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Synopsis
In a Nine Circles novel, there is fine line between pleasure and pain, between sin and salvation. In Kidnapped by the Billionaire, Jackie Ashenden explores what happens when a man and a woman go from enemies to lovers.
When revenge and desire collide...
Seven years ago, billionaire-turned-bodyguard Elijah Hunt lost everything he had—his family, his future—and now he wants revenge. But when he decides to kidnap the daughter of the man who ruined his life, Elijah gets a lot more than he bargained for.
Violet Fitzgerald is nothing like her corrupt wealthy father. In fact, she’s so disarmingly independent—and irresistible—that she's downright dangerous…
there is no place to hide.
Violet never thought she’d feel a connection to her captor. But there’s something beneath Elijah’s steel-bodied exterior that makes her want to know him more deeply…and surrender to his every demand.
However, once Elijah’s erotic fantasies become a reality—and he and Violet develop a powerful connection—he finds himself in a quandary: Is he still the one in control? Or has Violet imprisoned him—body and soul?
Jackie Ashenden's novels have been called "Tantalizing...explosive."(Publishers Weekly, starred review) and Kidnapped by the Billionaire is no exception. It will leave you absolutely breathless.
Don't miss the other books in the Nine Circle series:
Book #1: Mine to Take
Book #2: Make You Mine
Book #3: You Are Mine
Book #5: In Bed with the Billionaire
Release date: March 1, 2016
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages: 400
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Kidnapped by the Billionaire
Jackie Ashenden
CHAPTER ONE
Seven years ago Elijah Hunt lost everything that gave his life meaning.
Now, he’d lost it again.
This fucking bullshit was starting to get old.
The subway car rattled through the dark tunnel as he sat there with his fingers curled around the Colt in the pocket of his overcoat, watching the woman who sat opposite and a couple of seats down the car from him.
She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t recognized him. But then he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t.
She looked like she was in her own little world anyway, staring down at the fringed leather purse she held tightly in her hands as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
Violet Fiztgerald. Daughter of the biggest prick God had ever put on this earth. The prick he’d spent the last seven years serving.
Not anymore. That prick was now dead and so was everything Elijah had worked toward.
He wasn’t just pissed. He’d gotten beyond that. Way, way beyond it.
He was now in the cold zone, the dead place. Where only one thing had any meaning anymore: Take them down. Take them all down.
There was just one thing he needed in order to make that happen. Violet. His handy little backup plan.
She shifted in her seat, glancing distractedly at the drunk sitting a couple of seats away, an expression of distaste flickering across small, precise features heavily masked by the makeup she wore. Thick black eyeliner and dark blue mascara. Full red mouth. Her long blonde hair in its ridiculous dreadlocks was pulled back in a ponytail, and as she changed her hold on her battered-looking purse, the many silver bracelets she wore around her wrist made chiming sounds.
She was wrapped in a long and completely over-the-top dark blue coat of worn velvet, belted tightly around her waist. The boots on her feet were black and scuffed, lacing right up under the bright fall of her Indian silk skirt. In addition to the bracelets around her wrists, she wore heavy silver hoops in her ears and a little blue sapphire that glittered in her nose.
Ever since he’d become Fitzgerald’s right-hand man, Violet had been dressing like she’d stumbled over a box of theater costumes and just put them all on.
She looked ridiculous. A poor little rich kid trying rebellion on for size. When he’d first met her, she’d just come back from college after studying psychology against the express wishes of her parents. Then, not a couple of months after being back, she’d left again to pursue yet more study. She was one of those perpetual students, without a goal or purpose, substituting academia for a proper job. He despised her. Especially when not long after she’d come back with her master’s degree, she’d then taken off to India and Europe, claiming she needed some “me time.” And all on her father’s dime.
Spoiled, that’s what she was. Unfortunately for her though, the days of swanning around doing whatever the hell she wanted were now at an end.
The lights flickered as the train went around a corner, then began to slow as it approached the station.
Keeping an eye on her and her mother had been one of his jobs, so he had an idea where she was going. And if he was right, she’d be getting off here.
Sure enough, as the train drew up to the platform, Violet got to her feet.
Time to go.
People were beginning to crowd around the doors, but he had no problem making sure they moved out of the way as he came up behind her. She was a full head shorter than he was and smelled faintly of some kind of hippie shit perfume. Sandalwood possibly.
Filing the observation automatically away, he brought the Colt out discreetly and bent his head so his mouth was near her ear. Then he jammed the muzzle against her back and said coldly, “Scream and I’ll kill you.”
She stiffened, jerking around to face him, shock written all over her pretty features.
He allowed her a glance, since one look into his eyes would be all she needed to know he meant business, and gave her an icy smile. “You don’t want to die, do you, Violet?”
Eyes the color of fine turquoise widened, her pupils dilating. Her gaze flickered all over his face, probably taking in the bruises and cuts left by fucking Zac Rutherford’s fists. He probably looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, but that was a good thing. The more terrified she was, the less likely she’d fight him—and he really couldn’t be bothered with yet another fight right now. He’d rather shoot her and be done with it.
Elijah pressed the gun firmly into her back. “Eyes front. We’re getting out right here.”
A visible tremble shook her, and for a minute he wondered if she’d be stupid enough or afraid enough to ignore him and scream. Which would put a major fucking wrench in the works.
He cocked the gun. Kept the cold smile on his face. “Make the right decision, princess.”
She paled. Her gaze flickered again, then abruptly she turned back to the doors.
Excellent. At least one thing was going right for him today.
The train stopped and the doors opened, and Violet got out with him close behind her. “Head for the exit,” he murmured as they moved through the crowded platform. “Nod if you understand.”
She didn’t turn this time, but gave a jerky nod.
Keeping the gun pressed firmly into her back, he stayed close as they made their way to the escalators, people oblivious around them, all the while keeping an eye out for anyone tailing them. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that just because he’d lost the men Rutherford had sent out after him, he was safe. No, not after the fight the other man had put up back at Fitzgerald’s apartment.
