101 Nights Box Set: Volume Two Page 13

  “Now is not the appropriate time, Alisha.” He eases around me to the mouth of the alley, attention on the men in the street. He’s wearing all black: chinos that outline the muscular thickness of his thighs and a long-sleeved shirt that does nothing to mask his broad shoulders, wide back and large biceps.

  My stomach flutters, and I curse at it in silence. I had hoped the distance between us would put us back at odds, where we belong. Yet all I can think about – aside from feeling hurt that he ditched me – is how much I wish I’d fucked him when I had the chance, even though I know why I didn’t. I can’t decide if I want to regret not sleeping with him or if I’d rather regret letting him fuck me senseless for a night. Either way, I know I’m going to regret him.

  “You won’t give me the time of day, so now is as good as any time,” I snap. “Why did you drag me around the world and then lock me out, George?”

  “You seem to be enjoying your vacation.”

  “Vacation?” Fury floods me. “You fucking asshole!” I start down the alley, first at a quick walk then - fearing he’ll chase me - at a run. I’ve had a sixty-second conversation with him, and I’m near tears. It’s what he said as much as it is how I feel: desperate, embarrassed, worried sick for Natalie, and helpless to do anything about it.

  Oblivious to my surroundings, I smash into a black trash bag that’s almost invisible in the dark alley. The clatter of metal, glass, plastic bottles - god knows what else - erupts like a mini-explosion in the otherwise quiet alley.

  George curses quietly.

  I glance over my shoulder. He wasn’t chasing me before, but he is now.

  I take off again. There’s a really mean part of me that wants him to get his ass kicked by the three strangers, and another that’s terrified that if they take someone like him down, I won’t stand a chance.

  Darting out of the alley, I race across the street and down half a block, stair-stepping my way towards the walls dividing the wealthy from the poor.

  No sooner do I step foot in the alley then George snags my arm and stops me. He presses me to the wall, trapping me with his muscular frame, his eyes on the street. First contact with him always leaves me rattled, the effect of his superhero muscles, intensity and the grey eyes that sear straight through me. My lower belly is boiling, and it’s not just our danger that makes my heightened senses super touchy.

  It takes me a moment before I can ferret out my resistance. “George, let me go,” I whisper, overheating from the solid warmth of him. I try to wedge my hands between our bodies.

  “Quiet.” His tone is quiet and sharp. He takes my wrists absently, another reminder of how little of a challenge I am to someone built like a professional wrestler. He pins them at my sides, and I stare up at him, unable to take my eyes off the rugged features. Indirect light from apartments in the building far above us lend his face some definition, though I can’t quite see his gorgeous eyes.

  I nicknamed him The Gladiator because of his size and how he leaves no one standing at the end of a fight. He scares me, even without the poised intensity of a lion about to pounce on some poor, innocent gazelle. I understand he’s not like Tony, who hurt me for fun, but George isn’t a good guy, either. He’s killed people and done things I’m afraid to learn about.

  He knows my secrets, too, a dangerous fact I try not to dwell on. I’m trapped no matter what direction I take in life.

  “It’s okay, Alisha,” he says, his tone softening, as if he’s aware of my fear.

  “I’m fine.”

  “When you’re quiet, you’re not fine.”

  I hate you right now, George. I say nothing.

  He glances down at me. As if on instinct, he releases one wrist and cups my cheek with his large, warm hand. The touch is meant to be reassuring.

  Confusion spirals through me. He goes from ignoring me to comforting me in the flip of a switch, a familiar pattern from the two days we spent together before coming here. He’s more fucked up than I am when it comes to relationships, and that’s saying something.

  “I want you to go to the end of the alley and wait for me around the corner,” he whispers.

  “If I go to the end of the alley, I’m not waiting,” I reply before I can curb my response.

  “Alisha.” His gentleness slides into a growl. “Do as I direct, and I’ll share what I’ve found out about Natalie with you.”

