A Chance in the Night

He managed to open his front door and then close it with a nudge of his foot. The loft was a convenient pad and he’d turned the run-down space into something he didn’t mind people seeing but he doubted the woman in his arms cared much about the blond hardwood floors he’d installed himself or the four-poster California King bed with its goose down comforter that he was laying her gently on. After spending eleven years of his childhood in sleazy motels, sleeping on threadbare, worn and often dirty linens, Christian had a taste—no requirement—for fine bedding. He winced at the thought of blood staining the white duvet but he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t like she could manage to wash up on her own right now. He averted his eyes as the ruined dress hung on her slender frame, ripped down the center so that she had little covering her lithe body. Even as he looked away, he’d caught an unfortunate glimpse of creamy, well-toned thighs and near perfect rose-tipped breasts.

He swallowed and then cursed softly. He needed to assess her injuries. He went to his bathroom and pulled out hydrogen peroxide, a clean washcloth, cotton balls and antiseptic cream. He sighed, hating that he even had the knowledge required. After that first episode with his mother, he’d taken over bandaging and administering first aid when johns got a little rough.

He dropped the supplies on his bed beside her and after rummaging through his dresser drawers, he found an old T-shirt he didn’t mind parting with and some old sweats she could wear. Her eyes slid open and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she understood his intention.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice choked with pain.

“Save the thank-yous for later. This is likely going to hurt like a son of a bitch,” he muttered in warning. He wasn’t her prince charming coming to rescue her from her life but human decency demanded that he do what he could to help. “Can you sit up?” he asked. She struggled, blanching with the pain as she tried. He gently stopped her. “You might have a broken rib. You really should see a doctor,” he admonished but he knew it fell on deaf ears. “I’ll do what I can but you’re pretty messed up.” She gave a subtle nod to indicate she understood but otherwise remained silent. He swabbed the crusting blood from her jaw-line and wiped the matted strands of her hair. “Did you know him?” he asked, telling himself he wasn’t interested in the answer, he was just filling the space between them with words, perhaps to distract her from the pain. His mother had never known a single man who’d paid for her services. The only man she’d bedded and known was his father and it wasn’t as though he’d been a catch. He’d died in prison, serving time for aggravated assault. His biological family tree wasn’t anything to write home about. “You ought to file charges,” he suggested, dabbing her lip with antibiotic cream. She winced and he gentled his touch, a familiar well of frustration lacing his tone as he added, “If you don’t, at least tell the authorities. He might do this to someone else. Maybe a friend of yours or something.”

“I don’t have any friends,” she responded, in a voice so scratchy he barely made out the words.

Then he saw the finger bruises along her throat. That man had nearly killed her, not figuratively, but literally. Another occupational hazard, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t understand her choice to lower herself in such a way. “You’re a beautiful woman. There are other choices out there. Hell, find yourself some sugar daddy and become his arm candy but at least get the ring on your finger so you have some kind of security if he ditches you for another.” He threw the soiled cotton swabs in the bedside trash and steeled himself for what came next. “Listen, I promise to do this quick,” he said, lifting the shirt in his hand. “But we gotta get you into some real clothes. Okay?” She nodded and he tried to gently pull off the remains of her dress without hurting her. “Here,” he said gruffly, sliding the T over her head as carefully as possible. He made quick work of tugging his faded sweats up her legs. They hung on her slight frame but at least they covered her. He released a short breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and rose, saying, “I’ll get you some Tylenol. I’m not big on meds so it’s the best I can do.”

He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment or, frankly, for anything, he simply bolted for the bathroom. He needed a minute to collect himself. His mother had been a street prostitute. She hadn’t slept on five hundred thread count sheets or enjoyed caviar and champagne. Not like the woman on his bed. She had the look of someone who knew all about fine living. Everything about her seemed delicate and fragile, refined and expensive. Yet, just like his mother, she sold herself for cold, hard cash.

In that they were the same. And for that reason, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow any kind of deep connection to take root.

When he finally left the bathroom, a few Tylenol tablets in his hand and a glass of water, he’d managed to put his emotions back in order.

He helped her with the painkillers and covered her with a blanket. “Is there someone I should call?” he asked, not quite able to bring himself to say the word pimp. Her bruised throat worked as she swallowed and he knew it must hurt like hell. That fat bastard had really done a number on her. She shook her head and he sighed. “Well—” he gestured to the bed “—you’re welcome to stay the night. I’ll take the couch.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and he was no more ready to accept her gratitude now than he was the first go-round but Mama Jo, his foster mother, had drilled manners into his head since the day he’d shown up on her doorstep, courtesy of the Bridgeport, West Virginia foster system so many years ago.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, taking his pillow and blanket to the couch. “Don’t mention it. Get some rest.”

