Born of Fire (7 page)

“Think up ways to kill me while I sleep.”

The blasè tone didn’t comfort her in the least. “I’ve already got a large number of them in mind.”

He shrugged. “I should warn you that if you succeed in killing me, you’ll never get out of here alive. You’ll starve to death long before anyone misses me and thinks to come here to see if I’m all right.”

Now that was something she hadn’t thought of.

“Like I won’t starve to death anyway if you keep me here without food,” she said sarcastically, thinking about the empty cupboards in his kitchen.

Without a word, he snatched his gloves off the counter, walked past her and pressed the controls to open his closet. He pulled out a black leather jacket and shrugged it on his massive shoulders. “You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. If it’ll make you feel any better, lock the bedroom door.”

That said, he left the room.

Shahara stood in shock at his words. One minute he threatened her, then in the next he offered her a relative amount of safety.

What kind of convict was he?

Before she could regain her thoughts, she heard the front door close behind him.

Syn leaned his head back against the closed door and took a deep breath to center his raging emotions and
hormones. It’d been years since anyone had knocked him so off-kilter. A cynical stoic by birth, he’d always been able to control himself, control his emotions.

But something about Shahara made a mockery of his iron will.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. How could he be mad enough to kill her, then turn around and kiss her?

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she used pheromone enhancers.

“You’re losing your edge.” If he had one single brain cell left, he’d cuff her to the bed instead of giving her the freedom of his house to devise a way to kill him once he returned.

But then he knew the reasons for
that
particular stupidity. One, she was Caillen’s beloved sister, and he didn’t want to traumatize her too badly and have his friend never speak to him again over it. Two, she reminded him too much of Talia. The scared look in her eyes as she watched him, expecting him to throw her to the ground and tear her clothes from her.

He hadn’t been old enough to protect his sister—a fact he’d never come to terms with.

And he would
never
harm a woman like that. Anyone, for that matter. It just wasn’t in him.

But what was he going to do with her?

Sighing, he wished he knew an easy answer. He’d give her a few hours alone. Maybe then she would calm down enough that he could speak to her without her trying to claw him to shreds.

Or maybe he should tell her he was a friend of Caillen’s . . .

Yeah, right. She most likely wouldn’t care. And considering the type of people Caillen usually associated
with, it would only give her another reason to take him in. She’d probably consider it a community service.

No, it would be best to keep his friendship with her brother a secret.

Surely by morning she’d be willing to listen to him. For now he had a shipment to focus on and his legitimate business affairs.

Shahara leaned her head back, letting the hot water slide against her body. It’d been a long time since she last had a hot shower . . .

And this was heaven.

In her flat, she was lucky to have lukewarm water even in the summertime.

She must be insane to shower when she should be plotting an escape, but as she’d searched his place, the temptation had been too much for her. Besides, Syn had told her he’d be gone for the night so she had hours left to plot a way home. For just a few minutes, she was going to indulge herself.

Feeling much better and with clearer thoughts, she left the shower, grabbed the long, fluffy towel on the bar and wiped the water from her face. She gasped as she realized the scent of musk in the towel smelled just like Syn.

She clenched her teeth in anger and tossed the offending towel to the floor. No matter how good he might smell or look, Syn was a convict with an extremely violent past. She must never forget that.

Just as she bent over to pick up her underwear from the floor, the door to the bathroom swung open.

Horrified, she straightened and stared into a pair of beautiful, wide dark eyes.

Syn froze dead in his tracks as all breath left his body like he’d been sucker-punched. He couldn’t have been more stunned had he opened the door and found a huge lorina waiting there to devour him.

Then again, he had to admit he much preferred the sight of Shahara’s well-rounded ass greeting him.

She stood in all her naked glory, her pale skin glistening from tiny water droplets. Her mahogany hair clung to her body, dripping tiny beads of water onto the floor. And one particularly attractive, long strand was curled around her right breast.

