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But as Ricardo rode through the streets of downtown, emptied out now that the business day was over, she realized what she had been missing.

  The air was cool and gentle on her body. All of her senses were engaged as the bike purred smoothly over the streets, easily absorbing the irregularities in the pavement. The lights of the shops and buildings seemed more vibrant, almost magical, sparkling in the darkness. As they reached the edge of downtown and crossed over into University Park, the scent of grilled meat from a taco truck mixed with the sounds of conversation and music from cars. Ricardo took a turn and her body thrilled to the swaying movement of the bike as she instinctively held him tighter, pressing her cheek to the linen of his jacket and inhaling his faint scent.

  She felt alive, connected with the night in a way she never could be in a car or even on foot, and her body responded eagerly to the gentle swaying of the bike as it navigated turns and lane changes. When Ricardo spoke over the sound of traffic to ask if she was doing all right, she surprised herself by answering, “Faster. Go faster.”

  He was taking a long and circuitous back route to the Hollywood Hills, through the dense low-income neighborhoods to the south, the roads challenging and less well maintained. The bike absorbed the broken pavement and heavy traffic without complaint, but as Ricardo neared Franklin Canyon and traffic thinned, the engine’s sound changed. Its purr turned to a powerful buzz, as though the bike itself was thrilled to be breaking free, as though it wanted to show Chelsea what it could do.

  Faster, faster they drove through the night, and Chelsea felt the vibration of the engine and the pavement racing by beneath the wheels. She was learning to lean into the curves along with Ricardo, as though their two bodies were one, responding together. She was becoming aroused, but unlike some coarse joke about the vibration between her legs, her body was responding to the stimuli of all of her senses, none more powerful than the feeling of Ricardo’s strong, broad back and splendid ass between her legs. She clenched her thighs more tightly around his, hoping he wouldn’t notice, wanting to feel the press of him against her cleft, to imagine the heat of his bare skin against her own as they climbed faster and faster up a hidden road that rose up out of the neighborhood and over the rocky terrain of the hill.

  But he did notice. How else to explain the fact that he accelerated again or shifted against her so that her pussy was jammed up against the back of him? If she had any doubt, his hand on her leg a second later would have stilled it. She was afraid enough of crashing that she wanted him to put his hand back on the handlebars, hyper-attuned to every oncoming car, every rock and branch that had fallen on the roadside. One mistake and they would go hurtling over the side, with no guardrail to protect them from a fall that could easily be fatal, and yet she stayed silent, choking back her protests only to have them interrupted by the moan that escaped her lips and was swallowed by the wind.

  His hand moved up her calf to the inside of her knee, his strong fingers kneading, moving higher. Her pussy unleashed its hot flow, her legs clamping spasmodically against him.

  When they reached the top of the hill and entered the neighborhood perched high above the city, he slowed and took his hand back, steering them onto a narrow, tree-lined street past houses where televisions flickered behind the windows, where people sat down to dinner and corrected homework and tucked children into bed. Chelsea was filled with a sense of rightness, of being exactly where she needed to be, and then she chided herself for forgetting that she was still in very real danger…and not all of it had to do with the threatening note left in her apartment.

  The man in front of her was dangerous too.

  She would have to be stupid to believe that Ricardo had merely handled the Soloniks’ art transaction. No legitimate art broker, much less an art authenticator, had the power to intimidate mobsters, and Chelsea knew enough about the Russian mafia to know just how ruthless they could be. The fact that Ricardo had managed to keep them away from the Soloniks spoke to his willingness to fight fire with fire. What had he done? Who had he threatened—perhaps even killed—to keep them safe?

  How had he provoked them? And why were they coming after her now?

  Because you’re his, a voice inside her insisted. Because they know that to hurt him, they must hurt what matters to him.

