Love at First Sight Series Boxed Set: (Books 1-5) Page 28

Tretan answers for me. “Sweet tea with lemon. And you better add a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and a slice of apple pie for good measure.”

  “Will do,” she says, scurrying around like he has given her the most important task of her life.

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  With that, he shifts me in his arms and begins the steep climb up what appears to be an endless, winding, wrought-iron staircase.

  When we reach the top of the landing, his breath isn’t labored at all. The man is in even better shape than I originally thought. Taking a sharp right, he shoulders his way through a partially open door. It swings almost silently on the whispering whoosh of well-oiled hinges, revealing the most masculine yet inviting bedroom in the history of boudoirs.

  The gigantic, walnut-finished, British Colonial jackwood bed has a royal, romantic presence and is obviously meant to be the focal point of the room. Although it looks as if it could comfortably sleep six without any of the occupants ever touching each other, I can’t help but wonder how many women he has had between those decadent, silky, brocade-patterned sheets. The massive, fluffy comforter is still turned down from a previous night of sleep, showcasing warm, welcoming shades of soft creams and golds.

  Between the glossy pages of an interior design magazine we carry at the library, I once saw an exact replica of this very bed. The cost of the imitation was listed at fifteen-thousand dollars. But the one I’m staring at now looks like the real deal. If it is an original, it’s worth a fortune.

  My eyes are drawn to the hand-carved headboard with its heart-stopping, shell motif perched above turned and tapered spindles. They are elegant but durable and terrifyingly perfect for tying up the wrists of a captive. I shudder at the thought of being bound again. I still have marks around my ankles and wrists from the bikers binding me with chains. But even if I knew Mr. Voss would use soft, velvet ropes likely to caress my skin instead of cut into it, I still wouldn’t allow him that kind of power.

  Shaking off the images now bordering on fantasies of him intimately positioned above my naked body, I concentrate on the well-crafted details of the four towering posts. Fancy, brass hardware is attached to finely-fluted tassels on powerful claw feet which provide an unshakeable foundation for the frame. A man could fuck like a wild beast on a bed like this and never cause a single squeak or even the tiniest shift of the structure across the floor.

  Lastly, I spot sets of finials which seamlessly raise to allow for an optional canopy. I’ve always dreamed of sleeping on this sort of bed. But Mr. Tretan Voss has apparently opted out of the frilly, feminine accessory. Of course I wouldn’t expect a man of his pronounced masculinity to ever lie beneath anything so girly.

  As he watches me take in the interior of his most personal space, he remains silent. I feel him turning slowly on a graceful pivot as if allowing me to casually soak up the sloped ceiling, the marble fire place built into the far wall and the Florentine Baroque mirror hanging on the wall closest to us. It reflects the natural light from the glass doors leading out onto the balcony and compliments a scroll top settee I could easily picture myself curled up on while reading a good book.

  If I were an actual guest instead of a prisoner, I would be ecstatic to stay in such an exquisite room. Every inch of it radiates both a restful and amorous ambience.

  Chapter Four

  Tretan Voss

  MY DOVE IS TALL and full-figured but, in my arms, she feels as light as the feathers adorning the bird she reminds me of. I can’t keep my chest from puffing out with pride while I observe the expression on her face. She is pleased with my quarters and, for some reason, this pleases me much more than it should.

  I carry her across the room and carefully place her on the edge of my bed—one of my most prized possessions. When I discovered it on an overseas business trip, it was in a dilapidated state. Shipping it in pieces back here to the lighthouse, I painstakingly put it back together again. I spent months replacing the hardware, stripping the wood down to the bare grain before staining and sealing it with a deep, rich walnut finish. Until this very moment, no one other than myself has sat or lain upon it. In fact, I don’t even allow Alice to make it up or change the sheets. I take care of that chore myself, and right now I am wishing I had taken time to do both this morning. But how the hell was I to know a sensual siren would appear before me this evening?

