The Vigilante's Lover: A Romantic Suspense Thriller (The Vigilantes Book 1) (4 page)

My eyes are heavy. For a little while, I drift in a twilight sleep. The letters ruffle through my thoughts. The cool silk of a well-made rope sliding around my wrist. The tickle of a sheet as it slips across my body.

Then I’m awake.

Wide awake.

The light on me is harsh.

My arms are immobile.

Both wrists are tight against the bedposts.

My breasts and belly are crisscrossed with red rope over my white gown.

One ankle is tethered to the knob at the base of the bed.

My other leg is in the air, lifted by an arm.

An arm in a slick pale gray suit.

A suit connected to a man with a scruffy beard and dark, impenetrable eyes.

“Good evening,” says a deep voice.

Oh, God. Who is it?

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

My nightgown is riding up, exposing my leg. The man tucks my ankle on his shoulder.

I begin to hyperventilate, my chest heaving. This isn’t happening. Not in my town. Not to me. It’s a dream. A bad dream.

I try to look at the man, to see inside those hooded eyes.

He waits, patiently, for me to come fully awake.

It’s not a dream. Men in fancy suits don’t wait for you to wake up in dreams.

“Who…are…you?” I finally ask.

“I think you know who I am.” He reaches down for the sheaf of letters and flings them across my body.

“Jax?”

“The one and only.”

“But you’re in prison.” My eyes dart to my body, the rope, the white pages, and his lean body in the silk suit.

His grin spreads wide.

“Not anymore.”

7: Jax

I hold fast to the woman’s ankle. What sort of spy is this? Vigilante? Counterintelligence? She isn’t trained like any operative I’ve ever seen.

Except one.

Jovana.

My anger burns hot at the thought of it.

Her honey-brown hair splays across a white pillow. Her terror is palpable. So real. Does she have some sort of mood enhancement capability? Her fright prickles my protective urges, and I have to stuff it down to maintain control.

Damn this vexation. I was at the highest pinnacle of the syndicate before Jovana. I’m not aware of this level of training. Now I’m out of the loop. Susceptible.

Her breaths are rapid and short. She seems on the verge of hyperventilating.

So convincing. Damn it.

“Tell me who you work for,” I bark at her.

Her eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t work,” she says, her voice raspy. “I was just watching out for my aunt.”

“Who is your aunt?”

Her throat moves as she tries to swallow. She’s good. I pin her ankle against my shoulder. This damn old-fashioned nightgown is in my way.

I flick my wrist, activating a hidden holster in my sleeve. A slender dagger falls into my hand. I slice the long skirt of her gown to the knee.

She gives a little yelp. Her face is pink, and her wide green eyes fasten on me. “My aunt is Beatrice Carina,” she says quickly. “She died two weeks ago.”

“Who killed her?” I ask, none too kindly.

“N-no one,” the woman says. “She had another stroke.”

“I assume you won’t identify yourself.” I grip her ankle in a vise that I know will bruise. To her credit, she doesn’t even wince. This element of her training is solid.

“I’m Mia,” she says. “Mia Morrow.”

I drop her leg to the bed and tug out the updated Identipad Sam packed in the case. It has been listening to the entire conversation and making cross-references. Paragraphs line up on the screen. I keep an eye on the woman as I scan it. She may be skilled in escaping silk-rope bondage.

Though it does look good on her. Something about the crimson rope on the lacy cotton gown makes my blood rush. The year of enforced celibacy weighs on me. Despite the information flashing across my Identipad, my eyes casually slide up her ankle, the slim calf, the smooth knee, and the beginnings of a soft thigh. She makes me want to cut more of the gown.

But for now, I must assess her skills. She isn’t muscular or taut. So, not trained for military combat or fighting. Her talents must lie in her manipulation. Cunning. Mood-enhanced speech.

I am already distracted by her skin. Damn it to hell. They’ve sent another Jovana, another damsel in distress. False innocence. They think I will be that stupid again.

Rage blasts through me.

“You’re a liar,” I growl at the girl. The Identipad lists the owner of the safe house as Georgiana Powers, part of the Mason-Dixon syndicate. She vacated the house only six months ago.

