Duke: Alpha One Security: Book 3 Read online

  “I wasn’t with you. I was outside smoking.”

  “And I went out after you. They saw you next to me and, as you heard, they had orders not to take chances or leave witnesses.” I moved to her feet and clipped her ankles free. “I’m not sure what they want, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and suggest it ain’t a tickle fight, princess. They got no problem burying you if you cause trouble, trust me on that.

  “And if they were to somehow find out who you are if, say, someone was to bust out with a ‘do you even know who I am?’, Baby-cakes…that would not be beneficial to your situation. They’d not only have a witness, but they’d have a hostage, and money to be made. The guy in charge of this whole mess, he ain’t a nice guy. He’d be the sort to send severed fingers to your dad until he got his money. So I suggest you keep your mouth shut and follow my lead.”

  She paled at that, and considering her pearly complexion, that meant she went really pale. “They wouldn’t.”

  I shrugged. “That’s my best guess. This Cain guy isn’t really my particular enemy, he’s more my boss’s enemy. But since I’m connected to him, they snatched me, and got you in a twofer. And, yeah, honey, they would absolutely hack off your pretty little manicured fingers.”

  She was rolling her ankles, trying to get the feeling back, so I took her foot in my hand, slipped off her wedge sandal, and massaged her foot. A low, sultry groan of pleasure left her lips before she could stop herself, but then she yanked her foot back and shot me that glare again.

  I let her go, and squatted next to her, watching her try to massage feeling back into her extremities and admiring her tight, toned body. “I happen to think you’ve got beautiful hands, and it’d be a shame to see them come to any harm, so you can relax. I won’t let anything happen to your fingers, or any other part of your fine-ass body.”

  “Oh really? There were three of them, in case you didn’t notice.” She said this as if I should be afraid.

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “You were blindfolded, how could you tell?”

  I shrugged, smirking. “I counted their voices, and heard their different footsteps.”

  “And you can take on all three of them, can you?” Skeptical, sarcastic.

  I stood up to my full height, which got her attention. I’m six-six and two-eighty, and there’s not an ounce of fat on me. And believe me, she fuckin’ noticed. There was no mistaking the way her eyes raked up and down my body several times, and then she blinked, shook her head, and looked away, those pretty pale cheeks blushing scarlet.

  “Yeah, Fancy. I’m thinkin’ they only brought three guys, and that was their second mistake.”

  “What was the first?”

  “Not killing me outright,” I said. “’Cause now I’m inconvenienced. I’ve got a headache, and that makes me cranky. I’m hungry, which makes me hangry, and when I get hangry I tend to lose a bit of rationality and self-restraint. And they only brought three guys? They’re going to wish they had a whole lot more.”

  She stared up at me, and her gaze reflected equal parts attraction, fascination, and revulsion.

  I heard the screen door squeal, then footsteps on the floor above us, and then on the stairs.

  I winked at Temple. “Fun’s about to start, honey-buns. You just sit there and be your pretty, innocent little self. Let them come in, and do not look at me. Then, when I give you the signal, you get your sexy ass out of the way.”

  She looked panicked. “Wh—what’s the signal?”

  “When I start hitting people, obviously.”

  I started to turn away.

  “Wait!” she called out.

  I turned back, quirked an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

  “What’s your name?”

  I gave her my signature panty-melter grin. “Name’s Duke Silver.”

  Snagging the barbell from the rack, I hefted it, swung it around a few times, and then positioned myself near the door as the footsteps clomped down the stairs.

  The lock clicked, the doorknob twisted.

  Temple sat frozen on the floor, like a deer caught in headlights and then, in the moments before the door swung open, she shook her hair out, fluffed it, and unbuttoned her blouse to show a cock-hardening amount of plump ivory cleavage.

  A little too effective, since it cost me several seconds delay—I was staring too, right when the three cocksuckers ambled through the door with their guns at the ready.

  Great, now I have to fight with hard-on.

  2: CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

  Duke Silver? Really?

