Her wrists and hands were still sore from the abuse they’d taken in the alley that night. Scrapes on the backs of her hands were just now healing, and the bruises around her wrists from the cuffs were deepening into their ugliest colors. She felt a mild ache in them as she worked the weights, but ignored it.
Her mind was stuck in re-wind now, reliving the events of the last few days, from their fight in the alley to the scenes that played out afterwards, like a nightmare domino effect.
He’d lied to her and that had hurt her. She’d run, simply wanting to get away from the craziness for a while. To hide. But, he’d caught her of course and they’d yelled at one another. Said awful things.
She’d told him that she hated him. As she remembered the words she’d spoken, she realized that from that moment on, Jack Thane had been a different person.
He’d brought her back to his flat at the top of Canary Wharf Tower and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she would not be leaving the premises for the next several days. She’d rebelled, going so far as to shove him square in the chest at one point. She’d told him she was not a piece of his real estate, to be bought or kept – she wasn’t property. She’d demanded that he allow her to go home, to take care of what was left of DesignMax, and to attend Max Anderson’s funeral.
She’d been worried, over the last few days, about what the cops were going to do or say about her disappearance. And Dylan’s. And she’d been worried about Mackenzie, the jerk that trapped Max and Annabelle in a never-ending contract for a web site that would never quite manage to be to Mackenzie’s liking. Would Mackenzie sue DesignMax because of the unfinished site? Would Dylan end up suffering for that?
Annabelle had things to tend to and she’d said as much to Jack.
Jack, for his part, had laughed a mirthless laugh and simply shaken his head, his blue eyes blazing madly. He’d told her she would be going nowhere.
When she made a dive for the cell phone on the table beside her bed, he’d beat her to it and pocketed the item. “I’ll be closing your account with the phone company,” he’d said, his tone matter-of-fact, his expression cold. “Since you obviously have no concept of keeping yourself safe, you’ll have no further contact with the outside world until I deem it prudent.”
And then she had attacked him, picking up a hard-backed book from one of the shelves and hefting it at him with all of her might. He’d dodged it easily, so she rushed him. And, of course, he’d caught her, spun her around, and tossed her onto the bed with no effort whatsoever.
But his eyes were positively ablaze. An anger such as she’d never before witnessed was radiating off of his tall frame in heated waves. “Keep it up,” he’d told her. “I can keep going.” He strode to the bed and towered over her. “Dylan Anderson can think you’re dead. Cassie Reid will never see you again. You want me to contact your mother personally and let her know her only child has decided to no longer speak to her? Or do you think it would hurt her worse if she, too, thought you were dead?” He’d hissed that last part, his expression something between deceptive control and a hellish rage barely held in check.
She’d lunged off of the bed, wanting to rip him apart with her bare hands. He’d been right. He was capable of far more cruelty than she’d imagined, and he wasn’t holding back.
But he made short business of her outburst, simply catching her by her already sore wrists and holding her fast in front of him. “No phone, no computer, Annabelle,” he told her, bringing his face a mere few inches from hers. “You’ve hereby signed away the last of your freedom. You’re not thinking straight and you’re obviously incapable of understanding the depth of the situation.” He shook her then, causing her head to snap back before he drew her close once more. They were both breathing heavily, and she could feel his words across her lips, just as he could feel her shaking in his grasp. “You will not run again, Bella, so help me God.”
“I can’t believe I actually thought I loved you, Jack.” Her tone had dropped and her words were barely a whisper, but they hit home. Jack’s blue gaze turned steely as she watched. His grip tightened ever so slightly on her arms.
And then, suddenly, he was letting her go. He stepped back from her, his jaw tight. He stared at her for several long, tense moments, and then he took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. “So be it.”
It was the last thing he’d said to her. He’d turned around and left the apartment, assigning half a dozen men to watch over her twenty-four-seven.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to Jack since that night. It had been two days. And every minute had become an hour; every hour, a century. She had nothing to do but think about the out-of-control mess that her life had become. It was virtually unrecognizable.
And that wasn’t all. She was filled with a much deeper ache. A horrible, gut-wrenching, throbbing kind of ache that threatened to engulf her entirely.
She loved Jack Thane.
She’d loved him since that first night, on her twenty-first birthday.
And yet, she’d told him that she hated him. He’d lied to her, hurt her, locked her up and threatened her. And she loved him. Why?
Why…
Because she knew how safe and solid he felt when she had her arms wrapped around his waist while they were rocketing down the interstate at ninety miles an hour on a Harley Davidson machine. Because he was the only assassin who didn’t kill women and children. He didn’t even kill single fathers – or soldiers, for that matter. Because he looked at her in that hungry, determined way full of angst and hope and human fear that could only come with the strongest emotion a being can feel for another. Because he was always there for her. No matter how small or mundane the problem was, he deemed it worthy of fixing it for her immediately. And the big problems were dealt with just as efficiently. He was protective, strong, and confident. He knew what he was doing and never held back in doing it for Annabelle’s sake.
He’d saved her life countless times.
Come to think of it, she had even saved his.
And, when they made love… They claimed each other body and soul, in a tangled desperation that refused to be sated – a heat that could not, would not cool.
She loved him because he loved her.
And here they were, hurting each other. So badly.
Annabelle put back the weights and straightened. She stared at herself in the mirror, this time actually seeing her reflection for what it was. She was dressed in a tight white tank top and black jeans, with her typical riding boots finishing the ensemble. And though her physique was defined, and her muscles were certainly more cut because of it, it was suddenly obvious to Annabelle that she’d lost a significant amount of weight.
She was wasting away in this situation. She’d had little appetite and it showed. Soon, she would become weak. She would lose what little edge she had.
She needed to get out. Fast.
That thought came with one piggy-backing on it. If two of the men outside were going to leave in order to meet the massage therapist at the entryway to the complex, then only two would be left behind with Annabelle – for just that short space of time.
Two men instead of four. Was that do-able?
She thought about it seriously for a moment and then sighed, shaking her head. She had no weapons, but for the weights in this room and her own strength. And the men outside were prepared for such an eventuality. They weren’t stupid. They’d been trained by Jack.
With a strangled sound that bespoke of desperation, she ran a hand through her hair and left the at-home gym, heading for the massive shower in the other room. The hot water would feel good. And she could prepare herself, because when Alex got back from wherever it was he’d gone, she was going to tell the man that she was finally willing and ready to talk to Jack Thane.