You Are Mine (22 page)

“Did they?” He folded his arms, the sleeves of his jacket pulling tight around his impressive shoulders and biceps. “And are they here now?”

“Well, I—”

“No, they are not.
I
am the only one who is here now. And you are doing it for me.” The authority in his dark, beautiful voice was undeniable. “You will not think of them, angel. You are undressing for me and me alone. Is that clear?”

“Oh, sure. Like you can stop remembering something just like that.”

“Really? You seem to have been very successful at it for the past seven years.”

Eva stared at him, her heartbeat thumping. Wishing him in hell.

“Your jeans, angel.”

Clenching her teeth, Eva ripped at the buttons on her jeans then pulled them down and stepped out of them. She shoved down her black panties and got rid of those too.

Naked, finally. Naked in front of him.

Christ, she was cold. Really, really cold.

“Look at me.”

She didn't want to but she did all the same, the command irresistible.

His gaze was molten, like whiskey heated to boiling point or golden coins smelted down and turned to liquid. The cold began to dissipate, as if she was standing in front of a raging fire.

He wanted her, that much was obvious, and this time the memory that filled her head wasn't of standing in front of the guards trying to shield her teenage body from their avid gaze, but of him the day before. Standing in front of her shirtless, making no effort to hide his impressive hard-on. A strange combination of civilized gentleman in suit pants and heavily muscled, bare-chested warrior, all tattoos and bronze skin. Like a statue half unveiled.

“Put on the lingerie.”

Ah, dammit. Might as well get it over and done with. Doing what he told her to was quicker than fighting him, that was for sure.

She picked up the panties from the packet of tissue she'd dropped onto the floor and stepped into them. The material was so light and gauzy she had to go slow, afraid she'd rip it. To her annoyance the panties fit perfectly and felt almost like she was wearing nothing. Not looking at him, she then picked up the bra and put it on, realizing belatedly it had a front clasp.

“Wait,” Zac ordered.

Instinctively Eva stopped, her hand between her breasts ready to do up the clasp. She blinked at him, her breath catching in her throat as he stepped forward and calmly lifted his hands. “I'll do it up.”

Once again he said it in that tone she knew was useless to argue with and so she just stood there, fear snaking through her as he grasped the silky fabric, pulling the cups closed. The tips of his fingers brushed her skin, a featherlight touch that sent a shockwave, and more cascades of memory, through her.

In the chair with his weight on her legs, his finger circling her belly button over and over …

She looked up at him, unable to help herself, watching his face. His expression was as calm as if he was merely tying a shoelace, thick black lashes veiling his amber gaze, his attention on his fingers.

“Why?” she asked thickly. “Why are you doing this?”

Zac didn't reply immediately, doing up the clasp then standing back, giving her a long, sweeping look that made every hair on her body stand up on end at the hunger in it.

“The lingerie because I want you to wear something soft and silky against your skin,” he said. “I want you to be aware of your body with all of your senses because it'll help ground you in the here and now rather than the past.” He paused. “As to everything else, you know why.” The look in his eyes pinned her to the spot. “You think you're strong, Eva, you think you're tough enough not to need anyone. But your strength is thin, a brittle veneer that cracks under the slightest pressure, and one day it'll shatter. And who'll be there to help you rebuild it? Who will you trust? If Fitzgerald shatters it tomorrow night, who will you turn to?”

He's not wrong, you know he's not.

He wasn't. And she thought she was starting to see that now.

“I want you to turn to me, Eva,” Zac went on. “I want to be the one you turn to. The one you trust. And then maybe I'll show you how to strip that veneer away and rebuild it so that you're truly strong. Truly the warrior you should have been. So that you believe it, right down to your bones.”

He said every word with the calm of absolute conviction. And though her instinct was to protest, she found she couldn't get the words out
. I am strong
, she wanted to say.
I am tough.

Oh sure, so tough you ran away at the thought of confronting Fitzgerald.

She gritted her teeth. “Right, so lingerie is all about strength. Who knew?”

He smiled in that slow, sure way, as if he knew something she didn't. “That's the first step. Next up, we're going on a little day trip.”

Fear twisted again like a snake. “Where?”

“Get your clothes on, angel. We're going to the Met.”

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

That Eva didn't want to go was written all over her face. But that was too bloody bad.

Zac had investigated the function Fitzgerald was giving and seen it was going to be at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, at the Temple of Dendur. And given Eva's difficulties with unfamiliar places, the most logical thing was to take her there during the day to get her familiar with it.

Because she had to go. After exchanging texts with Alex and Gabe that morning, it was clear that Eva had to attend the function. She was the only one who'd potentially had contact with Fitzgerald, and the other two couldn't go in case their appearance alerted the man to the fact that they were onto him. Gabe had also mentioned that Tremain was being brought out of his coma, but given that he wasn't likely to be in any state to answer questions—if he ever would—Eva was still their best hope.

Zac had gotten Temple to take them in Eva's limo, Eva sitting opposite him on the way there, scowling out the window.

“So I understand why the others can't go,” she said, after he'd showed her the texts. “But what about you? Fitzgerald doesn't know you.”

“You were the one in that house, Eva. Only you can confirm the link between him and the Lucky Seven. I thought that was clear.”

Her head was turned away, her delicate profile tense.

His night had been fairly uncomfortable as he was sure hers had been, his head full of the warmth of her body and the feel of her skin, the taste of her in his mouth. But he hadn't given himself any relief. He wanted to be in total control and that meant controlling the ferocity of his hunger for her, even under provocation.

He'd basically spent most of his sleepless night planning what he was going to do with her, how to make her beg for him.