  “Let me guess. You need something from me again,” I retort.

  He’s not happy. I can sense it. But I’m not either, and I don’t give a shit what he feels right now.

  “Fine. Let me go.”

  George leans away from me. “Watch your step this time,” he says politely.

  I really hate that tone. I roll my eyes and slide away from him. My insides are fevered, my thoughts erratic. It takes all my effort to focus on where I place my feet until I’m far enough from him that I no longer experience the unsettling yearning. It’s sexual attraction and nothing more between us. I don’t know why it’s so intense, or how it clogs my ability to think.

  With obedience I rarely display for anyone or any rule, I make my way through the alley and turn the corner as he directed to wait. Listening for sounds of him creeping through the alley, I’m grateful yet nonetheless horrified at the thought of him taking out more people because of me. I mean, are their injuries or deaths on my soul? Am I wasting karma checks on bad guys George fights?

  He allegedly only kills as a last resort. I can’t imagine his actions on my behalf are good for my karma, either.

  I hear the sounds of running. It’s not just George; it’s multiple people charging into the alley. Tensing, I start to inch away from the corner when I hear the distinctive, unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh.

  God, I hate physical violence. I was fine with it on television, until I saw the damage George did to the five guys who tried to attack me in my apartment two weeks ago.

  There are grunts, attempts at yelling, the crashing of someone into a dumpster and finally, the repeated sound of someone getting beat to a pulp.

  No one makes it to my side of the alley, and I peek around the corner. One of the pursuers had a flashlight. Combined with the glowing windows of the apartments above, there’s enough light for me to recognize George sitting on top of someone, beating the shit out of my pursuer’s face. The other two men are unconscious or dead, lying in the alley.

  I cringe and watch, disgusted by the sound as much as the thought of blood. The man stops struggling.

  George, however, continues to pound his fists into his face and neck.

  “George,” I call. “You can stop.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. I draw nearer and am able to make out the blank expression he’s wearing, as if he’s mentally checked out. For the first time since I’ve met him, he’s out of control.

  The face of the man beneath him is too bloodied and broken to recognize. Seeing it fills me with fear and horror. “George!” I shout. I scoop up an empty plastic soda bottle and hurl it at his back. It bounces off. “Stop!”

  He pauses, fist in the air.

  “You’re killing him!” I add, not caring about the hysterical edge to my yell. “You only kill bad guys who hurt innocent people!”

  George rests back on his haunches. He blinks away the stupor and goes to wipe his face free of splattered blood. Realizing his hands are worse off, he stands and swipes one on his calf.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand, backing away as he approaches.

  “Rough week.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to kill someone!”

  He glances down then kneels to feel for a pulse. “He’s not dead. He’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “You are going to lecture me?” The dangerous note in his voice freaks me the fuck out.

  I turn and run. Whatever is wrong with him, I’m not about to become a punching bag like the idiot who tried to follow me. It’s silly, but I feel a little safer whe
n I leave the alley and step under a streetlamp. It’s the same concept of covering your head in bed so a monster can’t get you. I doubt light or a blanket is going to help me, but it feels like it might.

  “Stop, Alisha.” George takes my arm.

  I freeze, fear flying through me.

  Pulling me to face him, I can see his grey eyes finally – and the heavy, dark circles beneath them that tell me he hasn’t slept in far too long. No wonder he’s snapping. “What is wrong with you?” I hear myself asking.

  “I’m watching your back, since you refuse to follow the guidelines I laid out,” he snaps.

  “I’m not your prisoner, and I won’t be treated like one,” I tell him. “But that’s not what I meant. You almost killed him for no reason! And you look like some sort of psychotic zombie.”

  “Zombie,” he repeats. For a moment, I think he wants to smile. His inability to enjoy two seconds of life trumps his sense of humor, and he starts forward, tugging me with him.

  “I’m serious, George. Either you got bit by the undead or you’re not sleeping.”

  He gives me a sidelong look and doesn’t answer.

