Page 2 of Fatal Collision
Gold-framed landscape paintings line the walls as I rush down another hallway. The mansion is a winding maze that’s easy to get lost in, and I soon lose count of how many rooms I peek into before I finally hit the jackpot.
Bingo.
A smile curls on my lips, and my heart beats harder as I enter the large room.
It’s widely known that Mr. Ravencourt is a collector of rare, valuable items, and just one of these ornaments is worth more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.
How nice it would be not to worry about billsanymore. Our family deserves a break for once, and maybe Chris will stop being so angry if he doesn’t have to worry about where our next meal is coming from or what will happen to Mom when we can no longer afford her treatment. The responsibility of being the eldest weighs heavily on his shoulders, especially now that our dad is drowning his sorrows in alcohol at the local bar every night instead of holding down a job.
Don’t get me wrong. Dad has never been easy to live with because of his alcoholism and the effect it has on his temper, but he’s still our dad… and he’s the only parent we have left.
Life sucks.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the room and pick up the first thing I see—a small ornament with a gold rim and intricate carvings—sliding it into my shoulder bag. There’s no time to think about the implications or how low I’ve stooped. Robbery was never something I would choose for myself, but life fucked me over one too many times, and now survival is all I know. Besides, Mr. Ravencourt won’t really miss these items. Why would he? He’s too busy making money and being part of some rumored secret society to notice that a few of his ornaments are missing.
My heart is racing as I cram as many items into my bag without letting it overflow. The adrenaline makes me feel lightheaded, but my focus remains razor sharp. I cannot mess this up.
“What do you think you’re doing?”The deep,rumbling voice cuts through my thoughts like a sharpened blade, and my heart stops beating altogether.
TWO
JESSICA
Kane Ravencourt leans up against the doorframe with his ankles crossed and arms folded over his broad chest.
I already know from seeing him around town on the odd occasion that he’s big and stacked with muscle, but those quick glimpses didn’t do his impressive size justice.
Kane stands like a nightmare dressed in expensive cologne and unwavering confidence. He’s tall, easily 6'4", with styled hair darker than the night and cold blue eyes. His white shirt is crisp, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing veined forearms and a quiet strength. The fabric is tailored perfectly and hugs his broad shoulders, while his dark pants are sharply pressed, ending just above polished oxfords that catch the light.
An expensive watch rests on his wrist,a sleek statement piece that reminds you that you’re beneath him. Everything about him is effortless, calculated and dangerous, and I should get out of here while I still can.
I swallow hard, trying to think of an excuse, but let’s face it. I’ve been caught with my fingers in the cookie jar.
Kane’s raised eyebrow demands a reply, and he tilts his head slightly as he waits me out.
I rack my brain for something to say or do, the bag heavy on my shoulder, but I can’t focus when that cold, calculating gaze dominates my attention effortlessly across the room. Maybe it’s the money talking, but Kane’s energy is bigger than the office. It’s a struggle to breathe when he stares at me like that.
“Thought you could help yourself?”
God, why does this man’s whiskey voice sound like it’s whispered directly in my ear like a delicious threat?
A shiver slithers down my spine like a lingering caress before I can stop it, and I have to physically shake away the image of his fingers on my spine.
What’s going on? I’ve never been this affected by a man before. Power and wealth don’t impress me. But the way Kane demands submission just by looking at me, as if he wants to tear me apart, piece by piece, until I’m exposed and vulnerable at his feet for him to crush beneath his gleaming oxfords, makes sweat bead on my neck.
When I fail to respond, a dimple appears in his cheek, and he shuts the door and flips the lock.
There’s no escape… no other doors except the one behind him.
“It seems I caught a little rabbit.” His deep voice carries across the vast space, as cold as his arctic gaze. I inch back when he takes a predatory step forward, followed by another one. We dance around the room, matching each other’s movements.
He’s herding me, I realize, when my hip bumps against the desk, so I quickly move behind it to create a barrier between us.
That sinful dimple in his cheek deepens, though there’s no humor or warmth in his smile.
It’s predatory.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
