Gone With the Wolf (5 page)

Chapter Six

Emelia smelled the doughnuts before she saw them. Her stomach rumbled, and for a split second she’d forgotten everything: the biker, the attack, Drake.

She gasped, shooting out of bed. Good Lord, it wasn’t even her bed. It was a steel-poster king-size bed built for a mammoth. The black-cherry covers had been folded back and the satin sheets had been pulled up. Someone had covered her.

Instinctively, Emelia clutched at her chest. Beneath her hands, her ribs were sore and tender to the touch, but a tank top covered her breasts and pants covered her bottom. She was still dressed.

Thank God
.

Where the hell was she? The room was cloaked in shadow, with heavy drapes covering the entire wall on the left side of the room. A flat-screen television—had to be at least a 90-inch, the biggest she’d ever seen outside of a theater—was mounted on the wall in front of her, and below that was a small table filled with breakfast goodies.

Towers of pancakes, an opened box of doughnuts, plates full of bacon and sausage, and—heavenly Keurig above—coffee ripped Emelia out of bed. She scrambled to the table, shoved the first cup she spotted under the Keurig machine and punched
brew
. The lapping sound of coffee hitting porcelain made her stomach clench into a hard fist.

How long had it been since she’d eaten? She was starving…and determined to mow down the entire breakfast spread before someone opened the door and caught her. She shoved a doughnut into her mouth, chomped away, and chased it with a taste of coffee. If she was going to get out of here, wherever “here” was, she would need her strength. Yup, that was it: doughnuts plus coffee equaled strength. She’d always been killer at math.

She groaned, savoring the sticky glaze of the doughnut, as someone knocked on the door. Nearly choking down the food, Emelia frantically searched for a way out. Windows? Bathroom? Could she fit under the bed?

“Emelia, you awake?”

Drake.

“Mmeah,” she fumbled with a mouthful. “But donncomein, I’mmnotdecent.”

The knob turned anyway. Damn it. Emelia dropped the mangled doughnut on the table, set down the coffee, and wiped her mouth with sticky fingers.

Drake strode inside the room and flicked on the light, stopping when their eyes met. Emelia felt like a deer in headlights, frozen when every instinct in her body should’ve been screaming at her to scramble out of there. He wore dark dress pants slung low on his hips and a steel-gray dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves and unbuttoned to mid-chest. Ripples of tan muscle bulged beneath the shirt, leading to biceps that might’ve been bigger than her thighs. He seemed to flex and tighten under the weight of her stare.

The sheer size of him, and the way he stood so stoically as if he didn’t know what to say, brought memories of the night in front of the Knight Owl raining down.

“What happened?” Emelia fired. “Where am I?”

“You’re at my place. I hope you slept all right.” He paused, staring at her face, her lips, then reached out for her mouth. “You’ve got—”

She flinched, not trusting a single move he made. “What are you doing?”

“You’re…” His eyes squinted to dark and stormy slits. Drake swiped his tongue over his bottom lip and reached out hesitantly. “You’ve got something…”

“What?” She backed away, rubbing her bottom lip, her cheek. “Spit it out.”

His stony demeanor cracked as a smile curved his lips. “You’ve got a glaze mustache.”

Disaster.
Drake was drop-dead gorgeous, and wore business attire in his own damn home. Emelia was a doughnut-slathered, hyperventilation-prone bartender, wearing the same clothes from last night. They were in two completely different leagues. The unevenness of their pedestals had never been clearer.

Wait, she scoffed to herself, who cared if Drake was once nominated as
Forbes
Businessman of the Year? He’d shot down the biker on the street like it was nothing!

Emelia smothered her lips with a napkin. “Better?”

Drake nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and took a giant step back. “I didn’t mean to disturb your breakfast. I thought I heard stirring up here and came to take a look.”

She swiped her hands on her jeans and licked the last traces of sugar from her lips. Drake’s eyes seemed to darken, shadowing from brown to matte black.

“I’m done eating anyway,” Emelia said curtly, humiliated that she’d slept in Drake’s bed and eaten his food. She should be at her place, in her own bed, rummaging through her fridge for something that wasn’t stale. “What am I doing here?”

