She swallowed — a careful movement to keep him from sensing the tight coil of fear in her belly. Just breathe. Slow and easy. He was smartly dressed. His appearance was not what one would expect to find in a slum. Indeed, his clothes looked pricy. Well-tailored. Which meant he had means and this chosen location was more of a carefully acquired lair than a place he’d picked for financial reasons.
Clever. If this house was indeed located in the heart of a slum, it was unlikely that law enforcement would come calling. Rather like building a castle surrounded by vermin-infested water.
O’Leary approached, slow and deliberate, until he stood directly before her. A whiff of his scent floated toward her. Peppermint, overshadowing hints of tobacco and gin.
His hand rose and Samantha’s heart leapt. More so in response to the feel of his palm as he placed it against her cheek. The touch brought her close to retching, but she held herself perfectly still. Reminded herself to breathe.
She would survive this.
“I’d forgotten how pretty you are,” O’Leary murmured, his voice like poison. His fingertips trailed down her cheek, to her chin, then down the front of her throat before falling away. “Croft is a lucky man.”
She suppressed a shudder. “He’ll come for me, you know.”
A snort of amusement. “Of course he will. In fact, I’m counting on it. Though not until I’m ready and certainly not until you and I are better acquainted.”
There was no mistaking what he meant. The promise of what she would have to endure unless she fought tooth and nail barreled through her while realization struck. Neither Jennings nor Murry had been told to inform Adrian of her location. O’Leary was in control. He wouldn’t let Adrian come for her until after he’d gotten what he wanted from her.
She had no choice. Not any longer. She had to try and get out of this mess no matter the risk to herself or the child. Anything less and she’d not be able to live with herself.
Chin raised, she stared O’Leary down. “My husband’s network is vast. He’ll figure out where you’re holding me and launch a surprise attack. By the time he’s through, you’ll pray for death to claim you.”
“So smug, so arrogant, so confident even though you’ve been caught in my snare.” He swept his gaze along the length of her body, and Samantha recoiled, earning a smirk that revealed the cruelty this man was capable of. “For an operative trained by Harlowe himself, I expected more, yet I’ve already gotten the upper hand on you twice.”
The mention of Harlowe caught Samantha off guard. Her mind whirled. How the hell would O’Leary know about that? This information went beyond looking into her background. It meant he was privy to data only a few people knew of. Someone must have talked. Maybe someone else looking for vengeance.
Sir Nigel Clemens, the former chief magistrate, maybe? Or possibly Viscount Carver, the former home secretary? He’d fled the country as far as she knew, but maybe he and O’Leary had been in touch.
“I can see that sharp mind of yours working to figure out how I know about Harlowe,” he said. “It’s an interesting story. Maybe I’ll share it with you one day. For now, however, I plan to keep you guessing.”
He leaned in as though meaning to whisper something next to her ear, and Samantha struck. Her head jerked forward, crashing straight into O’Leary’s skull while her knee came up into his groin. An anguished groan filled the room as he doubled over in pain.
Samantha shoved her way past him. The door was unlocked so opening it wasn’t hard, even with her hands at her back. Foulmouthed insults chased her as she swept out onto the landing. The stairs were right there and she started down them, cursing the length of her skirts which impeded her steps.
“Brian, Sean, Patrick! Stop her, damn you.” O’Leary’s fury exploded behind her.
She was halfway down the stairs when she leapt, at the same exact moment the massive brute entered the foyer. Her shoulder scraped his torso as she landed and twisted, directing herself toward the front door. It was so close, the path to freedom. But she already knew she wouldn’t make it.
And then the brute caught her hands and jerked her back into his hulking frame. His arm came around her next, turning her from her destination until the stairs filled her vision.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.” O’Leary’s voice slithered toward her as he descended the steps, a leisurely gait that showed no hint of the agony she had inflicted seconds before. “All I wanted to do was talk, but now…”
She stared at him, not believing a word he said. He’d wanted more than conversation. She’d seen it in his devilish eyes. Hadn’t she?
“You need help managin’ ’er?” It sounded like the brute would like nothing more than to break Samantha in two.
“No.” O’Leary reached around her head and grabbed her by the hair, then started dragging her back up the stairs.
She yelped in response to the pain and stumbled after him, tripping as her feet caught the hem of her gown. Each time she lost her footing and fell, O’Leary yanked her upright once more. By the time they returned to the room at the top of the stairs, she’d murdered him in her mind a thousand times over.
O’Leary led her into the room as though she were a dog on a leash. He shoved her into the chair, which nearly sent her toppling onto the floor. She managed to stay upright, only to feel the sting of his palm as it landed against her cheek.
“Remember this,” he told her darkly before he slapped her again, so hard her head spun sideways. “You chose violence.”
Again he struck, then again, and again, and again. Until her face burned and the taste of blood filled her mouth. Until she knew she’d soon be black and blue. It felt like he’d crushed her cheekbone.
His fingers caught her chin, like earlier though more roughly, directing her gaze to his. Only frosty vehemence showed in his eyes. “The next time you try anything, I’ll do exactly as you imagined I would. It wasn’t what I planned for you, but since you’re so eager to turn me into that sort of monster, I may as well play the part. More than that, I’ll let my men have a turn once I’m done.”
Samantha pushed down her terror and forced herself to produce a mocking laugh of her own. “A woman can only hope.”
