.”

  “So he wants her dead?” Jax stared in disbelief. “He’s already worth a fortune. How much money does he need? And he wants to kill his sister for it?”

  When Ben rose from his seat, Jax positioned himself between his partner and the door. “You’re not going near her.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m not planning to kill her, but you’re missing the point. Tate sent his sister back to the gallery tonight knowing you would be in the middle of removing The Concert from behind the other painting. He wanted her to walk in on you. He thought you would kill her.”

  Fisting his hands, Jax had to stifle the urge to plant one through his partner’s face. “Why the fuck would you tell him about her in the first place? That she was here?”

  “Well, don’t you think he was going to wonder where she was when her body wasn’t found at the gallery?” Ben waved his hands in frustration. “It doesn’t matter. You’re missing the point, man. You can’t let her go. He wants her dead.”

  “Why use us? Why didn’t he just kill her himself if he wanted her dead?”

  “And get blood on his hands? That’s not how the rich operate. But I have no doubt he’ll kill her if he has to.”

  Jax leaned against the wall. He felt exhausted. He never should have agreed to this job. He had enough money. But the dollar signs from this job were so big, he’d gotten greedy. It was time for him to quit putting money first.

  For the last three months, he’d watched Carrie, studied her, fantasized about her, and now he felt like he owned part of her. He wasn’t about to let her die. But how the fuck was he going to tell her about Tate?

  “Uh, Jax?” Ben was staring out the front window. “We have a problem.”

  “No shit. We have a lot of fucking problems.”

  Pointing out the window, Ben said, “Uh, you might want to take a look at this one. I’m pretty sure that’s your car pulling out of the garage.”

  “What!” He rushed to the window and looked out in time to see his car speeding out of sight down the drive.

  “Fuck!” He’d left her alone, he’d untied her. But he hadn’t thought she would run. Turning, he shoved Ben out of the way and ran toward the door. He had a feeling that she wasn’t going home, and she most likely wasn’t going directly to the police. She would go to Tate first, ask him for help. And if she got to him before they got to her, she was dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Carrie

  Pulling into Tate’s driveway, Carrie had barely thrown the gearshift into park before she pulled open the door and rushed out of the car. She banged and banged on Tate’s front door.

  When he yanked it open, he had a menacing look on his handsome face. But it quickly changed to surprise.

  “Tate! Oh, thank God!” She barely registered the look of astonishment on his face and the fact that he had his phone pressed to his ear before she wrapped her arms around him in a relieved hug.

  He clicked his phone off immediately and shoved it in his pocket. “Carrie! Are you okay? What happened?”

  Relief filled her as he pulled her inside and shut the door. He led her into the family room where a fire was roaring in the fireplace.

  “Let me get you a drink,” Tate said, helping her sit down on the big leather couch.

  Carrie shook her head, her eyes on her fingers as they clenched and twisted around each other. “Tate, I need you to call the police.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “The police?” Tate moved over to the bar that held several glass bottles full of amber-colored liquid. “Carrie, what are you talking about?” He calmly filled two glasses with some sort of alcohol and carried them over, shoving one in her face. “I think you need to calm down. Whatever happened, I’m sure you’re overreacting.”

  “Tate! Listen to me!” She shoved his hand away. “I’m serious. It’s Jax. He—he—” After uttering his name, she didn’t know if she could continue. “I’m so confused.” Her words came out on a sob.

  “It’s okay, Carrie. I won’t let him hurt you.” As Tate spoke, he walked over to the safe she knew was hidden behind a sliding bookcase.

  Shaking her head, she got up and went to Tate’s desk, where there was a landline.

  “What are you doing?” Worry filled Tate’s voice as he made shuffling movements behind her.

  “We have to call the police. The painting.” She took a deep breath. “Tate, he’s working for someone—I don’t know who—but they’re smuggling art through our gallery.” With shaking hands, she began to dial 9-1-1. “We have to contact the police.”

  Before she could dial the last number, Tate’s hand slammed down on the receiver, making her jump. “I can’t let you do that, Carrie.”

  She felt her brow furrow as she looked up at her brother. His blue eyes were filled with an icy cold rage that made her back up in fear. That’s when she noticed he held a small pistol, and it was pointed directly at her.

