Killer Curves Read online

  Cruel fingers dug into her upper arm just as her head was wrenched back by her hair, sending more painful pricks stabbing into her scalp. She cried out, the tendons in her neck screaming, stretched until they burned, as if on the verge of snapping.

  “You’re gonna pay for that, bitch,” a nasally voice sneered in her ear with another vicious jerk on her head. Obviously her head-butt had damaged his nose. And he was pissed. She squeezed her eyes shut as a hand closed around her throat…squeezed…

  “What the—”

  The hands gripping her hair and choking her neck disappeared, leaving her staggering. The ground rose up to meet her, and at the last second, she twisted, clenching her teeth against the impact of her shoulder, arm, and hip slamming to the pavement. But as she rolled to sit on her behind, she couldn’t contain her groan. Fire throbbed in her muscles and joints. Her heart hammered against her ribcage. Bile razed the lining of her throat.

  Move, a voice screamed in her head. Fuck the pain. Move.

  She obeyed. Whimpering, she staggered to her knees, ignoring the tiny bits of gravel biting into her—holy shit. She froze, the throbbing in her body momentarily forgotten.

  Ciaran.

  Moving like a honed weapon. Quick. Silent. Slashing. Precise. Deadly. Fury darkened his features into a taut, ruthless mask, but he fought with cold efficiency. Though her two attackers—her first look at the hooded men—outnumbered him, and their bulky, wide builds seemed to outweigh him, Ciaran cut through the assailants like a hot knife slicing through butter.

  A jab to the throat. A kick that could’ve been choreographed in a Jackie Chan movie. A flurry of punches that elicited pained grunts and rage-filled curses. He shifted, glided, and struck with a lethal grace and beauty. He was both awesome and frightening.

  With a hard, two-palmed shove to one of the thug’s chests that had the asshole crashing into the side of her car, Ciaran pivoted and delivered an audible, jaw-cracking punch to the other. He quickly followed up the blow with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the spine. The guy crumbled to the ground and didn’t move.

  Metal glinted in the light of the parking lot lamps behind him.

  “Ciaran,” she rasped, the warning like sandpaper over her raw throat.

  But she must’ve been loud enough. Ciaran whirled around, gripped the attacker’s wrist, and in a complicated but seamless move, rotated and rolled, ending up behind the other guy with the asshole’s hand twisted and the gun on the ground. In seconds, Ciaran released the thug, only to wrap his arm around the other man’s neck in a merciless chokehold. Her attacker slapped at Ciaran, grabbed at him, even tried to elbow him. But Ciaran, his mouth flattened in a straight, grim line, his blue eyes glittering, didn’t flinch or ease up. Not until the other man slumped, unconscious in the implacable hold. Only then did Ciaran allow him to drop to the ground with a dull, heavy thud.

  He crouched over the prone figure at his feet and reached into the thigh pocket of his cargo pants, removing a clear zip-tie. “Are you hurt?”

  She flinched at the quiet tone which belied the rage burning in his narrowed gaze. With sure, economic movements, he trussed up both men, shackling their wrists and ankles. A fierce satisfaction blazed through her. Good. When the assholes woke, they would know how it felt to be trapped and helpless… Good, dammit.

  “Sloane?”

  She jerked her attention back to Ciaran. “No, I’m okay.”

  Her shoulders ached and her wrists burned, but he’d most likely just saved her life. Yes, parts of her complained like nagging fishwives, but dammit, she was alive.

  Thanks to Ciaran.

  Chapter Five

  “Thank you.”

  Ciaran glanced at the passenger seat of his Range Rover where Sloane sat staring out the window. Dirt smudged her skirt, and a tear ruined the hem. Yet, at some point, she’d brushed her hair and tucked her shirt nice and neat in the waistband of her skirt. Though signs of her terrifying ordeal and brush with possible death marred her, the duchess had stepped in. With her straight shoulders and regal bearing that had probably been drilled into her from the cradle, he could easily imagine her riding in a horse-drawn, covered carriage, separated by birth and blood from the teeming masses.