  Earlier, my initial anger at Fernando was a natural reaction to him having so foolishly and recklessly brought a woman into my world against her wishes and without my permission. But the second wave of fury was brought on by a startling realization. One which shook the already shaky walls of my soul. The mere sight of this woman sparked an electrical pulse through my heart. A hollow organ that for all intents and purposes stopped beating years ago.

  Even if she wanted to be here and was willing to share this place in time with me, I couldn’t allow it indefinitely. She’s an alluring symbol of hope, of normalcy, of potential love. Things I shall never experience again. I forfeited the right to happiness or even any semblance of sanity when I destroyed the people I loved most, leaving a perfect family unit in utter ruins. The charred remnants of what could have and should have been my life had I not been so stupid and selfish. Had I not executed a horrible, poorly-thought-out, juvenile prank. Had I not made a massive, irreversible mistake.

  Pushing the pain of the past back into a cerebral compartment I rarely open, I look into my little dove’s dark eyes and say, “I’m going to get the First Aid kit and tend to your feet.”

  Her skittish expression somehow makes me sad. Damn her for stirring up this caldron of messy emotions. Nervously, she shakes her head and says, “That’s not necessary, but I should wash them off. I don’t want to soil your beautiful bed clothes.”

  I smile at her thoughtfulness. But I don’t like how quickly and easily she allows her concerns over my possessions to outweigh her need for medical care. I want to tell her that easing her discomfort and mending the parts of her body I can is far more important to me than sheets and comforters. But I keep that thought to myself.

  When I return from the bathroom with an antique, robin’s egg-blue basin of warm water and the other supplies I need, she has pushed herself farther up on the mattress. Despite the condition of her feet, they are the prettiest I have ever seen. Her sweet toes are on the stubby side, making them almost all the same length. The way they dangle over the edge of the mattress so high off the floor makes her look like a little girl in a grown woman’s body. I have an overwhelming urge to suck those cute toes into my mouth and clean them with my tongue.

  I’ve never had a particularly strong interest in this part of a female’s anatomy before, but each inch of this woman intrigues me. I find myself wanting to taste her, to kiss her all over.

  Kneeling on the hardwood floor, I balance the basin on my knee. While loosely grasping her ankles and guiding her feet into the Epsom salt solution, I say, “It’s going to sting a little, but that will pass fairly quickly. The magnesium in the salts will go a long way toward relieving the soreness from the cuts and bruises.”

  She nods. “My grandmother always swore by what you’ve just said. When she was a teenager, she worked as a waitress and said soaking her feet each night was the only thing that made working her next day’s shift bearable.”

  Using an ultra-soft cloth, I gently wash away all the dirt from the tops and soles of her feet before cleaning between her toes. She winces from time to time but doesn’t resist my healing ministrations nor does she say a word. Wanting to hear the sound of her voice again, I ask, “What sort of work are you in?”

  She furrows her dainty brow and a tear slides from the corner of one eye. “I’m a librarian. Or rather, I was before—”

  “What?”

  “Before I was kidnapped.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the obvious turmoil reflected on her face. Willing them open again, I say, “You weren’t technically kidnapped, Täubchen. Fernando said you wanted to get into
the car. I know for a fact he does not lie.”

  She sniffles. “I wasn’t talking about what happened tonight.”

  “I’m confused.” Lifting her feet from the water, I wrap them in a towel.

  She doesn’t meet my eyes as she begins to speak. “Your driver told the truth but, when I got in the limo, I believed he would give me a ride to my house, not yours. When he locked the doors, I was too afraid to speak.”

  I stand, taking the dirty water and damp towel back to the bathroom before asking, “Why? Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “No. But after what I had been through, I couldn’t be sure of his intentions. The idea of him trying to keep me from exiting the car was enough to paralyze my body and fill my mind with all kinds of horror.”

  I feel the tension crawling up my neck. Before I make the inquiry, I know whatever she tells me is going to send my insides into a rage. The mere thought of anything or anyone hurting her twists my guts into knots of rusted, jagged metal. “What had you been through?”