  The thought terrified her but also sent a thrill through her. She wanted to belong to him—at least her body, her aching pussy and her tingling nipples, her mouth and her fingertips and every other part of her body wanted to be his. But he had abandoned her weeks ago. She had heard nothing from him, not a single call or email or postcard. He wasn’t her boyfriend; he obviously cared so little about her that he hadn’t thought of her until the Soloniks had summoned him.

  The mob had gotten it wrong. They could have killed her tonight and barely advanced their threat against him. But let them think he cherished her if it meant this—that she would be coasting into the hidden, vine-covered drive of the little bungalow, into a night with Ricardo de Santos.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ricardo removed his jacket slowly, hanging it over the back of one of the carved-wood chairs around the rustic table. Chelsea sat in a leather-covered loveseat, conspicuously avoiding the comfortable brick-red sofa where, not so long ago, she had opened up to him about the horrors of her childhood, about the stepfather who had abused her.

  He busied himself opening a bottle of wine, a pinot noir from New Zealand. He poured a couple inches of the scarlet liquid into thick, handmade glass tumblers. But he did not go to her for a moment.

  He was stalling, damn it, and he wasn’t sure exactly why.

  His body was still electric with rage. Rage that the bratva had dared to affront him in this way, and absolute fury that they had threatened the security of Chelsea’s life. She wasn’t supposed to come into contact with the dangers that were part of the life he’d chosen. That was the bargain he had made with himself, and it had been a damn cruel bargain—giving up a chance to be with her again, in exchange for keeping her safe. There hadn’t been a night since he’d last been with her that he hadn’t woken from fevered dreams in which he held her, used her, drove her mad with need, and she him.

  He’d given up the first thing he’d truly wanted in many years, the first thing that had been able to stir the passions that he thought were frozen and sealed away forever. And it hadn’t been enough.

  But the bratva had no idea what they’d incited.

  The blood on his blade, the hard-fought justice he’d delivered in the past would be nothing compared with what he would rain down on them now. The botched exchange in Lima would soon be corrected; he would deliver justice to those responsible and tie up any loose threads. The killing of Anwar was one such loose thread, and Mairbek Alkhanov—the West Coast boss of the obschina, or Chechen mafia—would expect him to cut it, strangling the lifeblood of the rogue tentacle of the organization.

  Ricardo would correct the matter, though on his own terms, not Alkahnov’s. He would do his job, as ruthlessly and assiduously as ever. But the job would not take all of his time, especially because he had been living a solitary existence lately, eschewing the glittering international social circuit into which he had been drawn before, the women who called eagerly when they learned he was in town, the playboys who invited him to gamble at their casinos or join them at their nightclubs.

  Ricardo would work, and he would exact his revenge.

  Which left him with only one source of consternation.

  What to do with the woman tucked into the corner of the love seat, fear and stress making her want to disappear into herself? How to restore the vibrant life that once exuded from her, the scintillating brilliance of her laugh, the impudent toss of her hair that teased and tempted him to go further?

  He would not allow her light to dim. And on the motorcycle ride up to the bungalow, he sensed that underneath the fear she still burned bright. She’d loved the ride; he could feel it in the way she wrapped herself around him, the way she threw back her h
ead when he broke into the long open stretch of road and coaxed the bike to ever greater speeds. Her gasp as he’d taken a hairpin turn, followed by a gust of laughter that he could have gladly wrapped himself in.

  She’d reverted to caution, to fear, now that she was here in this room with him. He knew she was probably angry with him for disappearing after their last night together, for his silence. He couldn’t, perhaps, make her understand. But maybe he could break through that wall.

  He would lie to himself, convince himself it was for her own good, that by making love to her he was only refusing to let the threat on her life diminish her.

  But the truth was that the woman in his home was the salve for his own broken soul, and the time apart had done nothing to diminish his need for her.