His shoulder ached at the memory, but Elijah ignored the pain. Focused instead on the massive, black, volcanic rage that filled him. Rage at seeing the man he’d been chasing for seven years die from a gunshot wound to the head.
Everything he’d done, everything he’d worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
Because that fucking bitch Eva King had taken his revenge from him.
He should have killed her up in that apartment, but he hadn’t. He’d let her go to catch Fitzgerald off guard, to break the impasse Rutherford and King had gotten themselves into.
He’d expected Rutherford to go for Eva to protect her, but none of them had done what they were supposed to do. Eva wasn’t supposed to shoot Fitzgerald in the head. She was supposed to collapse in a heap of fear and Rutherford was supposed to protect her while Elijah took the shot at Fitzgerald instead.
But none of it had gone to plan. Eva had taken up the gun and shot Fitzgerald, and then Rutherford had turned on him. Then Rutherford had shot him.
Fucking prick.
The bullet had gone through his shoulder and it hurt like a bastard, but Elijah was used to ignoring pain. After picking up the Colt from the dead body of the security guard on his way out of the building, he’d found an alley to hide in, ripping his shirt apart to use as a makeshift bandage while he put his coat on over the top. Then he’d had to think on the fly, try to remember what his backup plan was supposed to be if everything turned to shit.
He’d had to work fast, find Violet quickly, because once her father’s death was discovered, the police would be all over it and not only would his element of surprise be gone, but she’d be protected. And not only by the police.
Violet Fitzgerald’s best friend was Honor St. James, a member of the group who’d fucked up his revenge plans, and once Honor knew Fitzgerald was dead, she’d be running to her friend to make sure she was okay.
Which wasn’t going to happen. At least not now at any rate.
As they came up out of the subway station, the icy wind of a late New York winter crawled under the overcoat he wore, sending tendrils of cold over the bare skin of his torso. He considered the sensation, then discarded it. He would have to get inside and out of the wind to deal with his wound soon enough, but he could manage for now. It wasn’t as if his hostage was any danger to him.
Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Violet made a sudden lunge to the left.
Stupid girl. Even with a gunshot wound his reflexes were better than most Navy SEALs.
He shot out a hand and grabbed her arm, hauling her back against him while jamming the muzzle of the Colt hard into her side.
“Bad move, princess,” he hissed in her ear. “Do it again and I’ll shoot you right here and now.”
She was trembling, he could feel it. “W-W-Why are you doing this?” she stammered, her voice hoarse and ragged with fear. “W-What did I do?”
“Just shut up and do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.” Keeping a hold on her arm, he forced her to walk to the edge of the sidewalk near the street. “Now, flag down a cab. We’re going for a little drive.”
“My father will—”
“Your father, Violet, is dead. And if you want to live, you’ll do whatever the fuck I say, understand?”
She’d gone totally still at that. “No…” It was a quiet, almost inaudible whisper.
But he had no time for her grief or her shock or her pain. He knew Fitzgerald had loved his daughter in his own twisted way and that Violet had no idea what her father was. That this news would come as a complete shock to her.
Too fucking bad. Life was short, then you died. And she was going to find that out the hard way.
“Get. A. Cab.” He made each word as hard and as cold as a bullet. He’d let her collapse once they’d gotten back to the apartment he’d maintained for this very purpose. An apartment that no one knew about, that no one would find. The perfect bolt-hole he could disappear into while he formulated his escape route.
Or at least that had been the old plan, for after he’d taken his revenge and killed Fitzgerald.
Now, though, he’d have to think of something else. A use for his little bargaining chip, a way to bring it all down.
He wasn’t going to let the past seven years all be for nothing. He fucking refused.
It took Violet a while to flag down a cab, and when one finally stopped, Elijah could feel the cold starting to settle down through his skin, going deeper. The gunshot wound ached and so did his hands, and his face was no doubt bruised as well; Zac Rutherford was a mean bastard who knew how to throw a punch.
Shit. He was probably going into shock, which he sure as hell didn’t need right now.
Jerking open the cab door, he pushed Violet inside, following in closely behind her. The driver did a double take—probably due to the bruising on Elijah’s face—but one hard look soon had the man turning right back to the front again. Just as well. Elijah didn’t need any questions at this particular point in time.
He gave the driver the address then leaned back against the seat, keeping the gun jammed against Violet’s side. She sat beside him, unmoving, her head turned away, her attention on the street outside. Her hands still clutched her silly little fringed purse, knuckles white.
He’d probably just shattered her entire world. Well, welcome to the club.
Seven years ago he’d have felt bad about that. Would have regretted giving her the news and would have delivered it at a better time, in a more appropriate setting. He would have comforted her. Certainly he wouldn’t have kidnapped her at gunpoint.
But Marie was dead, and since then nothing mattered much to him anymore.
Except for Evelyn Fitzgerald’s death. The death that he should have taken for himself.
The volcanic rage inside him shifted and he tightened his grip on it, letting its icy heat warm him, using it to combat the effects of physical shock.
Violet remained silent and he didn’t bother to speak either, concentrating all his energy on merely staying upright and keeping that gun right where it was.
New York traffic being what it was, it took them longer than he wanted to get to the West Village address he’d given the cabbie. When they finally stopped and he got out, dragging an unresisting Violet with him, he found the ground unsteady beneath his feet, shivers starting to wrack him.
Fuck. He did not need this. Not now.
Throwing some money at the cabdriver, he tugged his overcoat more firmly around him then pulled Violet close. That musky perfume of hers made his head cloudy and the warmth of her body far more attractive than it had any right to be. But only because he was cold.
He hadn’t wanted a woman in seven years and he had no intention of wanting one now.
Revenge was more important. Revenge had always been more important.
