Manhattan Master (5 page)

Jesse Joren

Copyright © 2015 Jesse
Joren

ISBN-10: 1512141550

ISBN-13: 978-1512141559

All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner
whatsoever without prior written permission from the author. Brief
quotations for critical articles and reviews are
excepted.

This is a work of fiction. Names,
places, characters, etc. are either created by the author or used
in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real-life persons,
situations, etc. is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

Tonight I've committed
serious crimes. Quite a few, actually, but no one is better than me
at not getting caught. Sometimes the only way to set things right
is to break every rule.

Darkness has folded around
me like the old friend it is. Soon she'll be home, but she doesn't
know I'm here. By now I know her habits almost better than my
own.

She thinks she's a free
spirit without patterns, but everyone believes that. Realizing that
common mistake made my fortune. Exploiting it gives me
power.

Finding her has taken a
lot of time and expense. She's worth it, but she doesn't know that
either. Everything is about to change for you, Evangeline
Bright.

Yes, I know your real
name. I know everything you hid from me, and even from yourself.
Whatever I have to do – for you or to you – you're going to see
things my way.

Or else.

CHAPTER ONE

When I unlocked my apartment late that
Friday night, I stopped with my keys still swinging from my
hand.

Something was different.

A dim beam from the outer hallway
light cut into the darkness of my small living room. The deadbolt
had been locked when I pushed in my key. The security system had
beeped when I entered the code.

There was no back door to worry about.
My second-story windows were safe unless Spiderman had turned to a
life of crime.

Nothing was out of place. There was
silence except for the hum of the fridge and the ever-present throb
of Atlanta traffic.

It was all very ordinary. After two
years I knew every creak and every scent in every
corner.

But my guard was up. Way, way up.
Something was in the air that had nothing to do with my
life.

A primitive part of me suddenly spoke
up.

Run, Eva. Right now. Even
if you feel stupid later.

My mind fluttered for a logical
reason, found one, seized it with relief.

Maintenance had finally replaced the
carpet last month. It looked better, but there was still a faintly
unpleasant chemical after-smell.

How stupid to let that worry me. I was
getting paranoid at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

It's not the same, and you
know it.

"Stop being a chicken," I muttered,
reaching for the light switch.

Click-click-click. Nothing.

A shadow moved behind the door,
knocking it shut. A strong hand caught the back of my head as a
cloth covered my face.

Keen scent filled my nose and throat.
That was it. The thing that didn't belong here.

Fucking security system. I
want a refund.

That childish, useless thought
followed me into unconsciousness.

               

"Wake up, Eva."

Grayness was inside my head as I
considered that voice. Deep and male, a hint of rasp.

A cool curve of glass touched my dry
lips. Suddenly I was swallowing cold water on reflex.

The brain fog scared me. Something was
happening. Something bad. A single thought burst forward with
half-awake urgency.

Face. Don't…look
at…face…

I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I
could. Pressure starbursts bloomed behind my eyelids.

"I don't have a lot of money," I
croaked. "It's in the bathroom, taped under the sink. Just take it
and go. I didn't see your face."

His low chuckle stroked my
ears.

"I don't need your money. Or your car
keys. Or your jewelry, if those are your next offers. Open your
eyes. I'm not going to kill you."

The fog was fading faster as I woke
up. I was on my back in what felt like my bed. My arms were
restrained over my head.

Oh hell. This wasn't good.

"If I wanted you dead, you already
would be," he said mildly.

He had a point there. Slowly I let my
eyes open.

My bedroom was undisturbed, mostly
dark. Light from the kitchen sent a glow down the short hallway and
into the room.

It was all very normal except for the
dark shape sitting next to me on the bed. Even in the dimness, he
radiated power.

"I'm going to turn on the light," he
said.

"Don't do that, I—"

The bed shifted as he leaned to click
on the small bedside lamp. Forty watts had never seemed so bright,
making me wince as my familiar room came into focus.

Then, against my better judgment, my
gaze touched his face.

His steady gray eyes held no
particular expression as they studied me. Short, dark blonde hair.
Skin that looked tanned, though it was hard to tell in the
semi-dark.

The lamp side-lit his face,
accentuating its strong, lean lines. He was almost beautiful, but
his expression was just a shade too serious to allow
perfection.

His mouth was well-shaped, firm. The
type of lips that can be stern or sensual, depending on the mood of
their owner.

Controlled power was outlined in his
broad shoulders and chest under the fit of his dark T-shirt. His
arms were lean and seemed to ripple with cords of muscle, even
though he wasn't moving.

He made no move to touch me. He just
watched as I took stock of him, of my situation.

The light confirmed what I already
knew. I was in my bed, arms tied over my head.

Glancing down, I saw that I was still
wearing my gray Braves T-shirt and my worn panties, once a pretty
shade of cobalt blue. The rest of my clothes were gone.

Since he wasn't saying anything, it
seemed like it was up to me. My voice surprised me with its
calm.

"We don't know each other. Let's keep
it that way. You don't even have to untie me. Just take my money
and leave. I'll get loose once you're gone."

He chuckled again, a rumble in his
throat.

