Page 32 of Lord of Debauchery

“Where are the weapons?” Beckham asked in a much softer tone than I would have thought possible given the circumstances.

“They’re hidden in my bedroom closet. I’m no fool. I won’t allow anyone to find them who isn’t authorized.”

“A very good girl. Let’s go.”

He was more forceful, holding me by the elbow as he continued to scan whatever window came into view. I was sick inside, wishing there was an easy way out of this. There was no chance I could romanticize what was happening. A dangerous man was in the process of kidnapping me.

I wasn’t a betting woman, but I’d say if I were, the odds that I’d be returning to my beloved new city were slim to nil. As he assisted me walking up the stairs, a bad feeling swept through me. What if we didn’t make it to the airport, which was still thirty minutes or more away from my house? What if I died because I’d been far too accommodating?

As if I had a choice.

I was thinking crazy thoughts now, maybe from fear or lack of sleep. The huge man had ensured I wasn’t going to go anywhere the night before.

Not by shackling me to the bed with a rope. No siree.

He’d decided to swing his sculpted leg over both of mine, pinning me in place. And he’d wrapped one arm around me to add insult to injury. Or maybe fuel to the fire. I’d laid awake for what had felt like hours, listening to his breathing. He hadn’t fooled me. He hadn’t slept more than I had. Sex didn’t allow you to trust a person. He was a criminal after all.

I headed into my bedroom, fighting a sob threatening to show just how frightened I was. I’d enjoyed making the room feel special to me and me only. Maybe because Daniel had made fun of everything, from the colors I’d used to the number of pillows I’d insisted on.

God, what had I seen in the bastard?

Sure, on paper the dude had looked perfect. Harvard educated, coming from an excellent and very wealthy family. He’d been employed with the most opulent and powerful firm in the city, purchasing all the bling most women would die for.

But he was a snake underneath it all.

Maybe that’s why I’d allowed myself to engage in something carnal with a man who appeared on the opposite end of the spectrum of being respected and considered a decent human being. Maybe everyone was pretending to be something they weren’t.

I moved to the closet door, throwing it open. The duffle bag was easy to find, the weapons a collection of items I’d been building for years. I’d tried so hard to pretend I’d left my old life behind but it seemed that had been impossible to do. Some of the guns had been gifts from my father. Instead of things like iPhones or iPads, frilly clothes or concert tickets for his only daughter’s birthday, I’d often been given various weapons. I’d learned how to shoot as require then stored them away.

I’d developed a better appreciation of them years later, although a significant part of me hated the thought of keeping guns in my house.

I didn’t bother looking inside, handing him the bag as soon as it was in my hands.

But Beckham did as I knew he would. I heard the slight glitch in his voice. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Good girls who’d grown up to be stockbrokers didn’t have this kind of weaponry.

“Most are military grade.” There was a hint of incredulousness in his voice.

“Yes, they are. I told you before. I’m not the girlie girl you think I am.”

“Yeah, you are. But you’re so much more. I will learn every nuance when it’s the right time and place. Come on.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder, taking a cursory look around the room before leading me back into the hallway. As soon as we were downstairs, Jeff was suddenly right there, beckoning his boss with a head nod.

I glanced where the soldier had been and sighed. So the bastards would soon learn I wasn’t going to play the damsel in distress. A few seconds later, I followed the two men, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms folded. While I was very proud of my service to my country, I didn’t have my credentials or photographs of members of my unit plastered on the wall. I also didn’t sport a Marine tattoo, a requirement of MARSOC, an elite unit often mistakenly referred to as Black Ops.

That meant Jeffie boy had searched through my office drawers. The bastard.

I kept a hard glare on both men even as Beckham tipped his head over his shoulder, scowling as he stared at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You can’t handle a powerful woman?”

He handed Jeff the Silver Star I’d received, taking his time to close the distance. I refused to budge. As he’d done several times before, he cupped my jaw, his hold firm but not painful. I’d realized it was his way of asserting his power. Whoop-de-do.

“I adore a powerful woman, my little fighter. What I don’t appreciate is you not providing all the details or the fact you were in perhaps the single most lethal group of military soldiers in the business. I’m curious as to why you didn’t volunteer that information.” He was hypnotizing in almost every way, his three-day stubble covering his square jaw and the way his eyes locked onto mine as sexy as everything else.

But I learned a long time ago what being addicted to a man and his masculine wiles could do. It would never happen again under any circumstances.

I shrugged, easily able to jerk my head away from him. Before heading off, I smiled. “You didn’t ask.”

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