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She grinned wider, looking slightly unhinged. He reckoned the lack of sleep, screaming newborn and pressures of the club had a lot to do with that. And the fact she was Macy. “I fucking knew it was Chanel,” she said by response. “I’ve been searching for years. But of course it’s Chanel. Elegant. Timeless.”
“Mace,” he clipped.
Her eyes cleared. “Yes, I know what it is,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Men,” she muttered again. “I’ll get you some. Well, not for you. For you to give to her.” She gave him a look. “Because I’m guessing I can’t go in and give it to her, chat about beauty routines and how her hair stays so shiny wherever she is and how much I admire her bravery and talent?”
Jagger shook his head once.
She sighed dramatically, not worried that her husband was in charge of keeping one of the biggest conflict journalists in the country prisoner. Likely because she knew her husband. Trusted him with her life. And the lives of others. So she trusted that he’d keep Caroline safe.
Jagger thought about the naked pain in her eyes. The fact that his mere presence had turned her into one raw nerve.
He thought about running his eyes over her body, how even with that pain, his hunger, his need for her was almost feral. A hunger he knew he couldn’t hold off for long.
So no. Caroline was not safe.
Macy rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll go get it. And some for myself while I’m at it.” She regarded him. “Only if I get to meet her. At some point soon.”
He sighed. He knew it wouldn’t be as easy as one head shake. “You know that you can’t do that, Macy.”
“Why? Because you’re all pretending that you’re actually going to do something to make her disappear? Despite the fact I’d make Hansen disappear if he did anything to one of the most important voices in journalism, and despite the fact you are all badasses willing to do ugly things for the good of the club, I know you’re not gonna to do this ugly thing. So cut the crap.”
He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t risk Caroline meeting Macy and letting something slip like she had in church. That speech.
Fuck.
He’d been held captive and tortured by some of the most evil bastards to walk this earth. Pain he didn’t even know existed was born for him there.
But that shit, sitting at that table, that trumped all that shit put together.
He couldn’t have Macy hearing that.
More importantly, he couldn’t have Macy hearing that, having it hit her kind and soft heart and doing something stupid like help Caroline escape. Because that was exactly something Macy would do.
And despite what his president said, he didn’t plan on Caroline going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Seven
Caroline
A prospect came in and delivered me breakfast.
Eggs, bacon—crispy to the point of charred, because that’s how I liked it—whole meal toast and peanut butter. Because whoever had put the plate together knew that I like peanut butter and eggs on toast.
He screwed up his face as he watched me bite into the bread.
I chewed and swallowed, grinning. “It’s not like I’m eating cockroaches on toast,” I teased.
He shook his head. “It’s just weird.”
I grinned. “I’m weird and proud of it.”
He moved to snatch my chin and snatch my attention. As if he didn’t already have it. “I’m proud of you. Never stop being weird. You’re the most magnificent weirdo I’ve ever known.”
I didn’t eat the toast.
But I guzzled the coffee, despite the fact it tasted like my past, and like Liam kissing me with a smile on his face.
I needed caffeine.
The prospect was not the same one who let me in the gate. He was hulking, older, in his thirties at least, and silent.
He didn’t say a word about the ruined room.
Or a word in general.
Then again, I wasn’t exactly much of a conversationalist either.
He left me alone in the room I’d yet to straighten up. I ate on the floor. I liked being amongst the mess. It felt honest. Much more honest than that stupid order that had masked it all when I came in.
I could tell I was becoming slightly unhinged. Not at the fact I was imprisoned by bikers known for killing their enemies brutally. No, because of Liam.
I knew I needed to get myself together. To hold onto my trademark cool.
It felt lost. I needed that lipstick.
The one that Liam had thought I wanted to fuck my way out of the clubhouse.
The accusation burned like acid. That the simple request of lipstick could be translated to that in his mind. That he could think that of me. Granted, that was the kind of persona I created to get myself into the clubhouse.
But this was Liam.
He was supposed to know me.
No.
This was Jagger.