"I already told you. I'm not here for
money."

Attorneys advise not asking questions
unless you know the answer. But I'm no attorney, just a
damn-awesome receptionist in one of the best legal offices in
Atlanta.

"Then what is it you want?" I blurted,
testing whatever held my hands. It was soft, firm, and
tight.

A tiny smile crinkled the corners of
those mesmerizing eyes.

"You," he said simply.

A short silence followed. Inside I
cussed at myself for asking such a stupid, dangerous
question.

He went on, saving me from a
response.

"You're wrong. We do know each other,
quite well. My real name won't mean anything to you, at least not
yet."

"Call me what you always have.
Hex."

Hex.

I'd never heard that name said out
loud, not even by me. It was the passport to my secret life. The
one I manifested on my computer or phone, dismissing it at my
will.

My eyes raked him again. Somehow he
didn't look like a man who would be easily dismissed.

"Bullshit," I said. The tremble in my
voice robbed the word of power.

"Really? Who else would know that,
Cherry-on-the-Bottom?"

A hot flush stained my throat and
face.

"You could be anyone," I said,
mustering all the contempt possible while not wearing pants. "Any
little jerk can swipe an online account. Didn't some kid take down
the Canadian power department?"

"Tax department, but yes he did.
You're right to demand proof. The real Hex would have something to
prove he wasn't a two-bit hacker who decided to stalk
you."

Reaching to the floor by the bed, he
came up with a dark nylon backpack.

"Did you think I was joking about my
bag of tricks?" he asked with a little grin. "Well, here it is. The
one at home holds more interesting things, but this travels
better."

"That doesn't mean anything," I said.
"If you hacked the account, you saw the conversations."

Very plausible, very logical.
Elementary, my dear Watson. But deep inside, part of me
squirmed.

Holy hell.

Those oh-so-intimate exchanges about
that bag and what it theoretically held. Tricks of sensual torture
that had held me spellbound, a deviant side of me brought to dark
life.

"What you really need is something
that leaves no doubt about who I am. I just happen to have it," he
said.

As he reached into the bag, I
tensed.

Would he strangle me, cut me, burn me,
beat me? Something worse? Whatever it was, whoever he was, I wanted
no part of it here in the cold, practical light of my real
life.

I still wasn't prepared for what
emerged. Pale green, delicate, completely undeniable. A personal
instrument of torture worse than any I'd imagined.

He held it out to me. A handful of
fragile lace rested in his hard-looking palm, accusing me with its
dainty perfection.

"Something like this," he said. "I
asked for your scent, and this is what you mailed. Just before you
disappeared. Tell me what these are, Eva."

He knew very well what they were. So
did I.

Expensive Victoria's Secret panties
with the scent of a very intense orgasm on them. Used but never
worn, for one very obvious reason.

Those lace wisps were size two. On a
good day, I fill out a size eighteen. On a less good day, closer to
twenty. He'd half-stripped me while I slept, so there was no way
this fact could have escaped him.

Just one of the lies I'd told in the
process of making myself better. The way I should be.

"They came with this," he added,
unfolding a red Post-It note.

It was tattered and wrinkled, as
though handled many times. I didn't have to see it to know what it
said.

He read my words back to me
anyway.

Dear Hex – my scent, made
just for you.

I said your name when I
came.

Yours in all ways,
Cherry.

               

The room started to spin, and I closed
my eyes again. He was right. Undeniable proof.

There were plenty of real worries I
should have right now: robbery, rape, mutilation, murder. A man who
would do this was capable of anything.

Whatever screwed-up things it said
about me, I almost hoped for murder. Anything to erase the
humiliation of being exposed as the fraud I was.

How does that old saying
go? Things can always get worse. As it turned out, they
did. 

CHAPTER TWO

"Answer me," he said. "Do you
recognize these?"

My throat was too tight to speak. What
would I even say?

I wouldn't have sent them
if I'd known you're crazy.

You don't have to kill me.
Humiliation is doing that.

Maybe
just the ever-popular
go to
hell.

Keeping quiet seemed safest. I hoped
for a fire. An earthquake. A meteor strike. Anything to get me out
of this.

When nothing arrived, there was only
one thing left. I leveled my best go-to-hell stare at
him.

He brought the panties to his nose and
inhaled with unfeigned appreciation.

"It's faded, but still so goddamn
beautiful. You lied about these being yours. Is this really your
smell? Or did you pay someone to finish up your lie?'"

Whatever he saw in my expression made
him nod, as if I'd agreed with him.

"You got your proof," he said. "Now
I'm going to get mine."

The dim light played over the lines
and planes of his face. He'd said he was twenty-six, but there was
a control and tightness about him that made him seem
older.

"I knew from the first time we talked
that you weren't being straight with me," he said. "I just couldn't
tell where the line was. Some was truth, some was outright lies.
Like this."

His fingers traced the curve of my
cheek. Under that touch I froze, unable to pull away from him. This
must be how a mouse felt when a predator was closing in for the
kill.

"You lied to me about this. About what
you look like," he said. "You sent that picture, but it's not
really you. You didn't go to a cosmetic surgeon for change, just to
Photoshop."