  “Tate, what are you…” Her voice trailed off. It suddenly made sense now. All the “borrowed” paintings that seemed to travel in and out of the gallery so quickly. The employee turnover, the odd delivery times, the weird men in business suits that would show up, and all of Tate’s money. She knew they’d both inherited well, but she’d thought Tate had just really known how to invest.

  “You … you’re smuggling art?” Her entire body trembled. “Tate, why? Is it the money?”

  Tate shrugged, but his gun never moved. “The money, sure. But Carrie, it’s more than that—it’s the power.” His eyes glittered in a way she’d never seen, and for the first time, Carrie wondered if her brother was truly insane.

  “Carrie,” he continued, “I’m one of the most powerful players in the international art community. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  “Tate, it doesn’t matter,” she said in a hiss-whisper. “This is wrong. Those paintings. They belong in a museum. They’re not your personal playthings.”

  Tate let out a humorless laugh. “God, now you sound like Dad.”

  “Dad?” Carrie heard the wobbling in her own voice. “Dad knew?”

  Tate made a tsk tsk sound. “He didn’t get it either. He didn’t see the big picture. I didn’t want to get rid of Mom and Dad, Carrie, but Dad just didn’t leave me a choice.”

  “Get rid of … you killed Mom and Dad?” The tears spilled over. “Tate,” she sobbed. “How … how could you?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t have a choice.” He raised the gun and leveled it at her head. “And you don’t leave me a choice either, Carrie. I didn’t want to do this myself. Jax was supposed to—well, it doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry, Carrie. I really am.”

  He cocked the gun, and she flinched, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Carrie!” A slamming noise followed Jax’s voice, and for a second, it sounded like the big bad wolf trying to blow the house down. Then she heard splintering and realized Jax had broken down the door.

  “What the fuck?” Tate turned as Jax entered the room. “You’re a little too late. I’ve got this taken care of.” Tate leveled his gaze at Jax and sniffed as though he was too good to breathe the same air as him. “And you’re paying for my door.”

  Jax’s black eyes found hers, and she thought he sighed in what looked like relief. But she didn’t know what to think anymore. Was he here to help Tate? To kill her?

  Everything seemed to still for a heartbeat, then Jax made the first to move. Carrie watched as he pulled a gun from his waistband and stepped toward her. A cold sense of dread spread through her. But then, he moved so he stood between her and her brother, and he turned, aiming the gun at Tate.

  Both men stood facing each other, pointing their guns directly at the other’s chest. Jax backed up and used his free arm to shove Carrie behind his big body.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Tate asked, stunned.

  “You’re not hurting her.” Jax’s voice was deadly calm. “You’ll have to go through me.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Tate leveled his gun.

  Carrie squeezed her eyes shut and gripped Jax’s waist. She wanted to shove him out of the way, but he was too big, too strong.

  A shot rang out, and she flinched back.

  She cried out and waited for Jax to fall.

  But when she opened her eyes, Jax was turning and gathering her close. Her eyes flew to Tate who lay on the floor, a red stain blooming on his chest.

  “Oh God. Oh God.” She buried her face in Jax’s chest.

  “Shhh, it’s okay, love. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  But how? How was anything ever going to be okay again?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jax

  A few weeks later…

  The coffee machine bubbled and gurgled to life as Jax stood in his kitchen and watched it. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t run. Instead, after the night that had turned his entire world upside down, he’d waited. Once they were sure Tate was dead, Carrie had forced him to leave before the police had arrived.

  After a quick goodbye to his partner, Ben had left town in a rush. His partner had tried to persuade Jax to leave town with him, but he hadn’t. The only place he wanted to be was here, near Carrie. In some ways, he felt responsible for her, and he probably always would.

  Carrying two cups of coffee down the hall, he turned and walked into the dungeon.

  “It’s about time. My God, you’re slow to make coffee.” Carrie was turning into quite the little brat.

  He sat both cups of coffee down on the smooth black table and picked his favorite flogger off the wall, admiring the way his girl looked. She stood against a St. Andrew’s cross, black straps binding her naked form. “Is that how you talk to me, sub?”

  He loved the way those blue eyes widened as he walked over to her and brushed the flogger gently over her body.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” She shivered lightly, but he was learning her body quite well, and he knew it wasn’t because she was cold. No, when her little pussy got wet, shivers of excitement ran through her luscious curves. “You have to admit this is a little strange, though. You tie me to a St. Andrew’s cross, turn the TV on to CNN, and then leave the room?” She shook her head in confusion. “I know I have a lot to learn, but I’m pretty sure that’s not some weird sex thing … at least, I don’t think it is.”