First there was the trust issue that had to be resolved. Then there were the memories that would need the poison drained from them. He'd give her new ones in their place so the old ones didn't have any power. Yet to do that he had to awaken her sensuality. Show her what pleasures there were in such simple things as the feeling of silk against her bare skin.

Having her get changed into that lingerie in front of him had been deliberate. He'd wanted her to get used to him looking at her, to him being around her, to him being close.

As he'd suspected, the silver lace looked beautiful on her.

She didn't have a single, pretty item of clothing, as if her femininity didn't exist. But it was there, he knew it was. Buried beneath her years of captivity and before that, her time spent on the streets, yet it was there nonetheless. He wanted to show her that denying a part of herself was only making her weaker. That true strength lay with acknowledging
every
part.

As you do, right?

Well, of course. He knew he was selfish. That he was violent. That he had darkness inside him and he'd come to terms with it, embraced it over the years. It was where his strength came from. That and absolute control.

“The media are going to love it if I turn up,” Eva said into the heavy silence, her voice curt. “That might be a problem.”

She had a point. The media made a big deal of the fact that she was reclusive, that she never attended public functions, never gave interviews, never interacted with anyone apart from the people who worked for her. Her attendance at this function would be a big deal, would draw attention. But that may not be a bad thing for the purposes of the Nine Circle's investigations. It would be interesting to watch Fitzgerald's reaction to her.

A thread of anger escaped Zac's control, winding through him like a white-hot wire filament.

If Eva recognized Fitzgerald, then he and Zac could have a nice little “chat.” Then once Zac had gotten all the information he needed, he'd blow the man away. Without one shred of regret.

“It could work to our advantage,” he said. “It might catch Fitzgerald off guard. He won't be expecting you.”

Eva flicked a glance at him, a flash of silver. “If it's him, he'll know who I am.”

Again he saw fear in her eyes. “If it's him, he can hardly be unaware of who you are. Your picture has been circulating in the media for a while, and it's not as if Void Angel isn't a big name. Which means he's not interested in you anymore, otherwise he would have already done something about it.”

She looked away again, saying nothing.

“I would never leave you unprotected, angel,” he said quietly. “You know this.”

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered.

But she didn't. Or if she did, she didn't feel it. Because if she had, she would trust him more than she did. She was still listening to her fear, letting it tell her what to do.

Not today though. Today he would silence that fear once and for all.

Zac got Temple to drop them off a little away from the Met's entrance, not wanting to cause too much in the way of attention with a long black limo drawing up to the curb. There were plenty of people around, thousands of tourists and school groups and office workers, the usual New York crowds.

Eva was tense as soon as they got out of the limo, her whole body solid with it. She didn't look around, her attention on the ground, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

She was always like this whenever they were outside. Her shoulders bowed, her head down. As if the entire weight of the sky was pressing on her.

Zac reached out and took her elbow, pulling her right hand out of her pocket.

That got a response. Her head came up, anger flashing across her face as she tried to pull away. “Don't—”

“You're going to let me hold your hand,” he interrupted, tightening his grip. “It'll give you something to focus on. My touch is something you'll have to get used to anyway.”

Her mouth firmed, but she stopped trying to pull away.

“Wise decision.” He tucked her hand firmly in the crook of his arm. “Now, we're heading toward the galleries of Egyptian art since the function will be held in the Temple of Dendur.”

They began to move through the crowds toward the entrance, Eva's pace fast as if she couldn't wait to get to the doors. Her hand on his arm was rigid, her body stiff.

This must be a nightmare for her with so many people around and so much unfamiliarity. The naked sky above her and nowhere to run to.

But she was going to have to deal with it because there would be crowds at Fitzgerald's party, and media too. God, he didn't want her going in there like this, with her head down, fear radiating from her. He wanted her going in there strong, showing that prick that what he'd done to her hadn't beaten her. That she was powerful despite it.

All he had to do was negate this fear of hers and he had a plan on how to do it. She wasn't going to like it however. Then again, being cruel to be kind was his modus operandi. He was good at it.

Brushing through the crowds of people outside the doors was fairly simple: people didn't tend to get in Zac's way when he wanted to get somewhere.

“What are you feeling, angel?” he murmured as they paid the entrance fee then wove through the people in the lobby, heading toward the Egyptian art galleries.

“I'm fine.” Her hand was tight on his arm, her head still down.

“You're not fine. You've got a death grip on my arm.”

Slowly, she raised her head. Her face was white, her jaw hard. The look on her face was like someone going to their execution. “I can do this,” she said thickly. “Fuck, it's not like I haven't been here before.”

“Tell me about when you were here before,” he murmured, steering them around a knot of tourists all looking at their museum maps and arguing. It would give her something to think about that wasn't focusing on her fear or fighting it and, as added advantage, it would be more information about her, which he wanted very much.

“When I was on the streets,” she said, surprising him, “I was small so I'd pass for an under-twelve. Meant I didn't have to pay. Sometimes I'd tell the desk staff I'd gone out by mistake and my parents were still inside, and could I go find them. They always let me in.”

“Why here?”

“It was warm and safe.”

That was understandable. He'd liked the cinema he used to spend all his time in as a child for exactly those reasons. “Did you like the art?”

She lifted a hunched shoulder, her fingers digging into his arm as a crowd of art students surrounded them for a moment. “Like a kid sleeping on the streets and hungry all the fucking time has any kind of opinion on the art.”

More protective sarcasm. A veil she threw up to hide herself.

He wanted to stop abruptly, grip her chin and force her to meet his eyes. Rip away that veil to reveal the vulnerable woman underneath it. But there were too many people and he didn't want to draw attention.

Later. When you have her back home.