The woman tries to sit up against the bonds, but fails, falling back. More thigh shows. I’m definitely distracted. They must have sent this one particularly for me. She matches my every preference in women. Honey hair. Petite. Skilled.

“Look it up in the paper,” she cries. “Her funeral was at the Baptist church. She was my only family.”

I ignore her prepared story, unmoved by its expert presentation. Mia Morrow comes up next, and this woman’s image. So she isn’t lying about that. But there is no history of her. It’s a blank slate. She’s wiped. No identification beyond her name and gender.

Just like Jovana.

I’m livid.

“You will talk to me,” I say, and slice the dagger through the white gown again. Now it’s slit high on her thigh. “Who are you, really?”

“Mia!” she cries. She pushes back against her pillow, as if she can escape me.

“Who wrote the letters?”

At that, she sags limply, her expression dropping into shame. “I did. I shouldn’t have. I—I led you on. I pretended to be K. Klaus.”

This makes me laugh out loud, ringing through the room with such force that the girl lurches away, banging against the headboard.

“Do you even know who Klaus is?” I ask.

She squirms against the wrist binding. “I assumed it was the woman you are in love with.”

I tuck the dagger back into my wrist holster and lift a polished shoe up on the base of the bed. I lean over, bracing my arm on one knee. I don’t know who this Mia girl is, but she poses no threat to me.

“Klaus is my partner. He came to this safe house to wait on my instructions. The letters were for him.”

“You—you like men?” she asks, still not understanding anything.

I drop my foot and come around to the side of the bed. She wiggles a little so that she can cross her loose leg over the slit in her gown, as if she is trying to preserve her modesty.

Whatever. I know how girls like her are trained. The innocent victim. They want to ensnare you, like a pool shark pretends to be a beginner.

But this one wrote me in my own code, which means she knew what she was doing, however pathetically she misinterpreted the knots.

I will show her I understand her game, and that I am not a Vigilante to be trifled with. We’ll end this little charade here and now.

I sit next to her. Her breathing speeds up again. The letters are still spread across the bed. I spot one with only a single line. “A new one?” I ask. “For me?”

She doesn’t answer, just watches with those green eyes. Vixen eyes. Looks like I’ll be ending my dry spell on this one before it’s over. Maybe I’ll let her think she’s seducing me, right till the end.

I pick up the letter.

“Let’s see,” I say. “What was on sweet Mia’s mind before she retired this evening?” I hold the paper to the light. “Mmmm. I like this. ‘You jerk my ankles apart with such strength that my gown disintegrates into tattered shreds around my naked hips.’”

I glance down at her thighs. “I say we give this one a go.”

Her eyes widen with shock. Such a well-trained little actress. I look forward to assessing her skill. What sort of maneuvers does she take pride in? I can already picture those slender legs wrapped around me.

I grasp the white cotton and tear it past her waist. Her hips are narrow in simple white panties. I finger the lace edge. Her breathing comes fast again. She’s so good at this. I almost believe it.

“Such pretty little underwear,” I say.

Her green eyes glisten with tears. So well done.

“Are you going to tell me you’re a virgin?” I ask. “I hope you know you can only do the hymen restructure surgery so many times before you lose feeling.”

Her mouth opens in a feigned oval of shock. As if she didn’t know.

“Your nightclothes remind me of one of my favorite books.
Little Women.
Have you read it?”

She shakes her head no.

“A pity,” I say. “Such strong women in that book. Do you consider yourself a strong woman?”

She shakes her head again.

“Too bad. Because we’re about to find out what you’re made of.”

When I rip another slice through her nightgown, she screams.

8: Mia

I am in hell.

I am in the hell I deserve for lying to this man. For writing him. For leading him on.

I wish I had never seen the letters. Never thought about them.

Never written back.

I can’t watch him cut up my gown. It’s too frightening, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I know he’s looking at me. The air is hitting my thighs and belly. I’m typically shy. No one has ever seen this much of me.

His slipknots on my wrists are perfectly tied, so that the more I move, the tighter they get.

I don’t recognize the pattern across my body, however. These aren’t sailing knots. They are something else, meant for other purposes. I don’t have to see them to remember how they look. The blood-red ropes crisscrossing my breasts and ribs aren’t something I’ll easily forget. The image is branded on my brain.