“Saturday night, after I left your bar, I came home and did some work, then decided that I wanted to see you home after all.” He brewed a cup of coffee for himself and settled into the plush leather chair in the corner. “Mr. Bloomfield drove me back, and I did business in the backseat until you closed for the night. I got so absorbed in the stock roll that I didn’t see you lock up. I didn’t know what was happening until you came barreling out of the parking lot.”

“What…
did
happen?” She needed to hear the words from his lips before she went ape-shit.

He tapped the edge of his mug. “What do
you
think happened?”

“Some of the details are a bit fuzzy, but I remember some biker dude wanted to use my phone, and I remember seeing him leap on top of my car.” She shuddered at the creepy mental image. As she tried to sift through the haze of the rest of the night, Emelia mindlessly picked up another doughnut and settled on the edge of the bed. Her side ached, just below her hip. She rubbed the spot, then met Drake’s guilt-ridden gaze. “Something bit me right before I zonked out.”

“I should explain.” He took a deep, labored breath. “I used a very mild tranquilizer dart to put you to sleep.”

“You…
what
?”

“You were panicking when I needed you to stay calm. I had to get out of there quickly and knew you’d ask a ton of questions and slow our escape.”

“So you
drugged
me?” As white-hot pulses of anger surged through Emelia’s veins, she chucked the doughnut at Drake’s head. He dodged it effortlessly, causing it to splat against the wall behind him. “Who does that? Are you sick? Do you belong to some Seattle-based mafia?”

“I’m sorry, Emelia.” Sucker looked sincere with his plush, downturned lips. “I swear I’ll never do anything like that again. I’m not mafia of any kind, and you were never in any danger.”

Emelia’s insides squirmed—she had to move. She plopped down her coffee cup on the makeshift buffet before striding out of the room. “You didn’t roofie the coffee, did you?”

“I’m not a creep,” Drake said, following her down the brightly lit hall. “I did what I had to do to protect you and get you out of there. I’m not going to slip something into your drink to have my way with you while you’re unconscious.”

“Wouldn’t put much past you now,” she snapped.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, Emelia looked right, down a hallway lined with marble figures. Looked left, down another hallway just as elegant as the other. She’d stepped out of Drake’s bedroom and right into the Louvre. She hadn’t remembered seeing such elegant masterpieces the night of the office party—he must’ve had his valuables moved out. Golden blankets of sunshine spilled through the massive skylights, casting favorable light over his entire great room. Artwork in gold-trimmed frames and elaborate tapestries covered the walls while knights in full armor seemed to guard every closed hallway door.

“Do you honestly believe I’m capable of something like that?” Drake followed her winding flight down the stairs, his hand sweeping over the banister moments behind hers. “If you’d slow down a minute we could clear some things up.”

Emelia couldn’t stop. She had to move so she could think straight. What was she implying, anyway? That Drake slipped something in her coffee so he could have his way with her?

On the outside, Drake masterfully played the part of a lying, shrewd businessman. But Emelia got the feeling that it was a show, a staged front to hide a warm vulnerability beneath the chilly persona. There had to be more to Drake than an expensive suit and a multibillion-dollar business.

No matter how much she disliked his business practices, she knew he wouldn’t take advantage of her physically. It was female intuition. A sixth sense. She trusted her gut, which meant she trusted him. On some level.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t think you’d stoop that low.”

She charged around a marble statue at the foot of the stairs—a woman lying on the ground, with a fanged beast gently cradling her from behind.

Fangs.
Last night, hadn’t she seen…hadn’t Drake’s teeth looked…abnormal?

Stopping as if she’d seen a ghost, Emelia spun around and nearly crashed into Drake’s chest. His teeth were perfectly straight and brilliantly white. Probably veneers. The shock from the whole incident, mixed with the rain and the panic episode, must’ve screwed with her vision.

“You can accuse me of being a ruthless businessman, and I might even agree with you on certain occasions,” he said.

Finally,
an admission of Drake’s callous business practices; now they were getting somewhere.

“But I’d never push myself on a woman.”

