Free Hostage Page 25

  I do a search on Raphael’s girlfriends.

  Apparently, Raph isn’t that much of a player. Either that, or Google is working against me. Because information comes up on only two girls—Ninjara and Mona Lisa.

  Ninjara was a humanoid fox who used to steal and commit assassinations for a Japanese villain. She later changed for the better when she met and fell in love with Raphael, and subsequently became a powerful member of the team. But the relationship didn’t last.

  Mona Lisa, a once-upon-a-time human focused on getting her college degree in biology, was rudely abducted and enslaved by a villainous pirate. Later, in an attempt to foil her abductor’s evil plans, she had an inauspicious encounter with radiation where she was turned into a mutant lizard. She was saved by the ninja turtles who showed up to rescue other hostages. Teaming up with them, she got revenge on her abductor, then followed them back to New York.

  I lift my gaze from the computer screen and eyeball the life-size ninja turtle. “Which of these two women is the key to your heart, Raph?”

  Setting the laptop aside, I cross the room to him again, and type in n-i-n-j-a-r-a.

  Wrong.

  Of course it’s not her. Their love wasn’t tragic enough.

  Two tries left.

  Inhaling a deep breath, praying that tragic love wins out, I type in m-o-n-a-l-i-s-a.

  Wrong again.

  Crap. Crap. Crap! Out of pure and utter frustration, I kick his calf, and wince, because, ouch!

  Only one more try. One more try and I’ll be blocked, and Jaxon will know I tried to break in, and that would be the end.

  Holy. Hell.

  I need to find that password.

  Back to Google again. I scour the internet, scribbling down all the possible answers, knowing I’ll have to choose only one.

  Just when I’m about to give in and purchase the comics—and somehow hide them from Jaxon—I come across a more detailed piece on Mona Lisa.

  Turns out the Mona Lisa I read up on earlier was from the 1980s comics. Mona Lisa has since returned to the animated TV series with an entirely different story. Now she’s a Salamandrian warrior, aka, an alien. While she’s still referred to as Mona Lisa—a name given to her by Raphael due to his difficulty pronouncing her Salamandrian name—her real name is Lieutenant Y’Gythgba.

  Gee, that’s some name. Which is precisely why Jaxon would choose it. Who the hell, no matter how smart they are, could guess that?

  Without a second thought, I rush over to Raphael and, with nervous fingers, punch in y-’-g-y-t-h-g-b-a.

  I bite my lip, step back…and wait.

  Should I have punched in “Lieutenant” also?

  The monitor glows green.

  Access granted.

  Nonetheless, I keep still, waiting for a booby trap or a gotcha! Or maybe something would come apart from Raphael, revealing the music box.

  But nothing happens.

  A full minute later, I hear noises from the closet. I rush over and fling the door open.

  It looks the same.

  I go to the back, where four wheeled clothes racks are lined up along the wall, and shove them to the side. And what do you know, the brick wall has been a door all along.

  It swings inward, every other brick jutting out, causing it to resemble the last piece of a Tetris game.

  I press a hand to the door to push it wider, but it’s so heavy I have to use my other hand just to get the opening wide enough for me to slip through.

  Once inside, I stop breathing, because this is not what I was expecting.

  Before me spreads a vast room with green-painted walls, covered with shelf upon shelf of comics and superhero mementos. Posters and action figures are everywhere. A life-size, musclebound superman stands in one corner.

  Sweet Mary and Joseph. Jaxon King is a full-blown nerd!

  It smells like Jaxon in here. Bold and mysterious.

  Wandering deeper into comic land, I look, I touch, I snoop. A long desk runs across the back wall, an office chair at the center of it.

  Walking over, I peer down at the sheets of papers scattered across the desk, and upon closer inspection, I realize they’re comic drawings.

  Unfinished comic drawings.

  Which means, Jaxon’s a—

  Holy crap, he writes comics? That’s what this secret room is all about?