Hustling her down the sidewalk, he debated about whether this was wise, bringing her to his personal little bolt-hole. If he hadn’t been shot and had to grab her on the fly, he’d have brought a blindfold or knocked her out or something so she wouldn’t know where they were. But obviously he couldn’t do that now.
It won’t matter. It’s not like you’re going to be letting her go anytime soon.
Excellent point.
It wasn’t far to the old brick factory that sat next to the river. It had been converted to apartments years ago, and Elijah had bought the entire building back before his world had fallen apart. Back when he’d been the owner of a very successful venture capital company and making shitloads of cash. When he’d been married and desperately in love with his wife.
Christ, he couldn’t even remember what that feeling was like anymore. Being happy. Being in love. Not that he wanted to of course; the more you cared about something, the more it hurt when you lost it. Life was full of interesting little lessons like that.
He’d jettisoned nearly everything of that life after Marie had disappeared, but he’d kept the old factory building. Not because he liked having a big fuck-off apartment all to himself, but because he’d needed somewhere safe to go that no one—especially not Fitzgerald and his operations—knew about.
To keep up appearances, he’d leased out the first couple of floors, but the top floor he’d kept entirely empty so he could come and go as he pleased without any neighbors being nosy.
He got Violet to the front of the apartment building and keyed in his code to unlock the door before pushing her inside.
Her face was a mask as he pulled her over to the elevators and punched the button, her wide, generous mouth gone tight with some kind of suppressed emotion. Grief and shock probably.
The doors opened and he made her go in first then hit the button to the top floor. He resisted the urge to lean against the back wall of the elevator because if he did that, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand upright again.
Violet stared rigidly at the doors in front of her, making no move to speak or to do anything else. She looked turned to stone.
Excellent. That would make his life a shitload easier.
As the doors opened, he urged her across the hallway to his apartment door, keeping his gun pressed to her back as he keyed in another code.
The door unlocked and he pushed her inside, kicking it shut.
For a second he allowed himself a moment to relax, lowering the gun and leaning back against the closed door, the pain and the cold starting to bite deep. He’d probably lost more blood than he’d thought. This could be a bitch to recover from if he wasn’t careful.
It was only when he heard movement that he realized he’d closed his eyes for a moment.
Opening them with a start, he was just in time to see Violet’s fist heading straight for his face.
* * *
She knew she had no chance, that she’d never win against a man like Elijah Hunt. But dammit, she had to do something because sitting back and taking it had never been her style.
He’d closed his eyes and sagged against the door, and she’d managed to shake off her shock enough to launch the heel of her palm up against his chin the way she’d learned to do in the self-defense classes she’d taken at college.
Unfortunately his head did not snap back the way it was supposed to.
Instead his hand came up—far quicker than it had any business doing—and fingers like iron clamped her wrist in a vice. Then before she quite knew what was happening, her arm was being twisted around and her body along with it, until she was jerked hard against him, her arm pulled up behind her and pinned agonizingly between her shoulder blades.
She tried struggling, unwilling to let the moment go where she might have, in a different universe, had a chance at fighting him and perhaps winning. But her struggles made no difference at all to the iron hold he had on her and when something even harder than the body up against her back pushed into her side, she knew the moment had gone utterly.
Violet stilled, panting. Fear sat in her chest, so large and sharp she could barely deal with that let alone the other thing he’d whispered in her ear back out on the sidewalk outside the subway station.
Your father is dead.
The words echoed in her head, meaningless syllables all jumbling together.
Her father. Evelyn Fitzgerald. She didn’t even begin to comprehend it. He’d always seemed invulnerable, untouchable. A cool, clever man who prized control in all things. A cool, distant parent.
Now he wasn’t either of those things. He wasn’t anything.
How did Elijah Hunt know? And did he have something to do with it? Was he even telling the truth?
Okay. So. First things first. Pull yourself the fuck together.
“What the hell are you doing with me?” she forced out, her voice thin and tight. “If you’re going to rape me then just get it over and done with, you prick, because the suspense is killing me.” All bravado of course, but it was better than whimpering like a child.
He made a sound of disgust at that and suddenly she was free as he shoved her forward. She stumbled, going down on her hands and knees to the hard wood floorboards beneath her feet. Shaking, she turned over, raising her arms to fight.
But he didn’t come any closer. He only pushed himself away from the door and pointed the muzzle of that nasty-looking gun in her direction.
The fear turned over in her chest, making her want to cower on the floor.
Elijah had always been a frightening man, right from the moment her father had first taken him on as his new bodyguard five years earlier. Her father never went anywhere without him, and Violet had hated the way the man seemed to hang around all the freaking time, like a gargoyle, all scarred face and cold black eyes. He never smiled. Never seemed to have any expression other than “don’t fuck with me.”
She didn’t like him. And yet for some reason she couldn’t ever quite put her finger on, she found him vaguely fascinating too. He was like a blade she wanted to test the edge of, just to make sure he really was as lethally sharp as she’d thought. Or a tiger she wanted to poke a stick at to see if he was as dangerous as he seemed.
But those urges had fled now. Because yes, he really was as sharp and as dangerous as he seemed, and if she wasn’t careful she was going to get herself either cut or killed and eaten.
“That was a pretty fucking stupid move.” His voice was so cold, like the rest of him, yet with an oddly rough, sensual edge that sounded like he’d spent one too many nights drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Except of course she’d never seen him do either. His idea of a fun night out was probably polishing his knives and checking over his guns.
“I had to do something.” She sat up slowly, rubbing her trembling hands together, her palms stinging. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
He shifted, the fabric of the overcoat he wore parting and giving her a glimpse of bronze skin.
How odd. What the hell happened to his shirt?
“A girl could get herself killed if she’s not careful.” He gestured with the gun. “Get up.”
“So, no rape then?” She had no idea why she was talking like this. She was clearly being stupid.