  The big, gorgeous bastard looked like he’d stepped off a Jerry Bruckheimer movie set, the kind where there were explosions, big tits, and a muscle-bound oaf with more brawn than brains. So far we were batting two for three, because I had big tits and he fit the muscular moron bill to the T. I guess the explosions were still to come.

  And then he had to look like a fucking movie star—the angular cheekbones, the craggy, sharp jawline, those cornflower-blue eyes? Then there was his hair. I got all twitchy and weak in the knees for his hair. True natural red hair, a Ron Weasley orange. Except Duke’s hair was thick and wavy, almost curly, and he had it been severely undercut, the sides buzzed to the scalp, with the top left long enough to pull back in a ponytail.

  And if his hair made me gaga, his body did worse things to me—his body made me flat-out stupid, is what it did. Think Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime, and you’ll have a rough idea of how Duke Silver was built. A little leaner, though, not quite as bulky as Arnie was in his Mr. Olympia days, but only by a hair. Scary thing was, Duke didn’t move like a bodybuilder—he moved like a tiger. Smooth, easy, lithe, graceful, and viciously powerful. And he had…it. That magnetism, the kind that just draws your attention to him against your will. I mean, my mom is Jane Kennedy, so I’ve met some of the biggest movie stars in the world, and was on first name basis with a lot of them, sweet old Arnie included. Duke? He just had a presence that could put any of them to shame.

  But there was something else about him that wasn’t like the A-listers I knew. Those guys didn’t…scare me. That was it, wasn’t it? Duke Silver made me shudder, and not in a damn I’d like to fuck him silly sort of way, but in the way you’d shudder in terror if you suddenly found yourself face to face with a full-grown and hungry Bengal tiger. That kind of shudder. The involuntarily wetting of your pants kind of shudder.

  I should go back and qualify that thought, though. Yes, I really did want to fuck Duke Silver until he forgot his name. Or, more accurately, until I forgot his name and mine both. And that pissed me off. I was Temple Kennedy. I crooked my finger, and dozens of rich, beautiful, successful men would drop to their knees and do whatever I told them to, simply because of my name, because of what I looked like, and who my parents are. I wasn’t affected by any of it. I’ve walked the red carpet for the Oscars, the Golden Globes, the Emmy’s, the Tony’s…I’ve been interviewed by Rolling Stone, E!, Entertainment Weekly, Vogue, People, and have been on the cover of US Weekly almost as frequently as Kim Kardashian. No man ever left me feeling weak in the knees.

  Yet there were my stupid, traitor knees, getting all wobbly. Good thing I was sitting down.

  Goddammit, he even made my mind wander.

  I mentally scolded myself, instructing my lust-ridden libido to check itself before it wrecked itself, told my knees to stiffen up, and forced my mind to focus.

  They would absolutely hack off your pretty little manicured fingers, he’d said. Well that wasn’t going to work for me, since I happened to be allergic to having my fingers chopped off. Or anything else, for that matter.

  Focus, Temple, focus.

  I unbuttoned my blouse to show a little extra cleavage, and fluffed my hair. And yeah, you bet your ass I noticed Duke noticing me. And, yeah, I also noticed the way his khaki cargo shorts tightened at the zipper just a little when I plumped my tits—good to know I affect him, too.

  The footsteps were right outside the door, now.

&
nbsp; Duke was standing to the right of the door, so when it swung open he’d be able to swing that weight bar into the opening. The annoying part of the scenario was that Duke was wielding the weight bar like a quarterstaff. Annoying, I say, in that it was a full Olympic bar, weighing 45 pounds, and he could swing it around like a wooden stick.

  And, BTW, don’t give me that you’re just a spoiled little blonde bimbo so how would you know how much an Olympic barbell weighs shit; you don’t maintain a body like mine without spending almost as much time in the gym as I’m sure Duke does so, yeah, I know how much an Olympic bar weighs. I can clean it with eighty pounds on the bar, too. Not much for Duke, but he’s three times my size.

  The door opened, and a man stepped through, two more right behind him. The first guy took three steps into the room before he saw me sitting on the floor, gag gone, bonds cut, blouse showing cleavage and a hint of bra, hair mussed like I’d just been fucked—yeah, he stopped in his tracks.