  My eyes are drawn to the wall, where a huge framed poster hangs. A woman is levitating in the air, one leg bent. Bright, dramatic, colorful stars burst behind her while lightning crackles from her palms.

  Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior, the poster reads.

  Yet, it’s not the title that takes me aback. It’s the familiarity of the woman on the poster. Her hair billows around her in wild curls—blond curls—full bangs down her forehead, big gray eyes and—

  Oh my God. She looks like…

  Me.

  I back away, shaking my head. This is just too damn creepy.

  My gaze falls to the author’s name—J. K. Justice.

  I can bet my virginity that J and K are short for Jaxon King.

  Ace.

  Ace that he draws comics. But why does his superhero not only look like me, but also has my middle name? Is it just sheer coincidence?

  I whirl around and begin searching the shelves for copies of Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior. Takes me a while to locate them, but I do. Selecting one of the first editions, I check the publication date.

  Almost a decade ago.

  A decade.

  At which point he would’ve been doing his time in prison…and I would’ve been twelve.

  I relax. Coincidence, it is. The timing just doesn’t work. He must’ve drawn these in jail.

  Also, I do recall being told I have a striking resemblance to that famous actress. Maybe she was his muse?

  After putting the comic back in line so nothing appears out of place, I do a 360 spin. Okay, so I’ve discovered Jaxon’s biggest, darkest secret—he writes comics. O-oh, I’m scared.

  Now, where the hell is the music box, if not in here? Ugh. All that angst and effort for nothing. Indubitably, the music box is being kept elsewhere. Better get out of here before someone catches me.

  As I’m about to leave, I notice the office chair is a little skewed, possibly from when I was examining the drawings. Worried Jaxon might smell a rat, because, well, he’s Jaxon, I start across the room to right the chair, only to stub my toe over something and almost lose balance. I stop to catch my equilibrium.

  The floor is hardwood, but a large area rug spreads out in the middle of the room, covering a portion of the floor.

  Stepping back, I stick out my foot and feel around the area where I stubbed my toe.

  Yep, something is definitely there.

  Crouching down, I peel away the rug.

  And find a keyhole. One of those Victorian antique brass keyholes. Easiest ever lock to pick.

  I jump to my feet and rush out to the bedroom to fetch a nail file and a paper clip. Back into comic land, and the lock is open in under a minute.

  Lifting the wooden trapdoor, I peer down. The space below is roomy but not deep, so I can see all the contents.

  I remove item number one. It’s the knife I loaned Jaxon in Paris that he never bothered to give back.

  Item number two is a long gold necklace with a large, oval emerald set in a diamond-studded frame. Very medieval and breathtaking, and obviously worth a fortune. I wonder what’s the story behind it…?

  Item number three is—

  The. Music. Box.

  It’s in my hand.

  I’m holding the music box. And it’s a bloody masterpiece. Oval in shape, it’s made of gold, with remarkably detailed calligraphy carvings underscored by brilliantly positioned diamonds and pearls. Although not big in size—it sits snugly in the palm of my hand—it’s heavy, even for gold, which tells me something’s inside.

  Eying the crescent indention at the top, I ponder the key that I have and Markus doesn’t. How does he plan on get
ting inside?

  Not my problem. I intend to use it to peek and see what’s inside, but I don’t plan to hand over the key with the box.

  I take a minute, along with a deep breath.

  This is it. The charade can be over. Right now.

  I can walk right out of here and never look back.

  With my virginity intact.

  As if on a cue, a bang, bang, bang on the bedroom door has me jumping out of my skin. “Tim? Why is this locked?”

  Mel.

  It’s almost as if she smelled our victory, our breakthrough, our ticket to success.

  The very obvious and logical thing to do here is quite simple—replace the items except for the box, pack my bag, and walk right out of here with Melanie.

  Bang, bang, bang! “Tim, open up! We need to talk. What the bloody hell are you doing in there?”

  “Be there in a minute!” I yell.

  Take the box and go, my brain tells me.

  Always listen to the brain. The brain is smart.