Something flickered over his impassive features. Yeah, definitely disgust. “I’m a cold, hard bastard and I’ll kill you if you try that little stunt again, but no, I’m not going to rape you. That’s not why you’re here.”
Perhaps it was the ice in his voice that eased the sharpest edges of her fear. Ridiculous when there was a gun pointed right at her and he was threatening to kill her. As if death was better than rape.
Slowly, she got to her feet, her heart thumping around inside her chest like a bird throwing itself against the unyielding glass of a windowpane. “Then why am I here? And what did you mean about Dad being dead? Why would you say that?”
“All in good time, princess. Right now I need you to do something for me.”
“Why the fuck would I do anything for you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll put a bullet through you.” He reached over to the door frame and hit a button on the control panel next to it. Some lights on the panel flickered. Then he lowered the gun and smiled, a terrifying, cold smile that only seemed to make the black holes that were his eyes even darker. “Now, before we get to anything else, you have to understand that there is no way out of this apartment. You can only open this door with the code and only I have the code. The windows are bulletproof, so there’s no way you can smash them. Are we clear?”
The brief thoughts she’d had of somehow rendering him unconscious, grabbing his gun, and smashing her way out of the apartment died stillborn.
Not that she would have gotten far anyway. Apart from those self-defense classes, she had no fighting skills to speak of and she’d never even touched a gun let alone fired one. She’d probably end up shooting herself rather than him. Not to mention the fact that he was a trained bodyguard who probably knew how to kill people with his bare hands.
A bodyguard with an apparently deep bank account.
She didn’t take her eyes off him, but she’d caught a glimpse of the apartment as he’d shoved her inside all the same. Lots of exposed brick and wood floors, a high ceiling crossed with heavy, dark beams. A West Village loft this size had to be horrendously expensive, which was surely well above his pay grade. Then again, who knew? Her father was a man of many secrets and maybe he paid Elijah shitloads of cash.
“We’re clear.” She tightened her jaw against an incipient wave of panic. “Am I going to get any explanations then?”
“Not yet. You’re going to do that little task I mentioned first.” He inclined his head. “Behind you. Head through the door and into the bathroom.”
“Why? What do you want me to do?” She was being an idiot continuing to push him. What the hell was she thinking?
Maybe that you don’t have anything to lose?
But no, that was stupid. She had plenty to lose. Her life being the main thing, but also the first lead she’d had on Theo since she’d gotten back to New York two months earlier.
Sixteen years ago her brother had disappeared, ostensibly a suicide into the Hudson, his body never found. A verdict she’d never accepted, no matter what the coroner said.
And then fifteen years later, while she’d been living in Paris, she’d gotten the first sign that maybe she’d been right all this time. That Theo hadn’t died. That he was alive. She’d scoured Paris trying to find information—any information—as to his whereabouts, and yet had come up with nothing.
So she’d come back to New York to see if she could turn up anything there. And today, just before she’d gotten on that wretched subway, she’d finally found the lead she was looking for.
The high-security storage facility where Theo had stored some of his belongings before his supposed death had gotten in touch with her, informing her that someone had accessed his storage locker. She’d left instructions and a hefty bribe with them years before, when she’d tried to access it herself and been refused, that should anyone come and try to get in, they were to let her know.
And now they had. And there could be only person who’d accessed it.
Theo himself.
At least that was the only person who’d had authorized access according to them. Only the owner of the locker was allowed in, not even family members.
She didn’t know what was in that locker or why he’d taken out storage in such a high-security facility—especially when all the rest of his stuff had been stored elsewhere by their mother—but she was sure only she knew about it. And some instinct had told her not to tell anyone else. So she hadn’t.
But someone had accessed that locker, and it had to be Theo. Which meant he was alive and she wasn’t going to rest until she’d found him. She just had to get away from Mr. Elijah Hunt first.
“You’ll find out,” Elijah said. “Come on. I haven’t got time to piss around arguing with you.”
Swallowing, Violet pushed down the fear and the grief, and turned around.
Ahead of her was a walled-off part of the echoing apartment with a door in the middle of it. The bathroom space clearly.
She walked over to it and pushed the door open. There was a hallway beyond, painted stark white, and then another door.
“Through there,” he ordered.
Obediently she went through the second door into a stainless-steel and white-tiled bathroom. A massive freestanding tub faced one of the huge windows, a glass walled shower area that could have fit in a whole baseball team off to the right of it.
There was a vanity unit near the door, as minimalist and bare as the rest of the space, white porcelain and stainless steel, an unframed mirror hanging above it.
Elijah went past her and reached into a cupboard under the unit, bringing out a big white plastic box. Setting it on top of the vanity, he took the top off and began to pull out what looked like some first-aid stuff, all the while keeping the gun trained on her.
Briefly she debated seeing if she could take him by surprise and try to knock him out somehow, then discarded the idea. She’d probably only get herself hurt. If she was going to get out of this, she’d have to think of another way.
“What are you doing?” Her voice echoed weirdly off the hard surfaces in the room.
He didn’t reply, shrugging out of the overcoat he still wore.
Violet swallowed again.
She’d been right about the glimpse of bare skin she’d seen earlier. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or at least the remains of a dark gray business shirt that had been torn up and used as a bandage were still wrapped around one massively muscled left shoulder. Blood streaked the sharply cut and defined lines of his chest and abdomen, staining the waistband of the business trousers that sat low on his lean hips. The blood also partially obscured the tattoo inked into his skin just above his heart. A rose with a thorny stem, red ink drops of blood mingling with his real blood.
It seemed a strange image for a man so cold. Did it mean anything? Was it for anyone?
What the fuck are you thinking about his tattoo for?
He was now unwinding the remains of the shirt from around his shoulder, revealing the source of the blood. Holy shit. He’d been shot.
