Page 17 of Rogue
The crowd erupts with cheers.Jaxson. Jaxson.Not one of them is rooting for me.
My victory is going to taste all the better.
Except Jaxson’s rooting for me, his actions prove it. He didn’t have to throw down his rope or take care not to hurt me. Still, I’m puzzled as to why. Sure he’s aiming to get inside my panties. Yeah, he’s a smooth-talking stud with a potty mouth that rivals his dirty, sinful body. Maybe there’s something to be said about lust at first sight. But whatever the reason, it has me thinking that together, Hell Camp might turn out being a sweet slice of heaven.
Tightening my fist, I pull back my arm then, using my body weight, send a punch straight into his face. Not aiming at his nose—although breaking it would have given me more credibility. Instead I hit his cheek, just below the eye.
He stumbles back and, giving a performance that would earn him a star on Hollywood Boulevard, tumbles back onto the mat. Acting like I’ve done him serious damage when anyone with their head screwed on correctly would know I barely hurt him.
Still, Hayden speaks. “I’ve seen enough. There’ll be a ten-minute break then we’ll finish up with the individual fights. And, for Christ’s sake, someone crank up the air-conditioning.”
I don’t budge, but stand there, staring down at Jaxson. Thinking about him. Thinking about the possibility of us.
But first things first. “Jaxson,” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t drink the water.”
4
Paris
My pillow smells like him.
I nuzzle in closer, inhaling the familiar woodsy, lemony scent. I never asked Jaxson about it, if he spent his days outdoors then washed up with a lemon-infused artisan soap, its fragrance never failing to turn me on. Except for now, when all I feel is emptiness.
I never meant to hurt you.
My pain is ever so present. Like a horrible case of static cling, constantly sticking with me and, with every movement, every gesture, every inhalation of breath, shooting tiny, incessant pings of pain straight to my heart. Wincing, I roll onto my back and, ignoring the numbness caused by my bound wrists, push myself into a seated position on the mattress.
I take in my surroundings. A chair’s been pulled up next to the bed and a black ski mask now occupies the space. It’s dusk and part of the bedroom is cast in darkness, the natural light fading as the sun sets over Paris. I’m alone; no sound comes from the adjacent bathroom. The fact that this hotel room has an attached bathroom, and not the standard shared amenities Europeans are accustomed to, tells me my kidnapper’s pockets are line with greenbacks and it’s likely he’s an American. In addition to my wrists, my ankles are bound. An amateur job at best.
Not Diego then.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I test my bonds, but a wave of dizziness spreads over me. I’m forced to close my eyes. When I open them, I spy something familiar lying at the foot of the bed. What the hell? My stomach rumbles in protest as my eyes narrow on a familiar empty patisserie wrapper. This amateur’s eaten my croissants.
I allow my legs to drop off the side of the mattress. Pins and needles shoot up my legs as the tethers cut sharply into my ankles and cut off circulation. More proof I’ve been unconscious for some time. Damn chloroform. So much for an afternoon of sunshine and snapping selfies before the Eiffel Tower. Like any other normal tourist.
Yeah, who am I kidding.
Still this dumb ass’s lame antics amuse me. Call me perverse, whatever. In seconds, I’ve freed my hands and am efficiently working on the last of the simple knots he’s tied. It’s almost as if he wants me to break free.
Be careful what you wish for. Because I’ve no ambitions toward escape. Whoever he is, chances are he’s got answers for me. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll lead me one step closer to Novák. Yeah, one step—two might be expecting too much from the man.
Did he really save me from Novák’s men? Or was it some kind of power play. Battle of the Pricks—which one can keep a good woman down?
I stand, shake out my legs, coil both ropes up in two tidy rolls and place them on the chair, then begin my search of his room. Looking for clues, wondering if he’s a friend or foe.
Francis is your onlyfriendright now, I remind myself. And as the expression goes, with friends like him, who needs enemies. Is it a coincidence that I speak with him for less than five minutes and then viola, Novák’s men are on me?
I shake off my rage, storing it away for a better time to give in to it, while I consider the room.
For an amateur, the room is remarkably tidy. No clothing, except the mask. No toiletries except for two small complimentary bottles of shampoo and a bar of soap—which I immediately take a whiff of. Lavender. Merciful lavender.
Pulling the heavy drapery aside, I stare out at the city below. The room’s a few stories up. Impossible to jump to the cobblestone sidewalk below without breaking bones. The building’s facade has a horizontal strip of balconies to my right and to my left, staggered one story up and one story down. I frown. For an amateur, he’s selected his room well.
Lights blink off in the distance, the Eiffel Tower wishing me good night. That, or it’s giving me the middle finger. How many lovers’ trysts have happened there? Marriage proposals?I love yous?