Ooo, damn
. . .

Just as he’d suspected, her muscles were tight and well toned, and her breasts were made just the right size for a man’s hand.

Of its own accord, his gaze dipped to the mahogany triangle at the juncture of her thighs and . . .

His tongue became terribly thick, and he hoped it wasn’t hanging on the floor.

Or worse, that he was drooling.

Shahara couldn’t move. Those dark, predatorial eyes hypnotized her like a snake’s. He stood so still that he could have been a statue.

Only he wasn’t.

He was a man, flesh and blood. And as she watched him, a slow appreciative smile spread across his face.

Her face flooding with fire, she found her voice. “Get out!” she screamed, snatching her battlesuit off the floor and holding it up to her. “How dare you! You bastard!” She rushed toward him, shoving him back into the front room. “Get out and stay out!”

Before Syn could fully recover himself, she slammed the door shut in his face.

And to think he’d assumed she was locked in his bedroom. Yeah . . . That’d teach him to assume anything.

Then again, that view had gone a long way in making up for the skin she’d clawed off him earlier. He smiled at the thought.

Until he remembered he still hadn’t retrieved his pack from the bathroom cabinet.

Ah, shit
. . .

He rolled his eyes as he debated going back into the bathroom for it.

Nah, that would be a mistake. This time, she might kill him. “Better leave it alone and not worry about it.” ’Cause he had a feeling that if she saw him again right now after he’d embarrassed her, he’d be limping.

More.

Better to get out with all his body parts intact.

Not to mention what Caillen would do if he ever learned of the view he’d just received.

Yeah, he didn’t retreat often, but in this . . .

There was no other option.

Shahara fumed as she heard Syn’s deep laughter through the door, making her burn for retaliation.

Her hands shaking, she fastened her battlesuit. Her cheeks stung with heat. How could she have been so foolish? He was a ruthless felon and a liar. She knew that. Why had she bathed in such a man’s home?

Thank goodness she’d been outside the shower when he found her. There was no telling what he might have done had she been trapped inside the shower cubicle.

Once dressed, she decided it was time to teach Syn a valuable lesson about how to treat a woman with proper
respect. Throwing open the door, ready for battle, she paused.

The room was empty.

Frowning, she searched every corner with her gaze, but didn’t find a single trace of him.

Cautiously, she entered the room, expecting a trick of some kind.

A sweet, warm aroma greeted her. Something smelled incredible. Since she hadn’t eaten in two days, the delicious smell made her empty stomach ache. At first, she thought she was imagining it, but as she crossed the room, she saw three sacks on the counter.

Moving over to them, she opened the bag laying on its side and smiled at the boxed dinner tucked inside. Her stomach rumbled as she uncovered a steak, vegetables, and a roll. The wonderful aroma of gravy wafted up from the hot meal.

Closing her eyes, she savored the rush of excitement. It had been more years than she could count since she’d last eaten a meal like this. She looked inside the other two bags and saw juice, bread, cold meats, cheese, and a few snack foods.

What was it with this man?

She couldn’t believe a cold-blooded killer would be thoughtful enough to bring her food. Why was he doing this for her?

Too hungry to think about it right then, she reached for the boxed dinner and took it to the sofa. It didn’t take her long to power through the delicious meal and put the rest of the groceries away.

Man, that had been good. She hadn’t been full in so long that she’d forgotten the sensation of it.

Looking around his immaculate home, she frowned. “You are the strangest creature I’ve ever met.”

The hardwood floors beneath her feet were polished to a high sheen that she was sure took hours a week to maintain. Ornate, white and black, plushly woven carpets were set between the two black leather sofas and under the dining table and chairs. The dining suite was made of hand-carved ebony-wood—an expensive luxury very few people could afford.

He had four Chinergov paintings and, unless she was mistaken, they were the originals, not copies, as well as other expensive art pieces everywhere. But the most fascinating thing was the huge white piano set before the windows that looked out on a breathtaking view of the city below.

