Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“After shampooing the dye out of my hair five times, it still felt brittle. So yes, I used your mango-scented hair grease. Forgive me?”
“Alright, because I love you, we”—she rose onto her tippy toes, and I met her halfway in a kiss that left her moaning—“can share my mango butter hair grease. Touch my edge control, we’ll have a problem.”
Control what edge? “I don’t even know what that means.” I fished in my jeans pocket for keys. “But I don’t mind problems. I like when you have, what do you call it an atti-tude?”
“ ‘Tude. You’re in for a cultural awakening, big guy.” She laughed, sashaying to Camdyn’s F250 that I’d be borrowing for a while.
Standing there, watching her, a chuckle rode through my abdomen. I followed her, climbing behind the wheel just as she closed the passenger door. I felt good.
So good.
Too good.
The sunlight seemed to dance around us. I tried to slip the key into the ignition. I’d skip this entire step with a keyless ignition. Four attempts? C’mon. Six before it slid in home. Nobody had to know.
“You need help, Jamie?” Laughter permeated the air.
Drat. Jordyn knew.
“Jor … Jor …” My voice sounded off. Slow. I rested my hand on the wheel instead of pulling into reverse. My foot felt too heavy to lift off the brake. “Do you feel good?”
Her fingers massaged her temple. “Yeah. Like I’ve been given happy … drugs.”
“Me … too.” I struggled to shake the warm fuzzies from my head. My vision warped at the edges like summer heat on asphalt. I rubbed the sides of my fists into my eyes. No. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening.
The driver’s side door opened. My heart raced in slow motion. From my peripheral, a man reached in from my side, and another man opened Jordyn’s door. Lifted her limp body.
“Our drinks,” I muttered.
“Dah.” The one closer to me affirmed in Russian. “Nighty, night.”
“I told you to give this dude another minute. He’s bigger than the gerl,” Jordyn’s captor snapped.
“The waitress gave him more.”
“Khoroshiy, khoroshiy.”
Aware of some Russian, I figured the guy closer to me had said good, good to his partner.
Had Chelomey hired others?
34
BEVERLY HILLS
Jordyn
Days Free: 4 … Maybe.
I stirred awake beneath a warm blanket that cuddled against my body. An opulent floral scent drifted in the air. A familiar fragrance. The cost exceeded a thousand bucks. I blinked at the ceiling. Pastel pink with delicate stenciled clouds. My fingers curled over a duvet stitched with embroidered peonies, the pillow beneath me shaped like a heart.
The room was too clean.
Too perfect.
Too youthful.
My heart punched into my throat. The British Prime Minister had a room similar to this for me in my early twenties. I sat up fast, breaths tight. My limbs were free—unshackled. No pain in places that didn’t belong to anyone else but me. No restraints? That only made things worse. Compliance was my new abductor’s aim.
Compliance. Air swooshed in my ears.
New abductor.
Breaths tighter now. Shallower.
I scanned the lavish bedroom. In the farthest corner, near a couch, canvas photos hung on a wall. Black and white, still framed shots of nature that didn’t bode well with the pink room. Candids of people from afar. As if some talented person hadn’t asked consent to capture the shots. Was it the same woman who occupied this bed before me? Or the person who took me? My mind instantly went to the past. The Brit had a different room when angry with the monarch. A room that was more shades of gray. Belts. Whips.
I couldn’t breathe at all as I stared at the photos. Yeah. Creepy, talented stalker.
Without a single shred of oxygen in my chest, I flew to the double doors. Grabbed a knob. It turned. Relieved, I stepped out into a hallway, my bare feet hitting the cold floor.
“Jordyn?”
I flinched. Spun toward the voice.
There, at the farthest end of the hallway, was a face from my past. My not-so-distant past. Not the British PM. Not a man.
A woman.
The sweet young woman Aleksandr’s son tugged out of his Lamborghini two Mays ago. Adrian had dragged his unconscious classmate toward the pool house. He’d wanted to use his prom date. Use her any which way he pleased. Adrian had roofied her, and I’d lost it. I’d beat Aleksandr’s son like he’d stolen something. I’d lugged the girl across the lawn, through the kitchen, into my room, and barricaded us inside. Once he awoke, Adrian pounded on the door. Denis almost helped him get inside. The girl had roused and murmured her name—she’d croaked, “Tell them my name.”
Though her name escaped me now, it worked like a charm back then. I’d shouted her last name to Denis, and he’d ripped Adrian a new one and left us alone.
That untouchable teenage girl. Man, what I wouldn’t do for parents like hers. They’d sheltered her for much of her life. She’d learned a valuable lesson that day, then returned to her beautiful home in Beverly Hills.