The moment he’d walked in, all my resolve had faded.
But then the same strange man had walked in. He’d acted fidgety and…
Oh, my God.
The events began to spiral in my mind.
Pictures. Of me.
A masked man.
A gun held to my head.
Shots fired.
A fight.
Then… Anguish.
Pain swelled in my temple, my vision slightly blurry.
I was instantly paralyzed as another wave of terror rushed through me.
A slight vision shoved the others aside. I’d been in Sinclair’s arms. He’d carried me.
And the way he’d looked at me had been…
Predatory.
Possessive.
Shivering, I took several deep breaths before attempting to move to a sitting position, surveying the area around me, wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the covers. My shoes had been removed, both neatly positioned only a few inches away.Breathe and think. Pay attention. Wincing, I studied every inch of my surroundings. I’d been placed in what appeared to be a room in a house, the bedroom suite almost as large as my entire apartment. I shifted my hand to my aching head, realizing a bandage covered a portion of my forehead. Where the hell was I?
The man from the coffee shop. Oh, God, no. Wait. That wasn’t right. He’d left and…
Returned.
The pictures. I’d barely had a chance to look at them. Where was my phone? My purse? I almost panicked as I studied the room, seeing nothing that belonged to me. I had to will myself to keep from plunging into a panic attack.
Gunfire. Had Sinclair been shot?
My mind was far too jumbled, thoughts and images colliding together, making absolutely no sense.
Indiana. Where was my dog?
No. No. No. He was all alone.
For a beat, I was frozen with fear, my thoughts drifting to the possibility that the masked assailant had kidnapped me. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to picture the asshole’s face. After a few seconds, it came to me, the scarred man not nearly as terrifying as the look of hunger crossing Sinclair’s face.
I dared not move, doing little more than concentrating on my breathing. After what Tilly had told me, I’d gone home determined to find out everything I could about him. What I’d found had been a mixture of praise and condemnation.
He was adored by the female population, his life of luxury rivaling that of a movie or rock star. That had earned him a reputation as being a ladies’ man, a true playboy since he was rarely seen with the same woman twice. Various photographs all depicted him as a sharp dresser, his gorgeous face and muscular body taking center stage.
Yet even the photographs, as glossy and glitzy as they were, hadn’t done him justice. Just thinking about him brought another shiver and for an entirely different reason than waking up in strange surroundings.
There were articles on him written several years before, several depicting him as a true savage in his methods of business. While not one reporter had dared label him as a criminal or a killer, their words had alluded to the kind of criminal activity that should terrify anyone.
Was I trying to sugarcoat who and what he was in my mind? He killed people for a living. He destroyed lives, whether by the stroke of a pen or with a weapon.