  I’ve still got it, bitch.

  The two men behind him bumped into him with a chorus of curses.

  “How you are like this?” The man in front asked, confusion mangling his English. “And where is—?”

  Whack.

  I cringed, and then gagged. Because FUCK. Duke had swung the bar as hard as he could, and it had connected with the poor guy’s skull like a baseball bat connecting with a watermelon. Similar red wet spray, too. I vomited on the floor in front of me at the sight of the wreckage that had once been a man’s skull, but I didn’t have time to even really register that I’d upchucked before Duke was in motion, the bar now held in a wide grip, like a quarterstaff. One end smashed into a belly, and then it was whistling around the other way and taking out a knee with a sickening crunch, and then too many things happened at once for me to track.

  One guy managed to gut through his ruined knee to draw a gun from his waistband and squeeze off a round with a deafening report. I heard concrete shatter and saw the wall to Duke’s right explode in a spray of slivers and dust—a missed shot, thank god.

  “Dumb idea, dipshit,” Duke said, his voice as calm and cool as you please, sounding amused, even.

  Whack.

  This time the bar’s tip cracked into the shooter’s chest, knocking him backward, then rotated and began arcing downward. I looked away, then, because seeing that once was plenty for me.

  I heard the sick wet crunch, though.

  I also heard another gunshot, heard Duke grunt in irritation, and then I heard yet another now-distinctive crunch, that of a human head turning into hamburger.

  Oh god, I should not have thought that. Should not have—shit.

  I puked again.

  “You can open your eyes now, Fancy,” Duke said. “They’re all dead.”

  “I’ll keep them closed, thank you very much,” I said, trying my damnedest to sound like I wasn’t as traumatized as I felt.

  “Suit yourself. Might step in something nasty, though.”

  I had my eyes squeezed shut and my hand clapped over them; I extended my other hand in front of me for him to take. “Can you…lead me out? I really don’t want to see that.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Right. Guess you’re not used to this shit, are you?”

  “Used to what, deconstructed human skulls?”

  He chuckled. “Deconstructed human skulls. Huh, never heard it put that way before.”

  “No, for your information, I’m not used to that shit. And if you are, then I’m sorry for the life you’ve lived.”

  I felt his hand clasp around mine, and I couldn’t suppress a shiver. His hand was huge, and I could feel his calluses against my skin. “Come on, Fancy. Up you go.” He tugged me upright with surprising gentleness, and then his hand was at the small of my back, guiding me forward, nudging me to one side, then the other. “Uh…big step here, got a puddle of—um, just take a big step.”

  I kept my hand over my eyes and took a big step. My other foot followed, and as I put my heel down, it hit something slippery, so my foot shot out from underneath me. I’d have gone down, but Duke’s hand on mine kept me upright. As soon as I slipped, I felt his other hand catch my waist, and I was airborne.

  “Let’s just do this, huh?” he said, more to himself than to me.

  I was in his arms. I could feel the bulge of his biceps, the hardness of his chest, his masculine scent. Nice. This was…very nice.

  Only, underneath his scent, I could smell other, less pleasant smells. My puke, and something sharply tangy and queasy-making. Blood, gore. That took the nice right out of the moment, because that scent pushed into my head the all too vivid visual of the bar smashing into the skull.

  I groaned, my stomach revolting again.

  “Shit, you gonna hork again?”

  “Trying not to.”

  “Shallow breaths through your mouth. Stop thinking about it.”

  “Can’t.” I turned my face into his black V-neck T-shirt, the image flashing through me again and again. “Keep seeing it.”

  We were ascending then, his feet quiet on the stairs. He stopped after maybe ten or eleven steps. “Need you to hang out here a second, okay?” His voice buzzed quietly in my ear. “Gotta be sure that was all of ‘em before I take you up there.”

  He set me on a stair, and I had to open my eyes, then. My gaze, of course, was drawn with morbid curiosity downward. But his hand caught my jaw and he turned my head to look up at him.