Something told him sleep would find her sooner than it would him.

SKYE AWOKE TO A PARADE of pain. Her rib was most certainly broken on her left side. Early morning shafts of sunlight streamed into the loft, bathing everything in a soft creamy light that would’ve been beautiful if she hadn’t been sucking back tears at the agony in her body. Just breathing took effort.

As she slowly took stock of her situation, she remembered the details from the night. That corpulent pig—Carlton Essex III—had done this to her. She’d been unable to get to her phone or her pepper spray. And Carlton had been unconcerned by the threat of displeasing Belleni. In that the man was an idiot. Belleni was vicious when crossed.

Her gaze slid over to the sofa where soft snoring sounded. She rolled to her uninjured side, nearly crying out at the bite of pain, and slowly stood. She spied her clutch and the remains of her Anna Sui sheath. She grabbed the clutch but left the dress and made her way to the door. The man—she didn’t even known his name—didn’t stir even as she padded slowly to the door. She regretted leaving like this after he’d taken her in but Belleni was probably turning the city upside down looking for her and she’d rather not repay the man’s kindness by dragging him further into the mess that was her life. There was also her mangled pride in her reasoning, as well. How could she adequately express her gratitude to someone for saving her from someone she’d been paid to service? Shame twisted her guts in a knot and she slipped from the loft with only the hope that karma would find the man still sleeping and repay him appropriately for his kindness.

God knew she couldn’t.

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTIAN WOKE WITH A SNAP of his eyes, knowing without having to look that she was gone. Still, he rose and swore under his breath when he confirmed the suspicion. This was good, he told himself when irritation followed at the knowledge she’d snuck out while he slept. Now he didn’t have to deal with the inevitable awkwardness of the morning after, not the typical morning after mind you, but it would have been weird considering what had happened.

He walked to his bed and saw that she’d taken her little purse but left her dress behind. He lifted the ruined mess from the floor and her scent wafted from the material. The dress was cool against his fingers as he replayed the scenario from last night in his head. Questions nagged at him but he resigned himself to letting them go. She was gone. It was probably better this way. Christian tossed the dress into the trash, noting with wry humor, that scrap of silk had material that probably cost more than some people saw in a month’s wages. And now it was in his trash. Somehow that seemed sadly metaphoric. His brothers had always accused him of having the heart of a poet. Seems they weren’t wrong. Damn.

He sighed and headed for the shower and hoped for a day that was devoid of mystery women, their questionable choices in life and rich, well-dressed pricks.

SKYE SANK LOWER IN THE HOT water, the details from the night too fresh in her mind, and closed her eyes. Steam rose and drifted from her body as she allowed the heat to soak into her bones.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she winced as the pain reminded her of what had gone down only hours before.

Some men were rutting bastards who found excitement in the pain of others. She swallowed and wiped away the tear. He’d done more than leave just bruises. She touched the swollen flesh of her upper lip and winced. The doctor Belleni kept on the payroll confirmed the broken rib and gave her some painkillers with the advice to rest.

“He will not touch you again,” a voice at the door vowed, making her tense beneath the water. She opened her eyes to see Belleni standing in the doorway, gazing at her body as if he had the right. “The man was a pig but no worries, darling, he has enjoyed his last Belleni girl, I assure you.”

She slid the washcloth over her breasts as a slow, quiet rage percolated in her chest at the liberties he took just because he believed she belonged to him. “I want to be alone, Belleni,” she said, hating the way his gaze roamed her nakedness, resting on areas that belonged to no man, least of all him. But even as she burned to tell him to get the hell out of her life, she was held captive by a past she couldn’t change.

Instead of complying with the curt response, he settled himself at the edge of the bathtub with an indulgent smile. He was a good-looking older man with an air of experience that was misleading in its seeming benevolence. Even as she loathed him, sometimes it was hard to separate her tangled feelings, for Nico was his spitting image and she adored her son with single-minded focus. She chose to keep her attention away from his roving stare for fear of her tongue getting the best of her. Still, she fairly vibrated with the tempest raging inside her over her inability to extricate herself and Nico from Belleni’s sphere of influence and she didn’t trust what might fly from her mouth.