  As he picked up the glasses of wine and regarded her, he finally acknowledged—hating himself for the danger he would expose them both to—that he needed her more than ever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chelsea sipped the wine, letting the liquid pool over her tongue and slide down her throat. It was delicious, complex and earthy, making her think of places and times she might never see: the European countryside where grapes had trellised the hills for centuries, the scarred and gnarled hands of the vintners who lovingly tended the vines.

  This was the effect Ricardo had on her—aside from the physical effects, of course—of making the world seem wider and more electric with possibility. Chelsea was grateful for the luck that, combined with her hard work, had given her a gallery of her own, a life in the heart of Los Angeles. But despite the fact that she moved among the glamorous inhabitants of the art world, her life was tightly controlled. Work, exercise, more work…and the bare minimum of errands needed to keep her apartment stocked and food on the table. Aside from the laundromat and the bank and the little grocery around the corner, she went weeks without going anywhere but the office…and, before she met Ricardo at any rate, nights in the beds of acquaintances and sometimes strangers that felt more like sustenance than love. Like blood transfusions, except that instead of life-giving plasma being delivered to her veins, her lovers gave her temporary relief from the fears and desires she worked so hard to keep tamped down.

  “The wine is to your liking?” Ricardo asked, bringing her out of her reverie and forcing her to lift her gaze from the glass. He stood above her, swirling the wine in his own glass, watching her. He had taken off his linen jacket, and his shirt cuffs had been folded precisely back, revealing the dark, curling hairs on his forearm…the tawny skin and sinewy muscle underneath.

  Chelsea caught her breath. She remembered the feeling of those arms wrapped around her. “It’s…nice,” she said, shakily.

  “Good. You may finish it if you like, but I prefer that you do so quickly.”

  She looked up. “Is there…are we going somewhere?”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound of his voice. “No. But I have other plans for you.”

  She took one more sip, buying time, and licked the wine from her lips. Why was he standing? He was making her nervous…and there were plenty of seats in the room. The speakers set into the wall—from which a piano sonata had played the last time she was here—now emitted the eerie, doleful sounds of a modern string quartet. The music was edgy, full of tension—perfectly echoing her own mood.

  “Do you remember everything we have done together? Intimately?” Ricardo asked.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Tell me, please. In order.”

  Where was he going with this? Chelsea set her glass down on the end table, then didn’t know what to do with her hands. For a wild second, she considered pulling him down next to her, just to end the tension of him towering over her like this—but instinctively she knew he would never allow her to make that move.

  The need inside her built, the hunger growing.

  “I went to your apartment and you—you, um, tied me. To a chair.”

  “Yes.” Ricardo’s voice was calm. “And then?”

  “Then you—you touched me. You used wax, you dripped a candle on me. On my skin. You used a knife to scrape it off. You…used your mouth on me.”

  “And did you like it?”

  She stiffened, unable to respond. Of course she had, he knew that. Her climaxes—both of them—had been thunderous, loud, inarticulate. Raw need and fierce satisfaction. He’d plunged his fingers inside her and tongued her clit, but only after he’d done other things.

  “I liked it,” she whispered.

  “You left some things out.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Very well. And the next time?”

  “We were…here.”

  “Yes. We had come from the party, where you’d been frightened by the paparazzi. But you are a brave woman, a strong woman, Chelsea. Only you need that courage to be balanced out; you need a strong man to give you a safe place to retreat. Isn’t that right?”

  She let a long moment pass before she nodded her head. “Yes,” she said in an even smaller voice.

  “But retreat is not the same as rest.”

  He put his hand to his belt and unclasped the fine silver buckle, continuing to talk while Chelsea’s throat went dry.

  “You do not need to be pampered, to be treated like an invalid,” he continued. “Of course, I owe you a special debt because I have inadvertently brought danger into your life. You must know that I regret that, Chelsea. I will do whatever it takes to punish those who dared threaten you. But this makes it all the more important that I also provide your refuge.”