  “Nope.” He didn’t smile, but his expression was…understanding, I guess you might call it. “No looking down there, Fancy. Keep your eyes up this way. Sit tight, keep breathing, and try not to think about it.”

  I got a good look at his ass as he stood up and left the stairwell. And, god, what an ass. Even in those stupid cargo shorts, it was obvious his ass was as hard and round as a pair of cannonballs. I didn’t tell myself to focus, then, because thinking about Duke Silver’s ass was better than thinking about what was at the bottom of the stairs.

  A good minute of silence passed, and then Duke appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs, an automatic pistol in both hands, held as naturally as if it were an extension of his arms, probably liberated from the now-dead guys back downstairs.

  “Come on, Fancy. Time to bust a move.”

  “My name is Temple, goddammit,” I snarled.

  “I know.” He shot me that grin, the one I just knew he probably used on a regular basis for the melting of female undergarments. “But I like you better all riled up.”

  I glared at him. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” I snapped. “You’re not going to melt my underwear with it.”

  He reached down, took my hand, helped me stand up, and drew me up the stairs and out into the main level of the house. And just like that, I was flush against him, staring up at his idiotically beautiful blue eyes and stupidly perfect face.

  And then he murmured something truly obnoxious: “Can’t exactly melt panties you ain’t wearin’, can I, Princess?”

  “You’re a pig.” I slapped him across the face as hard as I could and then stepped backward angrily.

  Of course, my slap and angry retort were ruined by the fact that I had stepped backward toward the stairs and would have gone down them had Duke’s ninja reflexes not sent his hand shooting out to snag me around the waist and pull me back up against him.

  “Careful,” he murmured, his breath on my lips. “Don’t wanna fall down those stairs.”

  I let out a very unladylike growl and yanked myself out of his arms, this time away from the stairs. “Thank you.” I shot him a middle finger. “But you’re still a pig.”

  “I’m a pig for noticing that you’re not wearing any panties?” He didn’t sound insulted or offended. More…amused, again.

  “Yes. And even more so for saying so.”

  He grinned again. “So I am right? You’re not wearing any panties?”

  “No! I mean—I’m not telling you!” I went to slap him again, and he just let me, not even flinching when my ha
nd cracked across his cheek. “And stop calling them panties! That’s a horrible word.”

  “You already did tell me, sweetheart.” He wiggled one eyebrow suggestively. “But then, that skirt is tight enough I’d have noticed panty lines.”

  “God,” I huffed. “You’re a barbarian.”

  He shrugged. “Meh. Been called worse.” He eyed me. “And why is panties a horrible word? What else am I supposed to call them?”

  I shuddered when he said the word. “Underwear?” I suggested.

  “Boring. Panties is more fun.”

  “Fun? It’s horrible! It’s just a gross word. Like moist.”

  He cringed. “Now that’s a horrible word.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Yeah, and panties is worse.”

  “So what do you call ‘em, when you wear ‘em?”

  “Underwear. Or a thong, if that’s what I’m wearing.”

  His eyes actually twinkled, but lecherously, rather than merrily. “Thongs, hmm? You like the G-strings better, or the ones with the wide waistband and the little lace strap between your ass cheeks?”

  I goggled at him. “What are you, an underwear aficionado?”

  That damn grin again. “Why, yes, yes I am. Duke Silver, underwear aficionado.” He scrubbed the stubble on his jaw with his fingertips. “Although, panty-master sounds more badass.”

  I actually slapped my forehead. “Panty-master? Are you twelve?”

  He shrugged and pulled a why not? face. “Yeah, sometimes. Especially when it comes to hot women in sexy—underwear.” He wiggled the one eyebrow again. “And Fancy, you, in a G-string? That’s fucking hot.”

  “Yeah, well…if you want to see me in a G-string, you’ll have to go buy last July’s issue of Maxim.” I turned and walked away from him a few steps, cursing myself for saying that.

  Sometimes my mouth ran away from my brain.

  He wasn’t moving, still standing behind me at the top of the stairs. “Wait. You were in Maxim?”

  I shrugged one shoulder and avoided looking at him. “Yup. Four page article, double-page photo spread.”