The vein on his neck fluttered madly, capturing Emelia’s interest. He seemed so calm and controlled, like a steadily rolling storm, yet his heart was racing. She’d been right in her assessment of him—Drake hid beneath a stoic, controlled image even though passion roiled beneath the surface. Emelia bet that if someone studied Drake long enough, they would get to know all his tells. If he wanted to keep his fortune, Emelia thought, he should stay far away from the poker tables.

“Women deserve to be treasured and treated with respect,” he said, as Emelia continued to study the telling vein. She got the feeling he whispered from a dark, secret part of his soul. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you think I could do something like that, even for a second.”

Then and there, Emelia got one thing straight. Drake had passion for the words he spoke. He hadn’t studied the
Romancing Women for Dummies
handbook that her ex-fiancé had apparently lived by, where a guy was allowed to say anything to get a woman in the sack. The gleam in Drake’s eyes was hard, yet honest. As though he’d never whispered words holding more truth. Drake was a different breed. A rare creature in the social jungle—a man who stood up for a woman, despite her calling him evil a week earlier.

He was an accomplice to murder, Emelia reminded herself, and the man who would put her out of business. How could she forget so easily? Seemed the more she stared into his dark, brooding eyes, the more he made her forget the reason she was here.

“Sleaze or not,” Emelia said, desperate for fresh air, “there was no reason for you to get all stabby on my thigh. We should’ve already been at the police station reporting what happened.”

She turned her back on him and marched around a set of leather couches to the opposite end of the great room. Even though she’d put space between them, Drake’s gaze bore into her back, heating her through and through. He slid behind her insanely fast, grabbed her hand, and spun her around.

“We can’t go to the police. The report will become public record. Do you know what the media would do to me if they got wind of the situation? They’d twist the story into some kind of bar fight that spilled into the street.”

Of course they would. It’s what the media always did. Rat-race journalism had sprouted horns over the last few years, and from what Emelia could recall from Seattle’s past headlines, they’d never had any dirt on Drake Wilder, rumored playboy. They would probably kill for details about a drunken bar fight, especially if they had the 411 from a “reliable source.” If Emelia wanted to royally screw Drake over, this was the chance she’d been waiting for. His reputation would swirl down the tubes.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t destroy everything he’d worked for in one quick swoop, then pretend it wouldn’t bother her in the slightest to do so.

She wasn’t like him.

“The media couldn’t twist anything if I told them how I was attacked by that guy, and how you saved me,” she said quietly, taking back her hand. Tingly sensations lingered on her palm, flittering through her fingers and up her arm. She rubbed her hand on her jeans. Drake noticed, watching the swiping movement with grimly lit eyes.

“You think your statement would matter?” His voice lowered to a flat calm. “The media are in the money business, not the truth business.”

Emelia folded her arms, hardening herself for a possible confession. “What happened to the biker?”

“Mr. Bloomfield took care of him,” Drake said simply.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t have to worry about that guy, or anyone else, attacking you ever again. Mr. Bloomfield ran his background and discovered that he had a dozen warrants out for his arrest. We simply helped capture a wanted felon. Your attacker is behind bars at this very moment.”

“Oh.” Tension eased from Emelia’s shoulders. She took comfort in the fact that she’d been wrong—Drake hadn’t killed the biker. He wouldn’t be charged with murder and she wouldn’t have to testify about the attack in some godawful trial. To top it off, the greaseball wouldn’t be attacking any other women in the future. “Well, that’s…good, I guess.”

Did the fact that her attacker was a felon make Drake any less shady for what he did? He protected her though, didn’t he? And he clearly hadn’t taken advantage of her, which he totally could have while she was knocked out. Maybe his motives were truly genuine. And maybe the sickeningly wealthy lived under the radar like this all the time, handling things quickly and efficiently so the media wouldn’t be able to dig up any dirt.

“You hit the steering wheel pretty hard,” he said. “How do your ribs feel?”

“They don’t hurt much.” Absentmindedly, Emelia touched her stomach, just below her breasts. Twinges of hollow, aching pain echoed through her. Sucking in a shallow breath, Emelia looked down and for the first time noticed a purple bruise forming on her chest, just below the lacy ridge of her tank top. “Shit, guess I hit harder than I thought.”