-5-
Emma stared at the chicken and her mouth watered, betraying her hunger but she wouldn’t eat his food. She might’ve totally failed in her mission but that didn’t mean she had to play the happy, coddled prisoner, slurping up his supposed generosity like a lapcat sucking up milk. She plucked at the fine linens, wondering how many women he’d bedded on this very mattress and shuddered in disgust, hating him and men like him who thought they could have whatever they wanted by throwing money at it. Tears burned behind her eyes and she clenched her fists into tight balls to keep from bawling in despair. What was she going to do? First, she needed to get out of this place, which meant, the IV had to go. She carefully pulled the tape securing the IV line from her wrist and then squeezed her eyes shut as she slid the needle free from her vein. A spurt of blood followed and she quickly pressed down on the vein, grimacing as a brief flash of pain followed. Her body protested with sharp agony as she climbed from the bed but she breathed against the onslaught, determined to find a way out of this place. Vince Buchanan could not keep her if she didn’t want to stay. And she planned to walk right out that front door, whether she was dressed or not.
But just as she took a few wobbly steps forward, Vince reappeared in the doorway, catching her off guard and she faltered with a cry, stumbling against the bed as her knees gave out. “Noooo,” she wailed, hating how weak she was and how her body refused to cooperate. “Let me go!” she cried when Vince immediately scooped her into his arms and returned her to the bed with a dark scowl.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “You’re injured and you can’t possibly make it to the hallway much less down the street to hail a cab. Not to mention, you don’t have a way of paying for said cab even if you managed to catch one. Stop being such an irritating twit and stay put. Rescuing women is not my forte. I suggest that you stop pushing my boundaries. I’m not known for my patience or my kindness.”
“I know exactly what you’re known for,” she whispered, hating his logic and hating him even more for being right.
“Which is?”
“You and I both know. You don’t need to hear me say it.”
“On the contrary, I’d love to hear you say it. In fact, I insist.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“What if I’d rather fuck you?” he countered, plainly enjoying her discomfort. He leaned forward, invading her space. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he observed, his casual tone belying the sudden hunger radiating from his body. “I prefer a little more meat on the bones but in spite of your tiny body, your tits are quite plump. More than a nice handful. I suspect they’d taste like ambrosia in my mouth.”
“Stop it,” she demanded, though her voice shook. “You’re disgusting.”
“I can be,” he agreed easily, taking no offense much to her dismay. “My appetites are varied and voracious. One doesn’t satisfy such a hunger like mine with the same menu over and over. I require variation and lots of it.”
She knew all about Vince’s appetites. In her research, she’d stumbled across a supposed private video of Vince as he “vetted” one of the hostesses. The video was key in her evidence against the club, alleging that the proprietors used the “casting couch” to hire their hostesses. She was horrified to admit that watching the video had been shamefully arousing. Vince Buchanan was powerfully built and genetically blessed in all ways, she thought bitterly. Was it any wonder he’d gleefully taken every advantage given to him? God, she needed to get away from Vince. She’d been stupid and naïve to go half-cocked and unprepared for contingencies but she’d been so anxious to get the ball rolling that she’d ignored that little voice of reason that’d cautioned her to wait. Tears welled in her eyes. “I want to go home,” she said. “Let me go home.”
“Not until we figure out who did this,” he answered resolutely and for a split second she almost thought his desire to keep her was to keep her safe until he said, “Once you help me identify the bastard who’s abusing my club, you’re free to go.”
“I don’t know who did this to me,” she spat, her pride inexplicably wounded by his single motivation. “All I know is that you and your kind are an abomination and need to be put down like rabid dogs.”
“You’re very passionate in your beliefs,” he said, his brow lifting in question. “Are you a religious zealot? Part of a cult?”
She blinked at him. “No, of course not.”
“Good. Then dial it down a notch, okay? We can be on the same side, you know.”
“No, we can’t,” she
“And why not?”
“Because I hate you and everything you stand for.”
He frowned. “Which is?”
“Spoiled, bored, narcissistic, over-privileged, trust-fund babies who only care about what gets them off. In your case, operating a sleazy Sodom and Gomorrah club for people of your same ilk so you can host lavish sex parties with ridiculous rituals and bonds of secrecy. Hello? Stanley Kubrick called and he wants his movie back. You could do amazing things with your wealth but you choose to spend it on the only person who matters in your world: you. And frankly, the world needs less people like you, not more. Anyone who would frequent your club has no soul. Frankly, I’m surprised what happened to me hasn’t been happening far more frequently.” She thought of Lana and held her tongue, not wanting to give up that piece of information. Lana, with her delicate features and gentle disposition, had been eaten alive in that place. If it took Emma’s entire life, she’d see to it that Malvagio closed its doors and its owners taken down.
He stared at her, stunned by her answer but it was hard to tell what else was going on behind those deeply intense eyes. In fact, it was hard not to shudder with a whole-body awareness as he held her gaze. There was something powerful about him — a dangerous sexual charisma that plucked at the hidden strings of her most private self and created a chord of need that she’d never experienced — and that, above all else, scared her spitless. She could not afford an attraction to Vince Buchanan. The very idea made her ill. “The fact of the matter is, Malvagio is a disgusting place and someone needs to burn it down to the ground.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said but his tone held an edge of warning. “Just because your morals are different doesn’t mean they are superior. Nothing happens in my club that isn’t consensual.”