100. He cupped her breasts, his palms leaving sooty marks on the pale pink cotton. “Join me?” She couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or a command, but she didn’t decline. She didn’t want to refuse. Nodding her head, she stepped to the side so he could sink into the water, both relieved and disappointed as most of his body disappeared from view. Her hands trembled as she peeled off her T-shirt and wiggled out of the pants, taking her panties at the same time. His gaze was hot with need as she unfastened her bra and dropped it with the other clothes on the shining black tile, shot through with lines of gold. “I’ve been thinking about this for hours.” With a little smile, she stepped into the tub, deliberately staying out of easy reach as she reached for a natural sea sponge and a bottle of shower gel. “A bath?” Her tone was innocent, though the look she directed his way was anything but. He laughed, and the rasp underneath caused her to notice his voice was husky. From
101. If he wasn’t gone or doing whatever business a gangster handled—and she couldn’t imagine it had much to do with marketing or public relations, but probably involved some accounting—he had her on the bed, in the tub, on the couch, or against the wall. Once, he even took her in the solarium in the middle of breakfast. She’d offered a token protest at the ability of anyone to see them, but had soon forgotten her objections when his hand traveled under her skirt to stroke her bare mound. Forgoing panties had been her idea, but he’d loved the discovery so much that he’d forbidden her to wear them at all after that. She’d pretended to mind and had argued, but had acquiesced fairly easily. Mainly because she enjoyed the sensation of different (or no) fabrics against her bare lips, and also because there was something deliciously naughty about teasing him with the knowledge that she wasn’t wearing underwear—especially when he was about to go somewhere and had no time for se
102. The crazy psycho had grown on her in an unexpected way. That realization caused another spike of concern, but that one was solely for her own welfare. She was getting too close to the enemy Pushing aside that uncomfortable notion, she turned at went up the stairs, determined to focus on preparing for the evening ahead. She wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on what was happening to Shane, or even more alarming, what was happening to her. *** Shane gritted his teeth and struggled to project a respectful air as he sat across the table from Riley Kilkearny. The man was pushing his last nerve, but he was a superior in the hierarchy, which meant Shane had to listen to him—or at least fake the appearance that he was at the other man’s command. “You understand Mr. Murphy’s concern, Shane?” He nodded. “No one wants a repeat of ten years ago, but the best way to deal with Peretti is fast and brutal. That might mean some short-term heat, but it will be more effective than a d
103. As they climbed the stairs to the box, he chatted amicably, and she answered. Cormac was a smooth talker and charming. She briefly wondered if the mafia trained guys how to behave, or if these two just happened to be charmers that ended up in organized crime. A few minutes after they were seated, the lights went down, and the show began. Mia watched it, enchanted as always. Each time she glanced at Shane, she caught him watching her instead of the performance. It should have been discomfiting or creepy, but something in his gaze made the blood rush in her veins and slicked the flesh between her thighs. If Cormac hadn’t been in the seat beside her, she would have slid onto Shane’s lap and let his hand slip under the slit in her dress to see just how wet she was for him. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone, though their companion’s eyes were always centered on the stage whenever she glanced at him. As the show progressed, Mia realized his attention specifically centered
104. Gritting her teeth and summoning the fighting strength that had kept her enduring all those years under Aldo’s perversions, she scooped up her backpack, shoved in the few toiletries in the bathroom, and left the motel room. Her key was on the nightstand, and the maid would find it in the morning—assuming they actually had a maid. She hadn’t seen one in two days. The bus station was less than two blocks away, and she huddled into her hooded sweatshirt, clasped her backpack, and darted down the street. Rain fell from the gray sky, and it perfectly matched her sour mood. Somewhere sunny would be a nice change, and she hoped she could make it in time to catch the bus to Atlanta. It would still take two days to reach the Georgian capital, but she had nothing but time to kill. The bus station was in sight when a chill ran down her spine. Mia turned her head to the side, mouth opening in an O of surprise when she saw Wallace step out from the mouth of an alley. Her heart h
105. Her stomach curled with dread as he went to a large cabinet. The angle wasn’t good enough for her to see everything within, but she saw enough implements of torture to send an icy trickle of sweat down her spine. He returned a few minutes later holding something composed of metal and leather. She eyed it, struggling not to betray her fear at the sight of metal bars, chain links, and leather cuffs. “Take off your clothes, Mia, and I promise I’ll go easy on you for a bit.” Mia shook her head, but she didn’t try kicking Wallace when he entered her cell a moment later. Instead, she pressed her back against the wall and remained passive as he approached. It was surprisingly easy to quell the instinct to resist as he came nearer, and it didn’t take deep self?analysis to figure out why. Fighting Aldo had been a matter of pride and necessity. He seemed to regard her resistance as a nuisance, but he’d wanted her enough to deal with it. Shane had viewed it as a challenge, an
106. Even not knowing exactly what Shane had planned for her, Mia was still relieved to see him when he entered the basement two days after Wallace had taken her from the street. Her first thought was he looked like hell. His normally robust tanned skin was pale, and his face looked gaunt, though he couldn’t have lost much weight in the four days since she’d seen him, even with a gunshot wound. Her gaze darted to the sling encasing his left arm, where she could see the bulky bandage covering most of the left side of his chest and clavicle underneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It was insane, but she had to physically bite her tongue to keep from asking how he felt and fretting over him being out of the hospital already. The reality of her position and situation made it easier to rein in the concern. She lay on the cold concrete, naked as the day she was born, with her hands cuffed to her ankles, which were spread by a metal bar. It was an obscene, undignified pose, b
107. Mia slid the garment over her aching arms, wincing as she overextended the strained muscles before zipping the fleece up to her neck. Thank goodness it was old and oversized, meaning it fell to mid-thigh and would provide enough coverage to mostly maintain her modesty in front of the household staff and Shane’s goons. Determined not to look weak or victimized—or betray her fear—Mia squared her shoulders and walked beside Shane. She didn’t meet the gazes of the few people they encountered, but nor did she drop her head with shame. None of them knew for sure that she was being punished, and it mattered to her not to appear weak to them, though she didn’t know why. She let the cool mask lapse a bit when Shane escorted her into his room. She’d half-expected to end up back in the bedroom where he’d kept her confined initially, so it was surprising to be in his suite. A loud meow greeted her, and she bent down carefully, conscious of the stiffness permeating her body, to