  Her face turns a crimson red. Embarrassment deeply etches her pretty cheeks. “Two months ago, I was taken by Foras, a member of the Rolling Lucifers biker gang.”

  It’s all I can do to control the seething fury boiling the blood in my veins as she recounts the abduction and every seedy, filthy, disgusting detail of her captivity. When she finishes, as gently as I can, I rub an antibiotic ointment infused with a numbing agent into her feet. As I bandage them with sterile gauze, my hands shake with the need to murder every one of those bike-riding bastards.

  Looking into her big, fearful eyes, I try to offer her some words of comfort. “Nothing like that will ever happen to you here. I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not simple-minded like Fernando, so why the lack of comprehension?”

  “Can’t you see how painful it is for me to be taken twice and held captive some place I don’t want to be? I want to go home. I will concede your driver didn’t have any bad intentions, but the result is the same.”

  “It most certainly is not. So far, I have done nothing but be cordial and hospitable. I’ve tended your wounds, and the moment Alice arrives, I will feed you. You have not been harmed in any way, and you most definitely have not been brutally abused. You would agree with all of that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You said, ‘so far.’ What happens later when you decide you want to fuck me raw? When I refuse you, will you beat and starve me?”

  “Damnation, woman!” I bellow, knifing my fingers through my hair. “I give you my word. You will always be safe with me.”

  “Always? Because you will never let me go?”

  I drop down onto the settee, feeling utterly drained. “I can’t release you, little Täubchen. You and I are strangers to each other. I have no way of knowing if I can trust you.”

  “Trust me with what?”

  “Fernando’s fate.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Voss.”

  I clasp my hands between my knees and take a deep breath. Somehow, there is no longer enough oxygen in this room. “Have you ever heard of the three-strikes law?”

  “Sure. It’s been a big source of controversy here in California for years. But what does it have to do with you not setting me free?”

  “Fernando already has two strikes against him. If I let you go and you report him to the police, saying he locked you in the limo and brought you here, he could go to jail for life. I cannot and will not let that happen.”

  She scoffs. “Why would you protect a known criminal, a repeat offender?”

  “Because one of his strikes came as a result of him taking the blame for one of my crimes.”

  She gasps. “Great. So not only was I kidnapped by a bunch of belligerent bikers, I am now being held prisoner by criminals in a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere until when? Until I die? Until Fernando dies? Tell me, Tretan! Don’t I deserve to know that much?”

  Even though I am sitting, the sound of my first name on her lips sends me reeling so hard, I nearly hit the floor.

  Doing my best not to shout at her, I say through a clenched jaw, “Never call me Tretan again. If you do, I will make those demon bikers look like spotless saints.”

  She trembles so hard the hem of the black negligee she is wearing flutters like leaves on a strong breeze. Her breath hitches, and her words come out in a stutter, “P-please answer my questions.”

  “You’ll stay here until I say you can leave.”

  Alice’s tentative knock at the door makes both of us jump. When she enters, she sets the tray of food on the foot of the bed well within reach of the beauty I just snapped at.

  Quietly, she says, “Thank you, Alice. Everything looks yummy, but I’ve lost my appetite.”

  My temper flares again. “You may go, Alice.”

  When she reaches for the tray to take it away, I growl, “Leave it.”

  Ashen-faced, she quickly makes her departure while I turn my attention back to the maddening woman on my bed. It’s all I can do to keep the muscle in my jaw from working into a cramped knot.

  Pushing off the settee, I stand and give my lighthouse guest a look which absolutely allows no room for argument. “You don’t have to clean your plate, but I insist you try a bite of everything. All of it is delicious. And no matter what you say, I know you’re hungry.”

  She sighs heavily as if debating whether or not to obey. The tangible fingers of fear I provoked are still tangled around her elegant throat, but she somehow manages to look me directly in the eye while asking, “How do I know this food hasn’t been poisoned?”