  Not yet, my heart tells me. You need more Jaxon. More of him. More.

  Never listen to the heart. The heart is a moron.

  Setting the box aside, I pick up the knife and put it back. He can keep it. I like knowing he’s holding onto something of mine.

  The necklace goes in next…as I wonder if it’s a memento of some other woman.

  I replace the trapdoor.

  I roll back the rug.

  I clutch the music box to my side.

  I start out of comic land.

  But once I go back into the closet, I’m unable to take another step.

  Would it be so bad if I spend just one more night with Jaxon?

  Truth is, I’m curious about tonight. What he has planned. More than likely, it’s another job. But it would mean I get to kiss him one last time, maybe see one of his rare grins, feel his hands on me, his fingers inside me…

  My stomach tightens. My heart does, too. It feels almost as if he’s right here with me, breathing his dragon breath on me, setting me on fire.

  Go! Keep moving, my brain urges.

  One more night, my heart—the moron—whispers.

  “Timber!” Bang, bang, bang!

  For the first time ever, I turn my back on my brain.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jaxon is late.

  Twenty-seven minutes late.

  My overnight bag is packed, my legs are shaved silky smooth, my hair is washed and wavy, and I smell like Rihanna.

  No, I don’t know for a fact what Rihanna smells like. But, I’m swathed in her Nude at the moment, and I’d like to believe this is how she smells all the time, because this fragrance is dillydeewop awesome.

  I’ve not heard from Jaxon since he kissed my brains out and sent me off with overnight bag instructions this afternoon.

  For the past couple of hours, I’ve been actively blocking the influx of sage advice from my brain. I’ve laced fingers with my heart and have done all it told me to do, which is, simply, to make myself pretty.

  I’m sitting at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor, checking my phone for the umpteenth time.

  He’s not coming. Hell, he probably even forgot about me.

  This is Jaxon. The man who goes missing for days on end without notice. No big deal.

  Except now I feel like a fool.

  As for the talk Melanie wanted to have with me this afternoon…

  “How close are you to finding the music box? Have you any clues to where it might be? Do you think it’s here at the house or somewhere else?”

  I keep shaking my head, and she keeps talking.

  “Markus is getting impatient. We’ve been here too long. We need to find that damn box. Have you even been putting any effort into finding it, or is there too much on your hands with the ongoing love triangle?”

  I wince inwardly.

  “You do know it’s forbidden to get attached to any of these people, right? Are you still a virgin? Which hottie got it—the White Snow with abs for days, or the Dark Rain with the bitable arse?”

  And I lie.

  Lie, lie, lie to my best friend. For a man. We’re literal partners in crime, and I stand there and lie to her face about the box. A sin I’ve never before committed, out of respect of our friendship.

  Now, as I sit here waiting in vain for an unpredictable, unreliable, intentional muddler, liar, and unfair seducer, I regret my rash, asinine, selfish, selfish actions.

  On a heaved sigh, I get up and am about to plod shamefacedly back up the stairs, when my phone pings.

  Brick: Had a thing. It ran over. Super sorry. Sent a driver to pick you up. He should be there in a few. Name’s Ekko. Before you get in the car, ask him this question: What color is the sky? If his answer isn’t *Peanut Butter*, DO NOT get in the car and call me immediately.

  I stare at the text.

  Seriously?

  As I reread the words, I consider telling him to sod off.

  But naturally, I don’t. Because…one more night. Just one more. And hey, I didn’t shave my legs and get my hair all washed and wavy for nothing. Plus, I still smell like Rihanna. Can’t let that go to waste, can I?

  Me: The human brain cannot create faces. So if you have a dream & see someone you don’t know, rest assured you have seen them before. No matter if it was a glimpse of them at a jam-packed concert.

  Brick: I like you.

  Me: Smelling onions will ease your cravings for salty foods.

  Brick: I really like you.

  Me: The cause for human lips to have a reddish color is the great concentration of capillaries right below the skin.

  Brick: I really, really like you.