I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see my shredded nightgown. He used my own words against me, slicing the gown apart like we were lovers on a dare.

Goosebumps spread across my skin from the chill. I’m embarrassed as much as scared. The bed shifts as he moves. I assume he will take me now, do what he wants to me. He’ll assume my real virginity is — what did he call it? Hymen restructuring?

Where does this man come from?

I don’t know if he will kill me. He seems so well dressed for a murderer, so gentlemanly in how he talks, even when he’s accusing me of lying. Jax De Luca. Who is he? How did he get out of jail?

He assumed my aunt had been murdered. This must be his life.

Moments pass, and still, nothing. My thighs grow weary of clenching together. Is he not going to do anything?

Now I’m not sure what I feel. Disappointment? Surely not. But something eases. The terror drops a notch.

Carefully, slowly, I open one eye.

Jax is watching me with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got?” he says. “Clenching in fear? Surely you’ve finished at least Phase One training if you’re in a safe house.”

I don’t know what he means. My thigh muscle cramps, and I’m forced to let my loose leg down. The other one is still tied to the bedpost.

“I mean, that was a very convincing scream,” he goes on. “But I had expected something more…titillating.”

Anger blossoms in me. What the hell does he want from me? Some grand seduction?

“I’m not exactly in a position to manhandle you.” I wiggle my fingers in the bonds.

He laughs again, less forcefully this time. It’s actually sort of…charming.

“So you write about bondage but you can’t escape it?”

I finally get the courage to glance down at my body. My thighs peek through a tangle of white strips. My panties are in full view. The nightgown is more fitting of a prostitute now. My face flames with embarrassment. I cross one leg over the other again. I don’t care how much they cramp.

“You were right about the gown,” Jax says. “Can’t spread very wide in that awkward thing.” The one-line letter lies between us like an accusation. “I fixed it for you.”

His gaze travels the length of my body, pausing on my breasts, which are fat and round inside the crisscross of the rope binding. Thankfully the white gown is thick and hides how my nipples pucker up as he looks at me. A rush of heat blasts through my body. Despite what is happening, I feel a tingle, like parts of me are waking up for the first time.

Something beeps in the corner of the room. We both turn.

Jax walks over to the lampshade on my dresser and pulls a small oval-shaped device from inside.

“What is that?” I ask.

 
He stares at it. “Well, this safe house is compromised,” he says darkly. “Good thing I already pilfered the stockpile.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You deny it to the end.” He shakes his head as he reaches for the slipknot at my wrist and expertly unwinds it from the bedpost. My arm drops to the bed. I can’t even move it, so little blood is flowing.

“Are you letting me go?” I ask as he reaches across me for the other arm. He smells expensive, like fine clothes and luxury cars. I stifle the urge to inhale deeply.

“Oh, no. You’re coming with me.” He unties my ankle.

As soon as my leg is free, I snap my knees together. He tilts his head. “A little late for modesty,” he says.

I kick at the sheets and pile them around me, creating a shield.

Jax laughs. “If I know your type, we’re going to be carnally acquainted very soon.” He leans over and holds my chin tight in his grip. “I am happy to take advantage of whatever skills you want to test on me, but don’t think your wiles are going to get you anywhere.”

His face moves in super close, just inches from mine. I can’t breathe, his lips are so near. If I leaned forward, I could kiss him, feel the stubble of his cheek. I want to. I don’t care what he’s done, breaking into my house, tying me up. I want that kiss.

I’m losing my mind. He’s a stranger. A convicted felon. I can’t want this. I can’t want him.

He pulls away and jerks at the ties still encircling my wrists. He tugs my hands behind my back, locking them down with the binding on my waist. The rope makes a sizzling sound as he pulls it through, and I shiver. I should not be feeling so attracted to this man. I try to summon my fear and anger, but I’m still on fire from his closeness, and how what he’s doing matches his letters.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and manage to get on my feet. The tattered gown falls around my legs.

“Almost perfect,” Jax says. He reaches for the collar of my gown. “But let’s not forget exactly who and what you are.” He rips the lace neckline, pulling it wide until the cleavage created by the ropes threatens to spill out.