  “Refuge,” Chelsea said softly, turning the word over in her mouth, the shape of it so comforting, so right. A place where she could feel safe—not just from the events of tonight but from all the stressors of her world, not least among them her horrendous past—seemed like an impossible dream. “I—I don’t belong anywhere.”

  Where had that come from? It was true—but it was a truth she kept hidden, even from herself. But Ricardo had a way of forcing the truth from her: her desires, her need. The things they’d done…the very dark, unspeakable things…had drawn her shame from her and then burnt it away.

  But it wasn’t through kindness. So when Ricardo cupped her chin gently and tipped up her face, she was confused—until he caressed her cheek with the hard, silver buckle that he held in his other hand.

  Her pulse quickened, and her pussy vibrated with need.

  “You know where you belong,” Ricardo said in a voice that was as hard as steel. “You know who you belong to. Say it.”

  “I…” She swallowed, hard.

  “It is my fault that I left you unattended,” Ricardo said. “I thought I was doing the right thing by cutting ties with you. I thought that would keep you safe. But it hasn’t, and now we must face that our lives are tied together. For endangering you, I apologize. But for the rest…”

  His hand slid down her neck until his fingers rested lightly around her throat, her hair falling against his arm. His skin was warm, and she could feel his pulse—strong and regular, unlike her own—through his fingertips.

  Then he tightened his grip.

  “For the rest I do not apologize. Nod if you understand me.”

  He wasn’t cutting off her air, not completely, but she could feel how vulnerable she was, how easily he could crush her windpipe or choke off her breath. But he would never do that. She knew it like she knew that outside, the moon was rising above the hills. She nodded, and he tightened his fingers further. Her hips rocked in response, and her legs parted of their own accord, traitors to her own will. Why it was erotic, she didn’t understand, but when he used his hand to lift her, never letting go of her neck, she stood on trembling legs.

  Now she was looking up into his unknowable eyes.

  “I did not empty my seed inside you yet,” Ricardo said. “I took your mouth because it is mine to take. I took your ass because it is mine to use as I please. Nod if you understand.”

  She didn’t hesitate this time, the memory of that
act imprinted on her mind, replayed a thousand times deep in the nights ever since. Fucking her deep and hard, using her, making her come with raucous, ungraceful abandon while he pounded her ass, something she’d never expected to be able to bear.

  She nodded vigorously.

  “I made you come.”

  There wasn’t any point to agreeing; they both knew it was true.

  “But I didn’t breed you, querida. I didn’t yet take your gorgeous cunt.” At last, he relaxed his grip, taking his hand from her throat and running his fingers gently through her hair. She breathed deeply, letting the air fill her lungs. “Do you know why?”

  “N-no.”

  “No…who?”

  She shuddered: how could she have forgotten, the suggestion that had been an order? “No, Sir.”

  He nodded. “Better, thank you. The reason I didn’t yet take you all the way is because I can’t—not without everything between us changing. And because I have not yet earned that right.” A look of pain flashed through his eyes. “I did not keep you safe. I did not protect you. And so, while I may control you, I have not yet earned the right to claim you. The distinction may seem a small one. But I assure you, it is not—not to me.”

  He let go of her hair, and it fell around her face, the strands brushing against her skin. Even that tiniest sensation was magnified in the aura of her breathless need. But his words had also had an effect on her.

  She didn’t know what he meant by things between them changing, but she also knew intuitively that despite the extreme nature of the sexual acts in which they had so far taken part, they were merely dancing around the edge of a cliff over which each had their own reasons not to fall. She had done things willingly with Ricardo that she’d never dreamed she would do with any man—and her lack of hesitation, her eagerness for more, almost frightened her.

  Whatever magic he held over her, it was more powerful than her own will. And now he was putting that connection into words, more masterfully than she could ever have done. Chelsea understood art: the paint on a canvas, the curve of a bronze or marble statue, these communicated emotion to her better than any other medium. Through her father’s work, she was certain she understood a man who had died when she was only a child.