  What an asshole.

  We pass a billboard of Natalie, and my angry energy deflates. George doesn’t look up, as if aware of the missing woman staring down at us, silently asking why we haven’t found her yet.

  “I am pretty tired,” he replies at last.

  “I know a super good hacker who was dragged around the world to help out,” I say acidly. “Just sayin.’”

  “You’ve been helping. Hasan’s men have been tracking you for a week, and we’ve been tracking them, hoping they’d lead us to him.”

  “So I’ve been bait.” I didn’t think it was possible to feel more wounded.

  “Yes.”

  “Glad to be of use. Makes me wonder why you bothered bringing me with you since you aren’t interested in my skills.”

  “Can we discuss this later?” His attention is everywhere but me, as if he’s waiting for more bad guys to leap out of the shadows.

  “As long as there is a later.”

  Silence.

  We hurry back to the palatial estate. The white marble palace glows in the moonlight from its position near the white beaches. Night blooming flowers and the ocean are thick in the air. Gardens surround the palace on every side, and we make our way through the parkland. I’m not surprised that George is known to all the guards. He greets those we pass on patrol by name but doesn’t stop.

  He grows tenser, too, the closer we get to the palace and I think I understand why. If Hasan, who is the chief of the Nijalan Security Bureau, figured out who I am, and George is seen dragging me back to the palace, there’s a chance his position as the head of security for Malika, Elijah’s aunt, is in jeopardy.

  No one challenges him, and he leads me through the chandelier lit corridors of the palace. The king’s home is obscenely decorated with priceless antiques, statues and artwork, crystal chandeliers, semi-precious gemstone mosaics, gilded everything and other treasures that litter every inch of wall space. There are mosaics from the Sumerian age at the end of the hallway of the wing in the servants’ quarters, where my room is.

  We turn down a hallway and I automatically look at the mosaic at the far end, only to realize the dead end is adorned by what I’m certain is priceless ancient Egyptian artwork rather than my mosaic.

  “This isn’t my hall,” I say.

  “I know.”

  The doors are more widely spaced, a sign it’s the hallway of people more important than the hundreds of servants that live in my wing.

  His step slows finally and he opens a door near the end of the hallway. The room inside is laid out similarly to mine – a self-sustaining suite – though twice the size. The décor is much simpler inside the mini-apartments than in the common areas of the palace. The furniture, bedding, and drapes are all high quality, down to luxury brand kitchen appliances in the kitchenette area.

  George releases me, then closes and locks the door behind me. He peels off his bloodied shirt as he strides towards the bedroom.

  I start to ask what I’m doing here but stop when I witness the expanse of pale skin molded over his chiseled upper body. Every muscle of his back and shoulders is outlined, and I admire his lean torso and narrow hips.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he says and disappears into his room, closing the door behind him.

  Why does his impersonal dismissal piss me off more? Like we weren’t intimate before coming here?

  I settle into a firm yet plush recliner and sigh. Whether or not I’m here long, there’s nowhere in the palace I can’t go barefoot, so I push off my shoes and wait. His laptop is nowhere in sight. I’m assuming he keeps it hidden in his bedroom. It’s what I’d do, and he’s much better at the business of keeping secrets than I am.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reemerges from his bedroom, smelling of soap. He’s in workout pants and a t-shirt. I take in his flat abs and the rounded muscles of his chest, turned on by the way his sleeves hug his biceps and the low hanging pants that hint at the size of the dick I’ve seen twice.

  Caught up in trying to suppress my attraction to Super Dick, the second nickname I’ve given him, I don’t notice the handcuffs until he sits on the end of the glass coffee table in front of me, his thighs on either side of mine. He’s too close, and my breath catches.

  Those gorgeous grey eyes contrast with a sun-tanned face and raven hued hair. His features are a combination of heavy forehead and jaw with a refined nose and cheekbones. His eyes are large, his gaze always intense enough to stop my heart and thoughts for a few seconds after he looks at me.

