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My eyes almost bug out of my head when I see the house that matches the address. It’s fucking enormous. Two stories on a sprawling lawn, nice, trimmed hedges, a circular driveway, and of course, it’s gated. I keep driving until I see Cris’s car parked a block away and I park behind it. Since it’s daylight, I discreetly walk past and look in his car to see if I can find any clues. Like Inspector Gadget or some shit.
His keys are still in the ignition, so he probably expected to be in and out. I walk to the end of the block and look left and right, fidgeting and wondering what to do next. After chewing my lip—and thanking the makeup gods I didn’t put on lipstick—I walk to the call box that’s outside the gate and press the button.
The noise when my buzz is answered makes me jump, but I quickly get myself under control when a hard voice asks, “Can I help you?”
What do I say?Yes, my brother broke in here last night, but he didn’t come home and now I’m worried?That definitely won’t work, so I stick as close to the truth as I can. “I’m looking for my brother. His phone pinged here last?”
“Hold please.”
I lean back and look at the call box, like it can see me.Hold please? Like stand here and wait?
Stepping off to the side, I pace up and down the short stretch of driveway outside the gate, from the gate to the sidewalk and back again. It’s only about eight steps in between, but I pace that small distance, waiting for my brother. Maybe this wasn’t the break-in location. Maybe someone here wanted him to do a job somewhere else and he spent the night because of the storm.
The tension that landed in my belly this morning when I didn’t see Cris unfurls at that line of reasoning. What other explanation would there be? If Cris does one thing, he comes home right after a job—no lingering around. He has two rules: be in and out and don’t get caught. He’s smart, so I know he didn’t get caught, so he must have come here to work for the guy that lives in this extremely pretentious museum.
Before long, the gates open and I see a black car coming up the long driveway. Stepping back to let them pass, I pause my pacing, intent on picking up where I left off when they drive past. The car keeps moving until the back passenger window is right beside where I’m standing. The window rolls down and I meet the eyes of a handsome Black man with a smooth goatee and dreads tied back from his face.
Well, hello handsome.
He beckons me to the car and, like a fool when I see a handsome man, I walk over without thinking about my safety. And that’s too bad, because when I get to the window, a gun is pointed at my face.
What the fuck is this?
Chapter Two
Abel
Ridinginacarthat has comfortable leather seats with a hot-ass man sitting beside me should be a dream come true. And it would be, if not for the gun aimed at my side. He holds it loosely, but I’m not fooled. He could easily bring it up and end me if I do anything stupid.
Why didn’t I buy smudge proof makeup? If I start crying, I’ll have eyeliner and mascara running down my face. Literally the only reason I’m not bawling my eyes out right now. I refuse to die with makeup smeared on my cheeks. Shallow, I know, but it’s the truth.
As it is, I’m scared shitless. To break the tense silence, I look over at the man beside me and clear my throat. He looks down at me and cocks a brow, and I take that as an invitation to speak. “Look, sir. I just want my brother. Is he with you?”
The smirk he gives me isn’t a friendly one, but it’s not hostile. It’s mocking and I hate that shit. “No, little one.”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” escapes my lips before I can choke the words back. But come on, I’ve been called that since I stopped growing as a freshman in high school. It gets old, fast. Everyone knows I’m short. No need to bring it up at every turn.
Instead of hitting me—or worse, shooting me—he laughs. It’s a very sexy laugh, and I have to hold back my smile of appreciation. “Feisty,” he comments with a smile. “I like that. Not sure the boss will, though.”
I gulp. Who the fuck is the boss? “Is that where we’re going? To see the boss? Is my brother hurt? Please, tell me,” I plead.
Something in my voice must get through to him because he glances at me, and his eyes soften. “He’s alive.” He doesn’t elaborate, but that’s enough for me and I sag back in relief as we head to destinations unknown. Why do I have to be a sucker for a pretty face?
It only takes about fifteen minutes to get to the business district and park in an underground garage. My handsome captor turns to me and asks, “You’re not going to be any trouble, right? I don’t need to keep this out … right?” He lifts his gun lazily, but it still makes me shake with fear.
“Yeah. Right,” I squeak. What the fuck am I supposed to say? That I’m going to make a run for it? Not likely. Three reasons. One, a bullet can travel faster than my short legs can carry me. Two, I’m not a fast runner. I can run miles without feeling too tired, but a sprint? Yeah, no. Three, these boots are not made for running. So, I’m going to do what he tells me and hope I live through it.
Hesitantly, I take the hand he holds out to me after he exits the car. When I’m standing beside him, I realize just how tall he is, but I should have known from how his legs were folded in the backseat. He has to be at least six-five. My damn neck hurts craning to look up at him. Ugh, I feel like a little one now more than ever. He grabs my bicep gently and leads me over to an elevator. The driver, another handsome man—seriously, where are they finding them?—follows behind us.
The driver is blond, tall, built like a brick house and looks like the love child of Brad Pitt and Henry Cavill—all chiseled jaw, gray eyes, and puffy lips. What I would give to be a sandwich between these two. That thought is weird, since I’m a captive, so I shake it away.
We ride up to the fourteenth floor and when the elevator dings, my captor lets go of my arm and the driver steps out first. Captor nudges me in the back and I follow behind Driver. We walk down the hallways, making lefts, rights and taking straightaways until we get to the opposite side of the building. Whoever designed this building fucking sucks.
Driver walks to the last door at the end of the hallway and knocks. Captor keeps me tight to his side, to the left and slightly behind Driver. A rumbling voice tells him to come in, and it sends a shiver down my spine. This one has to be good looking, too. Has to be.
When we walk into his office, Driver and Captor stand on either side of the door, leaving me between them, facing the desk. I can only see the left side of his face, but he’s a looker—tan skin, clear blue eyes, and those lips. They’re as juicy as mine and I know they would feel good on me. They look like they would own my mouth if he kissed me. Not sure where that thought came from, but I roll with it. He’s built thick—wide shoulders, large chest, bulging biceps. He looks to be tall, but I can’t tell for sure while he’s seated.
He’s typing away on his computer, like he doesn’t have three people standing in front of him. Without looking in our direction, he asks, “You’re the brother of the thief?”