  “You don’t. But I assure you it hasn’t. I’m rather partial to the idea of keeping you alive.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ever how long it pleases me. Now eat.”

  “Are you going to stand there and stare, Mr. Voss?”

  I’d like nothing more than to watch her wrap her pretty, pink lips around that fork. To see the pleasurable expression on her face when she takes that first bite. To hear her moan the moment her taste buds explode beneath those flavorful, culinary delights. But I know she doesn’t want me around right now.

  I offer her a small but sincere smile. “No, Täubchen. I won’t watch you. I get the distinct feeling it would make you uncomfortable. And whether you believe it or not, your comfort is most important to me. I’ll be the one in the shower if you need anything,” I say, turning on my heel and walking to the bathroom.

  Once inside, I close and lock the door. At this very minute, I need as much space and privacy as she does if not more. Quickly, I strip off my clothes and step into a spacious, maroon and tan, ceramic-tiled stall with frosted-glass doors. I adjust the water to a tepid temperature, grab some earthy-scented body wash, suds it along the length of my painfully-hard cock and fist it to within an inch of its life. It takes all of thirty seconds for me come like a wild man who is out of his mind with a feverish lust.

  Normally, I deny myself any form of sexual pleasure or release. I don’t deserve those things either. Jerking off like a teenager tonight isn’t about me so much as it is about her. I intend to keep my promise. To not touch her or hurt her. Taking the edge off is the only way I can stay true to my word. My desire to possess and devour the woman perched on my bed burns me up from the inside out like the flames of a thousand fires. I need to be in complete control when I walk back into that room.

  Chapter Five

  Nora Adams

  ONE BITE OF EVERYTHING isn’t nearly enough. For two months I endured a steady diet of slop, eating a collage of leftover crumbs from the bikers. Most nights they slid a dirty, paper plate piled with greasy remnants of old pizza crust, cold French fries and half-eaten jerky under the door of my cage. It was so disgusting, I had seriously considered trying to starve myself to death but, for some reason, I couldn’t do it. Self-preservation always kicked in. If I had known my survival and escape would have placed me in another priso
n, albeit a much cleaner, prettier one, I might have had an easier time shoving those paper plates back in their evil faces.

  The feast spread before me now is as fine as any you would find in a fancy restaurant. I have no doubt Alice prepares these types of meals for Tretan all the time. Just silently thinking his name scares the shit out of me. As I chew a bite of moist, tender, perfectly-seasoned prime rib, I can’t help but think how strange it is for anyone to so strongly detest their first name that the mere sound of it would bring on threats of violence. How can he expect me to trust him and believe his promise to do me no harm if uttering a forbidden word can bring the wrath of hell down on my head?

  Fernando called him Boss or Mr. Voss, and Alice called him Sir. As I savor the creamy, mashed potatoes with gravy and decadently sautéed green beans, I wonder what his lovers call him. Then I wonder why I would even think of such a thing. Digging into the spicy, aromatic apple pie, the answer coats and clings to the tip of my tongue right along with the sweet, gooey filling. The idea of him making love to other women on the very bed I am sitting on makes me both angry and jealous.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I’m strongly attracted to the mysterious, insanely-sexy and virile owner of this lighthouse. The realization is totally shocking. The very thought downright preposterous. I never believed I could ever desire another man again, especially not one I’m positive is lethal. Damn biology! The same innate force that drove me to survive is the same one responsible for my being drawn to the powerful magnet that is Tretan Voss.

  With the last morsel gone and the last drop of the tea and hot chocolate drunk, I pick up the empty tray, hobble over to a magnificent, antique writing desk in the corner and set it down. As I’m making my way back to the bed, the bathroom door swings open. A warm cloud of steam billows out like a soft, mystic fog, blanketing the ocean after a hot, humid rain storm.

  With an arrogant smirk painted across his lips, he eyes the empty plate, saucer and cups. His cocky expression irritates me. Before he can make a remark about my inhaling all the food and beverages, I go on the offensive.