Four Seconds to Lose

chapter nineteen * * * CAIN

“Cain!” Nate’s fist pounds on the steel door of my office so hard that the picture frame hanging on the inside crashes to the ground. Normally I have a hard time hearing anything because the walls aren’t soundproofed and the music from the club resonates loudly. But I hear the unnatural shrillness to his natural boom and it sets off alarms.

Sprinting to unlock the door—I always lock it when the safe is open—I meet Nate’s ashen face, his eyes wide, as he stares down at the ground, mumbling, “I tried to get here. It all just happened so fast.”

I follow his gaze.

And I stop breathing.

Penny’s crumpled, frail body sits in a heap, facedown. I can see the gaping gash along the back of her head, the blood flow darkening her blond hair.

The blood trail starting five feet down the hall tells me that she managed to pull herself a fair distance. And the way her hand lays, stretched out toward my door . . . I see the streak of blood along the bottom half of the steel.

Finger smears.

Reaching.

The smudges of blood around my handle.

I can’t keep my hands off of her.

The second I saw Charlie’s face—her eyes shut tightly against the coming blow from her attacker—my fear exploded.

It could have happened. Again.

“Cain, are you all right?” Charlie’s voice brings me back to reality, a sweet song to remind me that she is not Penny. She is not dead. She is right here, in front of me, my forehead pressed against hers as I grip her arms, as I struggle to calm my ragged breath.

I just kissed her.

I needed to do it. I needed to be close to her, to feel her heat, her life, against me. And now, as I focus on that beautiful face so close to mine, her soft pants caressing my skin, her ever-perceptive eyes watching me with unguarded apprehension, I’m fighting myself to keep from doing it again.

No. Not in a fucking V.I.P. room, where hundred of guys have gotten off for a nominal fee, after she’s just been attacked, you asshole!

I grit my teeth against the consuming urge but I know that if I remain this close, my self-control will lose. So, I pull away. Just far enough that I can get a good look at her face, my hands cupping her chin in a gentle grasp. “Where are you hurt?”

“Just my cheek.” A tiny scowl flashes over her face, as if remembering the pain, “and my scalp, when he pulled my hair like a fucking little girl.”

I slip my hand around to the back of her skull—through her silky hair that is not matted in blood because she’s not Penny, I remind myself—and let my fingers rub gently. Soothingly.

She closes her eyes as her lips fall apart, clearly enjoying the attention, and I yet again fight the urge to bend down and kiss that wide mouth. I’ve been watching her on the stage for weeks, thinking about her nonstop, telling myself a thousand different ways that this can’t happen.

It almost doesn’t seem real.

“Better?”

“Hmm . . .” Her hand reaches up to steal mine from where it rests on the back of her head, pulling it down to sit laced within her fingers. I don’t know that I’ve ever held a woman’s hand like this. It’s making my nerves short-circuit. I wonder if she feels it too, or if it’s just me. Vibrant eyes open to skate over my features, settling on my mouth. “You’re shaking.”

She’s right. I am shaking. I hadn’t even noticed.

I exhale deeply, trying to regulate my pounding heart. We’re standing so close that I wonder if she can sense it. “When I came in and saw that guy ready to hit you—” My voice cuts off with a crack. “It reminded me of someone. Of something that happened, years ago.”

Charlie’s cool fingers crawl over my neck, tracing the letters of my tattoo, as if showing her understanding without uttering a word.

Keeping my eyes locked on her I ask cautiously, “Who was he, Charlie?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice but it’s impossible. Even thinking about the bald fucker makes my fists clench. As happy as I am here with Charlie, a small part of me wants to run out to the parking lot to cripple him. I know Nate will likely rough him up a bit in warning, but it’s not enough.

Her hand finds its way to my cheek, her delicate touch smoothing over my light stubble. I instinctively turn in toward it, letting her fingers graze over my mouth. “I told you, he thought I was someone else,” she purrs, feigning disinterest. But by the sudden tensing in her body, I know it’s all an act. She leans in to rest her cheek against my chest, snaking her arms around my waist, and I selfishly accept the affection, wrapping my arms tightly around her warm, strong body once again, while I let my chin rest on top of her head.

And I marvel at how fast things can change. Ten minutes ago, my cock was throbbing as I watched Charlie’s perfect body torment me onstage, wondering what the hell I would say to her tonight. Wondering if there was anything more to this than an irrepressible physical attraction.

Three minutes ago, I watched someone try to break that same perfect body and the ground opened up beneath me, reminding me how easily I could lose my chance to find out.

And in just seconds, I’m sure that something more profound than strip shows and physical attraction is beginning to develop between us.

In seconds.

I shouldn’t have waited this long. I should have swept her off her feet when she walked through my door. Every second since then, I’ve been losing precious time and possibilities, repeating the mistakes of my past. Nate is right. I can’t change anything that’s happened. I can only learn from it.

But what if this is nothing more than a game for Charlie? I know she’s lying to me about that guy. The only reason I even found out she was in there was because Jeff—one of the bouncers—said something about her going in over the earpiece and Nate caught it.

I thought I was walking into a completely different scene when I barged through that door and yet I barged in anyway, like a jealous freak, ready to scream at her for toying with me the way she has. A part of me is relieved by what I found instead. Knowing that makes me nauseous.

So what the fuck should I do now? Pushing her to tell me who that guy really is won’t get me anywhere. I sense that by the way she’s acting. But I also can’t have her under a spotlight, having more guys “mistake her” for someone else.

Maybe that’s why the command slips out. “You’re not going up on that stage again for a while.” I hear the tone—the possessive, controlling one that I hate—creep into my words and I immediately recognize that command for what it really is: an excuse to stop her from stripping.

Her arms loosen their hold of my waist as she starts to pull away. “I need the money, Cain.” Her refusal sounds half-hearted, as if she’s saying it because she feels she has to.

I can’t say I’m not fucking ecstatic about that. I want her to hate the stage and hate stripping.

For anyone but me, that is.

Pushing a strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead back, I don’t hesitate to offer, “I’ve got some administrative stuff around here you can help me with. It’s easy and I’ll pay you the same. And you’ll be with me.”