The cold bite of fear returned as she glanced from the bloody wound to his face, suddenly becoming aware of what she’d only half taken in before. That his face was bruised. He had the beginnings of a black eye and there was a raw gash in his lip, more bruises along his jaw.
He looked like he’d been in one hell of a fight and hadn’t come out the winner.
Your father is dead.
Elijah Hunt was his bodyguard.
Oh fuck. What the hell had happened?
He looked up, his black gaze catching hers. “Come here.”
“Why?” The fear was rising in her chest, making her feel sick. “What do you want me to do?”
In one hand he held the pistol, still steadily pointed at her. “As you can see, I have a gunshot wound.” He reached for a pair of what looked like forceps with his free hand, then held them up. “And you’re going to remove the bullet.”
“Kidnapped by the Billionaire” copyright © 2016 by Jackie Ashenden
Seven years ago Elijah Hunt lost everything that gave his life meaning.
Now, he’d lost it again.
This fucking bullshit was starting to get old.
The subway car rattled through the dark tunnel as he sat there with his fingers curled around the Colt in the pocket of his overcoat, watching the woman who sat opposite and a couple of seats down the car from him.
She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t recognized him. But then he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t.
She looked like she was in her own little world anyway, staring down at the fringed leather purse she held tightly in her hands as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
Violet Fiztgerald. Daughter of the biggest prick God had ever put on this earth. The prick he’d spent the last seven years serving.
Not anymore. That prick was now dead and so was everything Elijah had worked toward.
He wasn’t just pissed. He’d gotten beyond that. Way, way beyond it.
He was now in the cold zone, the dead place. Where only one thing had any meaning anymore: Take them down. Take them all down.
There was just one thing he needed in order to make that happen. Violet. His handy little backup plan.
She shifted in her seat, glancing distractedly at the drunk sitting a couple of seats away, an expression of distaste flickering across small, precise features heavily masked by the makeup she wore. Thick black eyeliner and dark blue mascara. Full red mouth. Her long blonde hair in its ridiculous dreadlocks was pulled back in a ponytail, and as she changed her hold on her battered-looking purse, the many silver bracelets she wore around her wrist made chiming sounds.
She was wrapped in a long and completely over-the-top dark blue coat of worn velvet, belted tightly around her waist. The boots on her feet were black and scuffed, lacing right up under the bright fall of her Indian silk skirt. In addition to the bracelets around her wrists, she wore heavy silver hoops in her ears and a little blue sapphire that glittered in her nose.
Ever since he’d become Fitzgerald’s right-hand man, Violet had been dressing like she’d stumbled over a box of theater costumes and just put them all on.
She looked ridiculous. A poor little rich kid trying rebellion on for size. When he’d first met her, she’d just come back from college after studying psychology against the express wishes of her parents. Then, not a couple of months after being back, she’d left again to pursue yet more study. She was one of those perpetual students, without a goal or purpose, substituting academia for a proper job. He despised her. Especially when not long after she’d come back with her master’s degree, she’d then taken off to India and Europe, claiming she needed some “me time.” And all on her father’s dime.
Spoiled, that’s what she was. Unfortunately for her though, the days of swanning around doing whatever the hell she wanted were now at an end.
The lights flickered as the train went around a corner, then began to slow as it approached the station.
Keeping an eye on her and her mother had been one of his jobs, so he had an idea where she was going. And if he was right, she’d be getting off here.
Sure enough, as the train drew up to the platform, Violet got to her feet.
Time to go.
People were beginning to crowd around the doors, but he had no problem making sure they moved out of the way as he came up behind her. She was a full head shorter than he was and smelled faintly of some kind of hippie shit perfume. Sandalwood possibly.
Filing the observation automatically away, he brought the Colt out discreetly and bent his head so his mouth was near her ear. Then he jammed the muzzle against her back and said coldly, “Scream and I’ll kill you.”
She stiffened, jerking around to face him, shock written all over her pretty features.
He allowed her a glance, since one look into his eyes would be all she needed to know he meant business, and gave her an icy smile. “You don’t want to die, do you, Violet?”
Eyes the color of fine turquoise widened, her pupils dilating. Her gaze flickered all over his face, probably taking in the bruises and cuts left by fucking Zac Rutherford’s fists. He probably looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, but that was a good thing. The more terrified she was, the less likely she’d fight him—and he really couldn’t be bothered with yet another fight right now. He’d rather shoot her and be done with it.
Elijah pressed the gun firmly into her back. “Eyes front. We’re getting out right here.”
A visible tremble shook her, and for a minute he wondered if she’d be stupid enough or afraid enough to ignore him and scream. Which would put a major fucking wrench in the works.
He cocked the gun. Kept the cold smile on his face. “Make the right decision, princess.”
She paled. Her gaze flickered again, then abruptly she turned back to the doors.
Excellent. At least one thing was going right for him today.
The train stopped and the doors opened, and Violet got out with him close behind her. “Head for the exit,” he murmured as they moved through the crowded platform. “Nod if you understand.”
She didn’t turn this time, but gave a jerky nod.
Keeping the gun pressed firmly into her back, he stayed close as they made their way to the escalators, people oblivious around them, all the while keeping an eye out for anyone tailing them. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that just because he’d lost the men Rutherford had sent out after him, he was safe. No, not after the fight the other man had put up back at Fitzgerald’s apartment.
His shoulder ached at the memory, but Elijah ignored the pain. Focused instead on the massive, black, volcanic rage that filled him. Rage at seeing the man he’d been chasing for seven years die from a gunshot wound to the head.
Everything he’d done, everything he’d worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
Because that fucking bitch Eva King had taken his revenge from him.
He should have killed her up in that apartment, but he hadn’t. He’d let her go to catch Fitzgerald off guard, to break the impasse Rutherford and King had gotten themselves into.
He’d expected Rutherford to go for Eva to protect her, but none of them had done what they were supposed to do. Eva wasn’t supposed to shoot Fitzgerald in the head. She was supposed to collapse in a heap of fear and Rutherford was supposed to protect her while Elijah took the shot at Fitzgerald instead.