  Me: Giraffes clean their ears with their eighteen-inch tongue.

  Brick: I. Want. You.

  Me: Pigs can’t look up at the sky.

  Brick: Now.

  Me: Too bad. Your punishment for making me wait.

  Brick: You’ll forgive me.

  The driver arrives five minutes later. Built like a boxer—average height, crew-cut hair. When he greets me and introduces himself as Ekko, I recognize his accent as Turkish.

  As he opens the car door for me, I pause and casually ask, “What color is the sky?”

  With a deep frown, he looks up at the sky before he brings his eyes to me again. “Blue?”

  Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

  I start to back up.

  With a cough and a wheeze, I take another step back, unzip my bag, and begin digging around. “Shite.” I fake another wheeze. “I’m asthmatic, and I’ve left my inhaler inside. Can you give me a minute?”

  Without waiting for his reply, I turn and start to leave.

  “Peanut butter,” he says through a choked laugh.

  I stop. Turn. “What?”

  From inside his jacket, he withdraws a cell phone—the screen shows an ongoing call. He mutters into it, “A good liar she is, no, King?”

  Then, his disembodied voice comes through the line, sending a sweet shiver down my spine. “That’s my girl.” A pause, then, “Bring her to me.”

  He hangs up.

  His girl? He just referred to me as his girl? Tiny wings flutter around in my stomach. Not entirely sure why, but the idea of being Jaxon’s girl makes me feel like…a girl. A girl who likes being called a cute boy’s girl.

  I like it. I really do.

  What I don’t like is— “He told you to lie to me?” I demand, irritated. “To test me?”

  Ekko shrugs, as if this is the norm. He’s probably one of them. One of those people—like Jaxon and Nadine—who does “classified” things. “King is tricky man, yes?”

  I glower at Ekko, but he just gestures for me to get in the car.

  Brain is wary and shouting at me now, but Heart is in full control, so, I get in the car.

  And Ekko does as he’s told and takes me to him.

  To the man who called me his girl.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I spot him before the
car even stops. He’s standing outside a contemporary gourmet restaurant, one shoulder propped against the window, his cell phone pressed to his ear, a frown between his brows.

  He’s wearing a slick black suit and a skinny white tie. Although it’s well-fitting, the creases and crumples tell me he’s been in the outfit for a while. The tie is undone and hanging over his broad shoulders, and the first four buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, exposing a peek of his white undershirt.

  As the car comes to a stop at the curb, his head sweeps up, his gaze on the passenger door waiting for me to step out. His gaze is so penetrating it’s almost as if he can see me through the tinted windows.

  I feel another flutter in my chest. How can he affect me so much, even without actually seeing me?

  I open the door and step out, my overnight bag in hand. Our eyes meet for real.

  He mumbles something in his phone and hangs up. Pocketing the phone, he pushes off from the window and meets me halfway.

  Before I can even begin to chew him out for pulling that shite on me earlier, he grabs me with rough hands and crushes his mouth to mine. I’m not given the chance to object or to reciprocate. He hijacks my mouth and holds it hostage.

  And I love every second of his roughness. My throaty moan is a testament.

  His hand snakes around to grab my arse and, with gripping force, yanks me flush up against him.

  Wow. This is new. He seems…possessed.

  Through the vacuuming tornado of the kiss, I attempt to remember what I’m dressed in, supposing that might explain his vulturous hunger. Pleated leather skirt; blue, long-sleeved silk blouse; and the usual opaque black stockings and ballet flats.

  Considering Collin had commented when he saw me leaving that I looked like a curious librarian, I can’t imagine it’s my outfit that’s gotten Jaxon this ravenous. Save for my fragrance, nothing’s new here.

  Except in him. He wants me so bad right now I can grasp his want and cheat on him with it. It’s that palpable.

  When at last he breaks the kiss, his breathing is chopped to hell. His forehead bumps into mine, his eyes squeezed shut as he catches his breath.

  Eyes blinking open, he peers down at me. “I missed you today.”