  “Stop talking, love, or I’ll gag you.”

  “Gag me, but I—” Carrie gasped as Jax pulled her close and rubbed his erection against her. He only wore a pair of sweats, and his cock was trying as hard as it could to break through that barrier and get to her.

  Before she could say another word, he grasped her face in both hands and crushed his mouth to hers. His tongue forced its way through her lips, taking what he wanted. Oh, she was his, all right. He just needed to make sure she knew it.

  When he heard the voice on the TV, he broke the kiss, leaving her breathless, and turned, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume.

  “Jax, what—”

  “Shh, I have a surprise for you.”

  As the news reporter began to talk about The Concert, Carrie focused on the TV with rapt attention.

  “... and the art world is shrouded in mystery today as a stolen painting—Johannes Vermeer’s The Concert—was returned earlier this morning to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the same place where it was stolen from in 1990. When the museum’s director came into work this morning, he found the painting prominently displayed on a wall in the museum, near where it once hung. There is no word on who returned the painting, or how the benefactor even got into the museum. Authorities are investigating.”

  Carrie’s eyes shot to him. “Jax … you … but…”

  He reached up to trace a finger over her lips, and gave her a little smile. “You’re not speechless very often, love.”

  “But, why? I thought, I thought—”

  He stopped her with a quick headshake. “It was the right thing to do. Being around you … well, let’s just say that you make me want to do the right thing.”

  Carrie’s eyes shone with tears as she regarded him.

  Pulling her close, Jax buried his face in her hair. The scent of strawberries must be what heaven smelled like. As long as he lived, he’d never get tired of her sweet, delicious scent.

  His plan had been to untie her and make her breakfast, but he needed an appetizer first. He raised his head to look down at her, and then dropped a quick kiss on her mouth before kneeling in front of her.

  Her little gasp made him smile. “I thought we were going to have coffee.”

  He raised his eyes to hers, giving her a wicked grin. Then his tongue snaked out, tracing a circle just above her smooth mound. “I have other ideas.”

  “But—but, the coffee will get cold,” Carrie said breathlessly.

  “Don’t worry, baby.” He gripped her buttocks, dragging her lower body forward to meet his mouth. “I have other ways to heat you up.”

  Her cries were music to his ears as he licked and sucked her pussy until her sweet nectar flooded his mouth. She was his. He could keep her tied up right there, and make her come all day long.

  And that was just the beginning.

  The End

  www.njyoungauthor.wordpress.com

  THE SHADOW

  Elena Kinclaid

  Copyright© 2016

  Chapter One

  He came out of nowhere, like a shadow hiding in pitch darkness.

  “Help! No!” Emily continued to scream and kick, but the sound was muffled underneath the Shadow’s powerful gloved hand, her feet dangling as he lifted her against him.

  “Shut the fuck up or this won’t end well for you,” he spoke quietly, voice deadly, in her ear.

  How had he managed to make such an ominous threat sound almost seductive though? Maybe she was losing it. Who in their right mind in any case could find their captors voice enticing? The adrenaline, the fear, was making her thoughts irrational.

  Only moments ago, while she rode the subway home after work, she felt eyes watching her. Invisible eyes on a crowded New York City train, no one actually making contact, but she felt them peering into her. She still saw no one watching her when the crowd began and continued to thin out as the train neared the end of the line. And when she stepped out of the train, the sole passenger to get off, she waited for the eerie sounds of footsteps behind her, but they never came.

  Paranoia, she had tried to convince herself. It had been two years after all, since the restraining order. Why would Louis have waited this long to grab her if that was his purpose all along? No, he was a man filled with pride, a pride he cherished more than his enormous power. He had wanted her to come back to him willingly.

  She rushed down the steps of the elevated train station and only when her foot hit the very last step did she realize that her paranoia had not been paranoia at all. Ice cold fear traveled through her veins as her Shadow lifted her and held her tightly against his solid, muscular frame, one iron-like vise around her waist, and a black-gloved hand covering her mouth. Her muffled curses and yells did nothing but piss off her antagonist. And as if she weighed nothing, he carried her toward a black SUV parked close to the stairway. Emily spied a few people across the street, just coming off the train on the other side, but they all went about their evening completely oblivious to what was happening just several feet away from them.