But none of it had gone to plan. Eva had taken up the gun and shot Fitzgerald, and then Rutherford had turned on him. Then Rutherford had shot him.
Fucking prick.
The bullet had gone through his shoulder and it hurt like a bastard, but Elijah was used to ignoring pain. After picking up the Colt from the dead body of the security guard on his way out of the building, he’d found an alley to hide in, ripping his shirt apart to use as a makeshift bandage while he put his coat on over the top. Then he’d had to think on the fly, try to remember what his backup plan was supposed to be if everything turned to shit.
He’d had to work fast, find Violet quickly, because once her father’s death was discovered, the police would be all over it and not only would his element of surprise be gone, but she’d be protected. And not only by the police.
Violet Fitzgerald’s best friend was Honor St. James, a member of the group who’d fucked up his revenge plans, and once Honor knew Fitzgerald was dead, she’d be running to her friend to make sure she was okay.
Which wasn’t going to happen. At least not now at any rate.
As they came up out of the subway station, the icy wind of a late New York winter crawled under the overcoat he wore, sending tendrils of cold over the bare skin of his torso. He considered the sensation, then discarded it. He would have to get inside and out of the wind to deal with his wound soon enough, but he could manage for now. It wasn’t as if his hostage was any danger to him.
Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Violet made a sudden lunge to the left.
Stupid girl. Even with a gunshot wound his reflexes were better than most Navy SEALs.
He shot out a hand and grabbed her arm, hauling her back against him while jamming the muzzle of the Colt hard into her side.
“Bad move, princess,” he hissed in her ear. “Do it again and I’ll shoot you right here and now.”
She was trembling, he could feel it. “W-W-Why are you doing this?” she stammered, her voice hoarse and ragged with fear. “W-What did I do?”
“Just shut up and do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.” Keeping a hold on her arm, he forced her to walk to the edge of the sidewalk near the street. “Now, flag down a cab. We’re going for a little drive.”
“My father will—”
“Your father, Violet, is dead. And if you want to live, you’ll do whatever the fuck I say, understand?”
She’d gone totally still at that. “No…” It was a quiet, almost inaudible whisper.
But he had no time for her grief or her shock or her pain. He knew Fitzgerald had loved his daughter in his own twisted way and that Violet had no idea what her father was. That this news would come as a complete shock to her.
Too fucking bad. Life was short, then you died. And she was going to find that out the hard way.
“Get. A. Cab.” He made each word as hard and as cold as a bullet. He’d let her collapse once they’d gotten back to the apartment he’d maintained for this very purpose. An apartment that no one knew about, that no one would find. The perfect bolt-hole he could disappear into while he formulated his escape route.
Or at least that had been the old plan, for after he’d taken his revenge and killed Fitzgerald.
Now, though, he’d have to think of something else. A use for his little bargaining chip, a way to bring it all down.
He wasn’t going to let the past seven years all be for nothing. He fucking refused.
It took Violet a while to flag down a cab, and when one finally stopped, Elijah could feel the cold starting to settle down through his skin, going deeper. The gunshot wound ached and so did his hands, and his face was no doubt bruised as well; Zac Rutherford was a mean bastard who knew how to throw a punch.
Shit. He was probably going into shock, which he sure as hell didn’t need right now.
Jerking open the cab door, he pushed Violet inside, following in closely behind her. The driver did a double take—probably due to the bruising on Elijah’s face—but one hard look soon had the man turning right back to the front again. Just as well. Elijah didn’t need any questions at this particular point in time.
He gave the driver the address then leaned back against the seat, keeping the gun jammed against Violet’s side. She sat beside him, unmoving, her head turned away, her attention on the street outside. Her hands still clutched her silly little fringed purse, knuckles white.
He’d probably just shattered her entire world. Well, welcome to the club.
Seven years ago he’d have felt bad about that. Would have regretted giving her the news and would have delivered it at a better time, in a more appropriate setting. He would have comforted her. Certainly he wouldn’t have kidnapped her at gunpoint.
But Marie was dead, and since then nothing mattered much to him anymore.
Except for Evelyn Fitzgerald’s death. The death that he should have taken for himself.
The volcanic rage inside him shifted and he tightened his grip on it, letting its icy heat warm him, using it to combat the effects of physical shock.
Violet remained silent and he didn’t bother to speak either, concentrating all his energy on merely staying upright and keeping that gun right where it was.
New York traffic being what it was, it took them longer than he wanted to get to the West Village address he’d given the cabbie. When they finally stopped and he got out, dragging an unresisting Violet with him, he found the ground unsteady beneath his feet, shivers starting to wrack him.
Fuck. He did not need this. Not now.
Throwing some money at the cabdriver, he tugged his overcoat more firmly around him then pulled Violet close. That musky perfume of hers made his head cloudy and the warmth of her body far more attractive than it had any right to be. But only because he was cold.
He hadn’t wanted a woman in seven years and he had no intention of wanting one now.
Revenge was more important. Revenge had always been more important.
Hustling her down the sidewalk, he debated about whether this was wise, bringing her to his personal little bolt-hole. If he hadn’t been shot and had to grab her on the fly, he’d have brought a blindfold or knocked her out or something so she wouldn’t know where they were. But obviously he couldn’t do that now.
It won’t matter. It’s not like you’re going to be letting her go anytime soon.
Excellent point.
It wasn’t far to the old brick factory that sat next to the river. It had been converted to apartments years ago, and Elijah had bought the entire building back before his world had fallen apart. Back when he’d been the owner of a very successful venture capital company and making shitloads of cash. When he’d been married and desperately in love with his wife.
Christ, he couldn’t even remember what that feeling was like anymore. Being happy. Being in love. Not that he wanted to of course; the more you cared about something, the more it hurt when you lost it. Life was full of interesting little lessons like that.