  Except she wasn’t separate. A couple of the “teeming masses” had assaulted her less than two hours ago. Put their hands over her mouth, around her neck. Had cuffed her. Rage poured through him like a molten wave of lava. He curled his fingers around the steering wheel, squeezing so hard, the ridges underneath bit into his flesh.

  Seconds. That’s all it’d taken for him to jump out of his vehicle and run across the parking lot to reach Sloane and those two bastards who had appeared out of the shadows to attack her. Those seconds, though, had seemed like years, and the small distance had yawned wider with each step he’d taken. As a DEA agent and a security specialist, he’d faced down criminals. Had neutralized threats. But not since his first drug bust had his heart pounded so hard in his chest, it’d nearly burst through his rib cage like a wild, rabid animal.

  Even now the sour, acrid remnants of fear that had flooded his mouth and nose lingered in his throat, his tongue. Not again, not again, his mind had chanted. I can’t lose another one again. For a moment, he’d been back on that dirty, oil-splattered warehouse floor, blood pumping out of his chest, spilling over his hands. For a moment, the boom of another gunshot had filled his ears.

  For a moment, his eyes had connected with the dark, blank, lifeless stare of the woman he loved.

  Ciaran swallowed hard and narrowed his gaze on the white lines and reflectors on the dark street. He’d reached Sloane in time. He’d subdued her attackers. He hadn’t failed to keep someone safe…again.

  “Ciaran?”

  Her soft voice drew him back those last few inches from the crumbling, fragile edge. Inhaling, he consciously eased his grip on the steering wheel and quietly, deliberately exhaled.

  “You’re welcome.” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand why she was grateful. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a subtle movement. Sloane rubbed her wrists where the zip-ties, not unlike the ones he’d used to cuff her assailants, had bit into her flesh. After he’d snapped the restraints loose, the sight of her reddened and raw skin had almost sent him over to the assholes to slap them awake so he could beat them into unconsciousness all over again. The angry welts and bloody chafing had seemed sacrilegious against her delicate, soft skin. Once more, he tightened his hold on the steering wheel. This time to keep him from reaching across the console and rubbing his thumb over the irritated and bruised area.

  “So I take it you weren’t there by accident,” she said, a wry note creeping into her voice. “You were following me?”

  He nodded. “Since Saturday afternoon.” In their office earlier that day, she hadn’t exactly forbidden them to tail her. She’d claimed a surveillance team hadn’t been necessary. Not that her wishes in the matter of her safety would’ve mattered anyway. Between the emails, late-night phone calls, and the assault and break-in at her home, there was no way in hell Ciaran wasn’t putting someone on her. “We’ve had a small detail assigned to you.”

  And if he assumed a shift every day, then it was only because Sloane held a special place in Fallon’s life.

  He smothered a snort. Yeah, he didn’t even buy that bullshit.

  Still, he retreated from examining why. It didn’t matter if the reason behind his compulsive vigilance was because she reminded him of Sam or because she, herself, was the one he couldn’t exorcise from his mind and dreams. Both options sucked and scared the shit out of him. One meant he teetered closer to the abyss than he imagined, and the other suggested he was obsessed.

  She sighed. “I guess it would be completely useless to point out that I didn’t want to be followed, since your disregard of my wishes saved my life.” She shook her head and chuckled, but the low burst of laughter didn’t contain t
he slightest hint of humor. “You know, this morning I had myself convinced Friday night had been a random burglary gone wrong.” She emitted another of those dry, self-deprecating laughs. “I didn’t want it to be anything more. What’s the saying? There are none so blind as those who will not see.” Then, quieter, “Normal. All I want is a little bit of normal.”

  He frowned, almost asking what the cryptic words meant, but at the last moment, he swallowed back the questioned and focused on the events of the night. “We’re going to have to talk about what happened tonight.” Not rehash the details of the attack; he’d witnessed it, and the cops had already taken her statement. Besides, making her relive those moments when she’d been restrained and abused seemed cruel. And the idea of causing her any further pain tonight—even mental anguish—sickened him.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Starting with how I need to get my head out of my ass and face this thing head on.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked as he hit the turn signal for the Copley Square, Back Bay exit. “Careful, duchess, you just said ‘ass,’” he teased.