  There are more signs of exhaustion marring his gruff handsomeness in full light. The circles beneath his eyes are solid black, and there are lines I don’t recall seeing between his eyebrows and across his forehead. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two, which is abnormal for the former British Special Forces soldier. The skin around his mouth is tight, and his air … weird. Dead. Quiet. Lacking any sort of energy or life.

  “You get a choice,” he starts, holding up the handcuffs. “You can stay here voluntarily or I can cuff you.”

  “What happened to us working together?” I respond.

  “I can’t trust you.”

  “You brought me with you for a reason.”

  “Cuffs or no?”

  Rolling my eyes, I push the hand with the cuffs away from me. I can’t stand being trapped after all my horrible nights with Tony. “No.”

  “Very well. I had your belongings brought down here. You won’t be leaving my flat unless I’m with you.”

  “Fantastic,” I say sarcastically. “You taking the couch?”

  “No, but you can share my bed,” he shoots back.

  “I learned my lesson last time.” My face grows hot so fast that my ears burn.

  Amusement warms George’s fatigued features.

  “Why do you look like shit?” I ask, sensing he’s relaxing some.

  “Too much going on.”

  “Such as …”

  “Nothing I’m able to share yet.” How an assassin got to be so polite, I have no idea.

  “You may be The Gladiator, but you still gotta sleep.”

  Ignoring me, he stands and tosses the handcuffs on the couch. “Wine?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  George goes to the wine chiller and pulls out a bottle. I watch him. “You said my stuff is down here?”

  “It is.”

  “Including my toiletries?”

  “Yes.”

  I brought sleeping pills for the flight over and the first couple of days, expecting the journey to Nijala to be much harsher than it was. Of course, I’m accustomed to flying coach, not on a private jet, and the trip ended up being more comfortable than sleeping in my ancient bed back home.

  He looks over as I stand and head towards the bathroom. The man doesn’t trust me an inch. I’m not sure how he plans on sleeping when he’s unwill
ing to let me out of his sight. I’m not about to sleep in his bed.

  Again. I can imagine every cell of my blood doing ecstatic cartwheels at the memory while my brain is thrown into absolute bafflement. Two weeks later, and I still can’t explain how a man can be so sweet one moment and such an absolute jackass the next. The rationale I keep landing at: his bedside manner is his only redeeming quality and is limited to the confines of a bed, probably because the endless stream of prostitutes he’s entertained over the years somehow managed to train him. In any case, the bed has a magical effect on him; it’s his Kryptonite.

  The bathroom is spotless and I dig through drawers until I find my small bag. I’m not much of one for luxury items. I brought the basics: discount shampoo and conditioner, a travel size body wash, some makeup and moisturizer. I haven’t had to use them at all, thanks to the hospitality of the palace. My sleeping pills are hidden in a container for Q-tips and I dump them out to get to the tablets.

  One knocks me on my ass. Two, and I won’t wake up for a solid twenty-four hours. George strikes me as someone who probably has some sort of past experience with drugs that might’ve given him a resistance to the effects of normal pills. I put four in my pocket.

  I’d like to think I’m drugging him solely so I can get to his computer. But …

  “Goddam it, George,” I mutter. He shows up to rescue me looking like a wet cat coming in from a thunderstorm. No part of me owes him any sort of sympathy, and yet, I feel bad for him.

  The fact he’s running himself ragged to find my best friend isn’t lost on me. Neither is the memory of the two months where we checked in daily and challenged each other repeatedly to hack each other’s shit. For a short time, I thought he not only respected me but might have even considered me a peer of equal skill, since we got to know each other really well. The physical attraction between us was intense the two days we fooled around at his place in New York.

  When we arrived to Nijala, he might as well have flung me like a plate out the window of a four-story building. He dropped me suddenly and absolutely, and it hurts. A little fooling around and I want to cry every other time I think of him. I can’t explain how I feel. It makes no sense.