He’d jettisoned nearly everything of that life after Marie had disappeared, but he’d kept the old factory building. Not because he liked having a big fuck-off apartment all to himself, but because he’d needed somewhere safe to go that no one—especially not Fitzgerald and his operations—knew about.
To keep up appearances, he’d leased out the first couple of floors, but the top floor he’d kept entirely empty so he could come and go as he pleased without any neighbors being nosy.
He got Violet to the front of the apartment building and keyed in his code to unlock the door before pushing her inside.
Her face was a mask as he pulled her over to the elevators and punched the button, her wide, generous mouth gone tight with some kind of suppressed emotion. Grief and shock probably.
The doors opened and he made her go in first then hit the button to the top floor. He resisted the urge to lean against the back wall of the elevator because if he did that, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand upright again.
Violet stared rigidly at the doors in front of her, making no move to speak or to do anything else. She looked turned to stone.
Excellent. That would make his life a shitload easier.
As the doors opened, he urged her across the hallway to his apartment door, keeping his gun pressed to her back as he keyed in another code.
The door unlocked and he pushed her inside, kicking it shut.
For a second he allowed himself a moment to relax, lowering the gun and leaning back against the closed door, the pain and the cold starting to bite deep. He’d probably lost more blood than he’d thought. This could be a bitch to recover from if he wasn’t careful.
It was only when he heard movement that he realized he’d closed his eyes for a moment.
Opening them with a start, he was just in time to see Violet’s fist heading straight for his face.
* * *
She knew she had no chance, that she’d never win against a man like Elijah Hunt. But dammit, she had to do something because sitting back and taking it had never been her style.
He’d closed his eyes and sagged against the door, and she’d managed to shake off her shock enough to launch the heel of her palm up against his chin the way she’d learned to do in the self-defense classes she’d taken at college.
Unfortunately his head did not snap back the way it was supposed to.
Instead his hand came up—far quicker than it had any business doing—and fingers like iron clamped her wrist in a vice. Then before she quite knew what was happening, her arm was being twisted around and her body along with it, until she was jerked hard against him, her arm pulled up behind her and pinned agonizingly between her shoulder blades.
She tried struggling, unwilling to let the moment go where she might have, in a different universe, had a chance at fighting him and perhaps winning. But her struggles made no difference at all to the iron hold he had on her and when something even harder than the body up against her back pushed into her side, she knew the moment had gone utterly.
Violet stilled, panting. Fear sat in her chest, so large and sharp she could barely deal with that let alone the other thing he’d whispered in her ear back out on the sidewalk outside the subway station.
Your father is dead.
The words echoed in her head, meaningless syllables all jumbling together.
Her father. Evelyn Fitzgerald. She didn’t even begin to comprehend it. He’d always seemed invulnerable, untouchable. A cool, clever man who prized control in all things. A cool, distant parent.
Now he wasn’t either of those things. He wasn’t anything.
How did Elijah Hunt know? And did he have something to do with it? Was he even telling the truth?
Okay. So. First things first. Pull yourself the fuck together.
“What the hell are you doing with me?” she forced out, her voice thin and tight. “If you’re going to rape me then just get it over and done with, you prick, because the suspense is killing me.” All bravado of course, but it was better than whimpering like a child.
He made a sound of disgust at that and suddenly she was free as he shoved her forward. She stumbled, going down on her hands and knees to the hard wood floorboards beneath her feet. Shaking, she turned over, raising her arms to fight.
But he didn’t come any closer. He only pushed himself away from the door and pointed the muzzle of that nasty-looking gun in her direction.
The fear turned over in her chest, making her want to cower on the floor.
Elijah had always been a frightening man, right from the moment her father had first taken him on as his new bodyguard five years earlier. Her father never went anywhere without him, and Violet had hated the way the man seemed to hang around all the freaking time, like a gargoyle, all scarred face and cold black eyes. He never smiled. Never seemed to have any expression other than “don’t fuck with me.”
She didn’t like him. And yet for some reason she couldn’t ever quite put her finger on, she found him vaguely fascinating too. He was like a blade she wanted to test the edge of, just to make sure he really was as lethally sharp as she’d thought. Or a tiger she wanted to poke a stick at to see if he was as dangerous as he seemed.
But those urges had fled now. Because yes, he really was as sharp and as dangerous as he seemed, and if she wasn’t careful she was going to get herself either cut or killed and eaten.
“That was a pretty fucking stupid move.” His voice was so cold, like the rest of him, yet with an oddly rough, sensual edge that sounded like he’d spent one too many nights drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Except of course she’d never seen him do either. His idea of a fun night out was probably polishing his knives and checking over his guns.
“I had to do something.” She sat up slowly, rubbing her trembling hands together, her palms stinging. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
He shifted, the fabric of the overcoat he wore parting and giving her a glimpse of bronze skin.
How odd. What the hell happened to his shirt?
“A girl could get herself killed if she’s not careful.” He gestured with the gun. “Get up.”
“So, no rape then?” She had no idea why she was talking like this. She was clearly being stupid.
Something flickered over his impassive features. Yeah, definitely disgust. “I’m a cold, hard bastard and I’ll kill you if you try that little stunt again, but no, I’m not going to rape you. That’s not why you’re here.”
Perhaps it was the ice in his voice that eased the sharpest edges of her fear. Ridiculous when there was a gun pointed right at her and he was threatening to kill her. As if death was better than rape.
Slowly, she got to her feet, her heart thumping around inside her chest like a bird throwing itself against the unyielding glass of a windowpane. “Then why am I here? And what did you mean about Dad being dead? Why would you say that?”
“All in good time, princess. Right now I need you to do something for me.”