  She snorted. “I do curse, Ciaran.”

  “With that pretty mouth? Say it isn’t so,” he drawled. He chuckled at her short huff and rumble of irritation. Actually, imagining those plump, created-for-a-blow-job lips uttering “fuck me” while he rode her into his mattress summed up one of his most lurid fantasies. Just one.

  Silence descended in the vehicle until he turned onto Boylston Street and neared the hotel parking entrance. Pressing a button on his earpiece, he stated, “Mark,” and in seconds the GDG man he’d had sitting on the hotel, Mark Granger, answered.

  “Mark, I’m arriving with Ms. Barrett. Come meet me on the lower level at parking. I need you to stand with her while I park. ETA three minutes.”

  “Got it. See you in a few.”

  The line disconnected. Ciaran’s diligence might seem like a little too much, but he didn’t want Sloane out of his sight even for a second. Not after tonight’s events.

  “They have valet parking,” she said, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t trust anyone with my car.”

  “First the guard meeting me and now this. Are you always so paranoid?”

  He glanced at her, an eyebrow arched. “I get paid to be paranoid. Once, I worked an assignment for a four-star hotel like this one that was experiencing a theft issue. Turned out one of the sources was a couple of valets with sticky fingers. Not all of them are dishonest, but that small handful convinced me to secure my own vehicle.”

  And then there was the hard, cold fact he was just an untrusting bastard. He mentally shrugged. Some people bit their nails and others chain smoked. He didn’t trust motherfuckers as far as his newborn nephew could throw them.

  “Do you think the police will be able to determine who sent those two after me?”

  Ciaran slowed the Range Rover to a stop in front of the ornate glass doors and staircase leading to the hotel’s lobby. A liveried valet approached the vehicle, but Ciaran ignored him, instead focusing every ounce of his attention on the battered, trembling but proud woman next to him. Most women would’ve broken, been a sobbing, inconsolable mess after enduring the attack she’d suffered. But not the duchess. Bruised, but definitely not broken.

  That kind of strength was sexy as hell. As alluring as the siren call of her curves. Sloane returned his stare without even an uncertain demure dip of her gaze. He fucking liked that, too.

  Damn, he just enjoyed looking at her. But he forced himself to keep his attention from lowering to her mouth. One glance at the erotic shape of her lips, and all he could imagine was how they would feel under his. Or how pretty they would look sliding over his chest…or parting around his cock. His flesh thumped behind his zipper, totally on board with that idea.

  The hard throb of arousal forced him to concentrate, to remember why he sat in this truck with her. Why she was there. Not for him, but what he—GDG—could offer. Protection. Security. Safety. Nothing else. Not his depraved thoughts or gnawing hunger. If Sloane had a glimpse of the pictures tramping around in his head, she would smack the shit out of him then hightail it out of his car like the damn thing had exploded into flames.

  “You want complete honesty from me?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Always.”

  A wry smile twisted his lips. “Be careful what you wish for, duchess. But no, I don’t think the police will find out who is behind tonight’s kidnapping attempt.” A beat of silence passed between them. “And make no mistake, Sloane. It was a kidnapping. If they only intended to hurt or even kill you, they could’ve done it there in the parking lot. Instead, they bound your hands and tried to drag you to their car and a second location.”

  Her lashes lowered, and an audible breath escaped her parted lips. When she met his gaze again, the green in her eyes had darkened, appearing almost black in the shadowed interior of the vehicle.

  “Well, I asked for honesty, didn’t I?” she murmured.

  Humor even with terror staining her eyes. Yeah, definitely sexy as hell.

