Chapter 3
Sin took a deep breath, heading back into the kitchen. Shite, if Sokolov's men had found her passport, not only would she be dead but so would her entire family. She was lucky she lost it in the trunk of the car instead of at the bar. Regardless, Sokolov saw her. Damn. He saw her and would figure out soon enough who she was; his connections ran deep through Edinburgh.
He looked over to where she sat, curled up in the armchair, and paused, taking note. She was subdued for the moment. Christ, he had never spanked a lassie before as punishment. Maurna enjoyed the occasional smack when they fucked but this was different. The feel of her in his arms as he held her had been intoxicating. He had become protector, not predator, a role he liked so much better. It aroused something in him. Fuck, he wanted her. It was her eyes, it had to be. A pale reflection of his past and more innocent times when anything was possible. He pushed the thoughts down for now. She was his prisoner and he knew what she was thinking when her hand brushed over his chest. She still had fight left in her. He'd felt the shift in her demeanor, and she wasn't giving up. He admired her for that, found it attractive even. It only meant he would have to watch her more carefully, having left her uncuffed. One of his computers buzzed, signaling an alarm, and the screen lit up. He ran a hand over the keyboard, punching in the password to clear it. It was just the wind buffeting one of the cameras he had posted outside. The rain had picked up. He cleared the table of his gear, setting it, and opened a bottle of wine. Then he carved the chicken and pulled the potatoes from the oven. "Come get something to eat," he said, sliding out a chair from the table.
She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."
"I'm not asking, Charlotte." He walked over to her, taking her chin in his hand. The lass just promised to obey him and already she had forgotten. He raised her head up so she had to look at him. "Yes, sir, is the only answer I'm looking for." Damn those eyes. Eyes like that could only come from the sea.
"Yes, sir," she said, in no more than a whisper.
His thumb brushed over her lips. "Good girl." He helped her to the table, pushing her chair in and sitting down himself. He watched as she shifted in her seat trying to get comfortable. She would be feeling his touch for a while. Hopefully long enough for him to come up with a plan. He poured them each a glass of crisp, white wine and picked his up, swirling the contents to open the bouquet, inhaling its scent before letting it settle at the back of his throat.
He watched as she picked at her food, her long dark hair drying in soft curls around her face.
"What are you doing in Scotland?" he asked, stabbing a rosemary potato with his fork. He put it in his mouth, the buttery herbs coating his tongue. He was hungry, and he knew the lass would be too.
She looked up at him, setting her knife and fork down. "Visiting."
"Do you have family here?"
"No, I came for the festivals." She took a sip of her wine.
He paused, and his lips compressed. "Alone?"
"No," she said, looking down. "My friends will be looking for me."
He doubted it. The lass was clearly lying and not doing a very good job of it. "Don't lie to me, Charlotte. I'll find out the truth. It's better if you tell me now." He continued to eat.
She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. "Who are you?" she asked boldly.
"You don't need to know who I am," he said.
"Where the hell am I?"
He set his glass down. "I ask the questions." She was trying to provoke him.
Her eyes turned to amethysts, hard and cold. "Fuck you."
He pulled her from her chair and dragged her into the bedroom and onto the bed, cuffing her to the headboard.
"I'm sorry," she pleaded.
He arched an eyebrow at her as he took the chest harness off along with his weapons and set them on the dresser. "I know what you were thinking. You want to do this the hard way. Fine. But remember, I gave you a chance." He pushed her down until she lay flat on her back, putting a hand on either side of her shoulders and leaned over, his face a whisper away from hers. "I take what I want and don't ever test me again, darling, or a sore bottom will be the least of your worries." His mouth came down on hers rough and hard, claiming her as his captive. She would learn to obey him. He flicked his tongue across her lips, opening them as he searched her out, the subtle taste of minerals from the wine on her breath, tickling his taste buds. A soft moan escaped her, and he paused, pulling back for a moment. Her cheeks were stained pink with a slight blush, her full lips swollen. She opened her eyes and stared into his with hazy expectation. Jesus Christ, she was responding to his touch. He cupped the back of her head, softening the pressure, as he gently kissed her. Oh, the things he would like to do to her. Her willingness heightening his desire. Her breath hitched as he lightly bit her bottom lip, before pulling back. He stepped away, running a hand through his hair. Shite. He grabbed his weapons and hurried from the room.
* * *
Charlie lay there breathless, every cell within her body alive with an expectant current. Her hand went to her mouth, brushing her sensitive lips. The wetness between her legs was a telltale sign of her body's own desire. This man was a killer and kidnapper, and he would most likely murder her after raping and torturing her, and yet how far would she have let him go before fighting him off? How long would she have been willing to participate? She only provoked him to have a chance at reaching one of his weapons, but instead, she responded to his kiss, enjoyed it even, as it pulled at a place deep in her soul. Michael had never elicited this reaction. It was Klimt's painting The Kiss, the reason she studied and majored in art. The beautiful couple embracing one another, their bodies entwined in elaborately decorated robes as the man bends down to kiss the woman's cheek, the image both evocative and redolent, resonated with intimacy and sexuality. She ran her hand softly over her breast, unaware. It was one of her favorite paintings as a child. When she was a little girl, she would sit in her parents' library and stare at it in a book on the Austrian painter. It made her feel naughty, like she was watching something very private which she wasn't supposed to see. Later, when she was older, she would dream of being kissed that way, of being so cherished by another, only to find disappointment after disappointment with boyfriends and then her fiancé. Why now? Why now, in this circumstance, would she find such erotic pleasure?
A cold chill ran up her spine, returning her to her senses. It was a moment of misbelief due to her situation. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was in real danger. This wasn't some fairytale, but a nightmare where the only outcome was her murder. She would have to be more careful.