This was
high
end.

And next to it was an empty desk. Syn hadn’t been kidding. There wasn’t a computer of any kind here. How weird for such a renowned filch. They usually lived their lives hardwired into network systems.

He must have set it up somewhere outside his home. But even that seemed out of character for someone with his background.

He probably had a portable, then, that he kept on him.

She shook her head as she swept her gaze around his home again. What a great place to live. She’d only dreamed of an apartment like this and she’d never have imagined such a place as the home of someone with Syn’s brutal reputation. Most of the places she’d been to track down her targets had been grubby holes filled with rodents and stenches that defied belief.

This place looked like it belonged to an aristocrat. Nothing was out of order. She could understand why he remained adamant she not destroy anything. She’d take pride of ownership, too.

But then, she didn’t steal from others.

With that thought in mind, she went to search his bedroom, looking for her weapons. They had to be here somewhere.

At the end of the hour, she hadn’t found anything. Nothing under the ebony-wood bed, nothing in the closet he’d filled with exclusive, handmade clothes. Nothing.

Not even a friggin’ dust bunny.

Her gaze fell to the nightstand she had yet to open. Only because she knew he wouldn’t store anything in plain sight. That would be stupid and he was anything but.

He must have everything locked in his wall safe. If only it didn’t have a Grimson lock, she might have been able to breach the code. Or if she had her missing lockbox . . .

Yeah.

Shahara sighed in disgust and picked up Syn’s holy book and prayer cloth from the floor where he’d left them. Even though she didn’t respect his hypocrisy, she did respect the objects of his religion. She carefully wrapped the cloth around the book and moved to return them to their prayer box.

Only there wasn’t one.

Must be in the nightstand . . .

She headed for it and opened the drawer. There, inside, was a large backpack. Hope flared inside her that maybe it held a computer.

Placing the book and cloth on top of the stand, she pulled it out and opened it. But her relief was short-lived as she found nothing more than a change of clothes, toothbrush, and the missing prayer box.

Crap . . .

Sighing, she paused as she realized the significance of what she held. It was an escape pack in case he had to evacuate in a hurry. So while he valued his home, he was ready to leave it all behind at a moment’s notice.

What a sad way to live.

Which is why I’m not a criminal
.

But still she ached at the thought of having to be so paranoid all the time. She couldn’t imagine existing like that. Shaking her head, she pulled the small, red prayer box out to return the book and cloth to it.

When she lifted back the lid, she froze. Inside the box were the first really private items she’d found about her captor.

Placing the book in her lap, she pulled out a handful of documents and photos. With a scowl, she glanced at the top picture. A much younger Syn sat in a studio photograph with an extremely attractive woman and a little boy no older than four in his arms.

It was a typical family shot that stunned her.

Could
Syn
possibly be married?

Have a child?

There had been no record of it in his posted file, but there was no denying what she was looking at.

The woman was absolutely beautiful and looked very upper-crust and haughty. Syn . . . he looked sophisticated, too, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eye that only came from those who’d been raised on the street.

And as she looked at the picture, some strange, foreign emotion constricted her throat.

Unwilling to examine the source of it, she looked at
the next picture. It contained a dark-haired boy about the age of seven clutching a girl in her early teens. The girl had her arms wrapped protectively around the boy as if she would fight an army to defend him. Both of them were barefoot, filthy, and bruised, their clothes tattered and threadbare. And as she studied the large black eye and split lip on the boy’s face, she realized it was Syn as a child.

Her heart lurched at the sight of his battered face. How awful. Clenching her teeth to keep her tender emotions at bay, she reminded herself that poverty and abuse were no excuse for criminal behavior.

She’d risen above her childhood and become better. He could have, too.

As she put the pictures back in the box, she saw that there was writing on the one with him and his sister. Masculine and bold, the words were as disturbing as the children’s condition.