  “Yes, you did. Those two assholes probably have long criminal records, and a simple snatch-and-grab is nothing to them.” He would find out for sure since both geniuses had been carrying wallets in their pockets—pockets Ciaran had picked, stashing the contents in his trunk before the police had shown up. With their identification, Jake would be able to pull up any existing criminal records, violations—hell, the last time they’d shit. The man was that good…and scary. “But if the person who hired them possesses even a couple of brain cells, he made sure a go-between stood between them and him. Which means, they might, might, give up the name of who directly contacted them—if they have that—but not the identity of the person who wants to get to you.” But he had a feeling the cops would find two men with a sudden case of deaf and dumbness on their hands. Snitches get stitches was the code of the street—and the pen. “And where they came from, there are plenty more willing to step up and take their places. So what I’m saying, Sloane, is this attack was the latest, not the last.”

  “I guessed as much,” she whispered, shoving a hand through her hair. “Jesus. Why?”

  The valet peered into the window and gently rapped on it.

  “We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. I promise you that. Sloane”—he leaned forward, ignoring the tap on the glass—“I intended to wait and bring this up, but you do understand that just because you leave Boston later this week doesn’t mean this person won’t send someone after you again.”

  “But what are the chances…”

  “The fact is there is a chance. One we’re”—I’m—“not willing to take. I know in the office you objected to the idea, but you need someone to accompany you out of town.”

  She was already shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “No. That’s not an option.”

  “In the office, Fallon suggested you take a date with you to the Hamptons. I agree. We could send one of our people, and no one at your party would think twice about him being with you at all times,” he insisted.

  “No,” she repeated, her pretty mouth flattened into a grim, stubborn line. “This is my parents’ anniversary party for God’s sake, not a sting operation. Whoever this is has already turned my life on its ass. I’m not giving him any more.” Again she shook her head. “I won’t be a prisoner. Not again,” she murmured.

  A prisoner? What the hell did that mean?

  “Sloane, I’ve examined the plan backward and forward, and it’s solid.” Clenching his jaw, he palmed the back of her seat, resisting the urge to grasp her shoulder, touch her. “I get this is an inconvenience—”’

  She snorted. “You don’t get anything. I refuse to let this, this psycho control where I go, who I go with, how I live. He doesn’t get to do that.”

  The vehemence in her voice took him aback. He studied the clenched fists on her lap, the set line of her jaw. Something else was going on here… But he couldn’t allow whatever it
was to sway him. He’d been here before. And damned if he would allow emotion to trump duty again.

  “I’m not asking permission, Sloane,” he said softly but injecting a whole lot of “deal with it” into his tone.

  He didn’t miss her swift, hard inhalation of breath or the stiffening of her body. Yes, he was being a hard-ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when her life hung in the balance. And he harbored no doubt it did. What had seemed on the surface like a stalking case had transformed into something much more ominous and threatening tonight. There was only one reason a person had another kidnapped. They wanted to spend time with their victim. Torment and torture her before eventually putting her down once her body and spirit were broken. He’d seen it in his line of work.

  Once, he’d failed to protect a woman he’d been responsible for—the woman he’d adored. He’d failed to keep her safe. Alive.

  He’d proven himself incapable. Unworthy.

  But that wouldn’t be Sloane.

  Not on his watch.

  Not again.

  “Ciaran, I understand you take your job seriously—”

  “Very.”

  She again tunneled her fingers through her hair. “But what employee will consent to carrying on a charade of posing as my boyfriend for five days? Especially if they have families. It’s unfair, and I can’t do that,” she insisted, shaking her head.

  “You’re right. I won’t ask an employee to do it,” he agreed.

  “Exactly.” She sighed, reaching for the door handle and giving him a small, relieved smile. “Thank you for seeing—”

  “But I’m not an employee, am I?”

  Chapter Six

  “Hell no.”

  Those had been the words she’d growled before shock had propelled her from Ciaran’s SUV minutes earlier. And she hadn’t uttered another syllable since. Not even when the door to her hotel suite closed behind her and the watchful, brooding, freaking infuriating man at her back. Proper decorum prevented her from shrieking like a banshee in the lobby of a four-star hotel. And since any attempt to speak to him prior to reaching the privacy of her room would result in a brawl, she deemed it best to keep quiet. Him. Pretending to be her boyfriend. At her parents’. Just. Hell. No.