“Why the fuck would I do anything for you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll put a bullet through you.” He reached over to the door frame and hit a button on the control panel next to it. Some lights on the panel flickered. Then he lowered the gun and smiled, a terrifying, cold smile that only seemed to make the black holes that were his eyes even darker. “Now, before we get to anything else, you have to understand that there is no way out of this apartment. You can only open this door with the code and only I have the code. The windows are bulletproof, so there’s no way you can smash them. Are we clear?”
The brief thoughts she’d had of somehow rendering him unconscious, grabbing his gun, and smashing her way out of the apartment died stillborn.
Not that she would have gotten far anyway. Apart from those self-defense classes, she had no fighting skills to speak of and she’d never even touched a gun let alone fired one. She’d probably end up shooting herself rather than him. Not to mention the fact that he was a trained bodyguard who probably knew how to kill people with his bare hands.
A bodyguard with an apparently deep bank account.
She didn’t take her eyes off him, but she’d caught a glimpse of the apartment as he’d shoved her inside all the same. Lots of exposed brick and wood floors, a high ceiling crossed with heavy, dark beams. A West Village loft this size had to be horrendously expensive, which was surely well above his pay grade. Then again, who knew? Her father was a man of many secrets and maybe he paid Elijah shitloads of cash.
“We’re clear.” She tightened her jaw against an incipient wave of panic. “Am I going to get any explanations then?”
“Not yet. You’re going to do that little task I mentioned first.” He inclined his head. “Behind you. Head through the door and into the bathroom.”
“Why? What do you want me to do?” She was being an idiot continuing to push him. What the hell was she thinking?
Maybe that you don’t have anything to lose?
But no, that was stupid. She had plenty to lose. Her life being the main thing, but also the first lead she’d had on Theo since she’d gotten back to New York two months earlier.
Sixteen years ago her brother had disappeared, ostensibly a suicide into the Hudson, his body never found. A verdict she’d never accepted, no matter what the coroner said.
And then fifteen years later, while she’d been living in Paris, she’d gotten the first sign that maybe she’d been right all this time. That Theo hadn’t died. That he was alive. She’d scoured Paris trying to find information—any information—as to his whereabouts, and yet had come up with nothing.
So she’d come back to New York to see if she could turn up anything there. And today, just before she’d gotten on that wretched subway, she’d finally found the lead she was looking for.
The high-security storage facility where Theo had stored some of his belongings before his supposed death had gotten in touch with her, informing her that someone had accessed his storage locker. She’d left instructions and a hefty bribe with them years before, when she’d tried to access it herself and been refused, that should anyone come and try to get in, they were to let her know.
And now they had. And there could be only person who’d accessed it.
Theo himself.
At least that was the only person who’d had authorized access according to them. Only the owner of the locker was allowed in, not even family members.
She didn’t know what was in that locker or why he’d taken out storage in such a high-security facility—especially when all the rest of his stuff had been stored elsewhere by their mother—but she was sure only she knew about it. And some instinct had told her not to tell anyone else. So she hadn’t.
But someone had accessed that locker, and it had to be Theo. Which meant he was alive and she wasn’t going to rest until she’d found him. She just had to get away from Mr. Elijah Hunt first.
“You’ll find out,” Elijah said. “Come on. I haven’t got time to piss around arguing with you.”
Swallowing, Violet pushed down the fear and the grief, and turned around.
Ahead of her was a walled-off part of the echoing apartment with a door in the middle of it. The bathroom space clearly.
She walked over to it and pushed the door open. There was a hallway beyond, painted stark white, and then another door.
“Through there,” he ordered.
Obediently she went through the second door into a stainless-steel and white-tiled bathroom. A massive freestanding tub faced one of the huge windows, a glass walled shower area that could have fit in a whole baseball team off to the right of it.
There was a vanity unit near the door, as minimalist and bare as the rest of the space, white porcelain and stainless steel, an unframed mirror hanging above it.
Elijah went past her and reached into a cupboard under the unit, bringing out a big white plastic box. Setting it on top of the vanity, he took the top off and began to pull out what looked like some first-aid stuff, all the while keeping the gun trained on her.
Briefly she debated seeing if she could take him by surprise and try to knock him out somehow, then discarded the idea. She’d probably only get herself hurt. If she was going to get out of this, she’d have to think of another way.
“What are you doing?” Her voice echoed weirdly off the hard surfaces in the room.
He didn’t reply, shrugging out of the overcoat he still wore.
Violet swallowed again.
She’d been right about the glimpse of bare skin she’d seen earlier. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or at least the remains of a dark gray business shirt that had been torn up and used as a bandage were still wrapped around one massively muscled left shoulder. Blood streaked the sharply cut and defined lines of his chest and abdomen, staining the waistband of the business trousers that sat low on his lean hips. The blood also partially obscured the tattoo inked into his skin just above his heart. A rose with a thorny stem, red ink drops of blood mingling with his real blood.
It seemed a strange image for a man so cold. Did it mean anything? Was it for anyone?
What the fuck are you thinking about his tattoo for?
He was now unwinding the remains of the shirt from around his shoulder, revealing the source of the blood. Holy shit. He’d been shot.
The cold bite of fear returned as she glanced from the bloody wound to his face, suddenly becoming aware of what she’d only half taken in before. That his face was bruised. He had the beginnings of a black eye and there was a raw gash in his lip, more bruises along his jaw.
He looked like he’d been in one hell of a fight and hadn’t come out the winner.
Your father is dead.
Elijah Hunt was his bodyguard.
Oh fuck. What the hell had happened?
He looked up, his black gaze catching hers. “Come here.”
“Why?” The fear was rising in her chest, making her feel sick. “What do you want me to do?”
In one hand he held the pistol, still steadily pointed at her. “As you can see, I have a gunshot wound.” He reached for a pair of what looked like forceps with his free hand, then held them up. “And you’re going to remove the bullet.”
“Kidnapped by the Billionaire” copyright © 2016 by Jackie Ashenden
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Kidnapped by the Billionaire
Jackie Ashenden
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