“You are angry,” he surmised, his Italian accent smooth as fine liquor, his touch deceptively gentle on her cheek. She pulled away and he sighed. “Of course, you are. And you have every right to be. I should’ve listened to my instincts, no matter the hefty weight of his bank account. Can you forgive me, my love?” he asked, his gaze softening with an emotion Skye knew didn’t exist in his world. She choked down the bitterness stuck in her throat and nodded but the effort nearly killed her. Belleni smiled. “Good. But I must make amends to my best girl. While you heal I shall see to it that you want for nothing. You will have the best of care. Name it and you shall have it. But first, tell me how you managed to get away from this brute? Vincent said you didn’t call him for help.”

She wouldn’t give up her kind stranger. She wished she’d gotten his name but she recognized that it was better this way. She would likely never see him again as she planned to avoid Martini from here on out after the whole experience. Still, she found herself thinking of him and his kindness to her when she shouldn’t be thinking of him at all. “I sprayed him with pepper spray,” she lied. “Then I called a cab and came here.”

He eyed her with faint suspicion. She held her breath as more questions built behind his speculative stare. “What are you going to do to him?” she asked, hoping to distract Belleni from his current train of thought.

Belleni waved away her question. “The details are unnecessary for you to know at this point. Just take me at my word that he will pay for his insult. Now name your desire, my love, and I will see to it personally.”

She knew he awaited her gratitude but she couldn’t make herself utter the words. He expected her to thank him for taking care of her when he was the one who had set her up with that monster? It was his fault her lip was split and her eye was blackened. Her breasts were marked with bruises from where the man had squeezed so hard tears sprang to her eyes at the memory. Her neck still bore the finger marks from where he tried to choke her to death. He hadn’t been interested in straight sex. No, he’d wanted to hurt and because he’d paid a good sum for her services, he’d believed he could do what he wanted with her. And he nearly had. Belleni heaved a sad sigh and rose from the tub’s edge. “It pains me to see you so abused. I will make this up to you, my darling,” he promised.

She stared at the tips of her toes as they peeked from the water’s edge where she rested her feet against the water spigot. “You mean it?” she asked softly.

“Of course, what do you desire and I will make it yours,” he said.

“I want Nico home with me.” She turned and met his gaze with her one eye that wasn’t impeded by swollen tissue and said, “He shouldn’t live with you and Vivian. He should live with his mother.”

At her quiet request Belleni hardened into the man she knew hid under that soft and generous exterior. Gone was the loving benefactor, former lover and father of her son, replaced in a heartbeat by the man’s true character that was obsessed with her and ruthless in his determination to keep her at all costs. “He stays with me,” he said brusquely. “You have had a hard night. I will forgive you. But do not try me, darling. I would not have you attempt something brash. You must remember that I am not a fool,” he reminded her, straightening his cuffs with slow, methodical movements that betrayed his need for control in all things. “Get your rest. We will discuss things further after you’ve had a chance to think more clearly.”

He left her alone and when she heard him leave the apartment, she shuddered and tried to draw a deep breath but the air felt trapped in her lungs. There was nothing she didn’t understand with the clarity of glass. Belleni knew if he didn’t keep Nico she’d try to run again.

She’d tried to run away when Nico was born but Belleni’s watchdog, Vivian, had caught her as she’d tried to board the train. Belleni’s punishment had been to take Nico from her physically. She hadn’t even been allowed to breastfeed her own child any longer. At six weeks old Nico had been taken from her breast and put on a bottle. The punishment had served its purpose. The second time she’d tried to run, Nico had been two years old. Vivian had found a credit card receipt for airfare out of the city. Her punishment for that had been even worse. Belleni had kept her son from her for three months. By the time he’d allowed her to see Nico, her son had nearly forgotten her. Belleni had known the effect it would have on her when Nico shied away from her open arms and returned to cling to Belleni’s leg.

The pain had been unimaginable.

This time, she’d thought she’d get away.

Everything she’d worked for, all the money she’d managed to squirrel away…useless and for nothing. Her future stretched out before her in an endless road of servitude and the magnitude of her despair drowned the last ounce of hope she’d been fostering since the day Nico was born.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered as a wave of shame overtook her. She couldn’t go backward and she couldn’t move forward. She was permanently stuck under Belleni’s thumb. Tears burned her eyes and she didn’t have the strength to hold them back any longer…so she didn’t.

IT’D BEEN A WEEK SINCE the incident with the mystery woman but that coupled with the other things on his mind had served to cripple Christian’s REM time, leaving him grouchy and fatigued by morning. He rose early in spite of having hit the sheets only a few hours prior and went to the gym. Christian melted into the busy streets and walked the short distance to his local fitness center. He felt like crap, the lack of sleep was really starting to wear on him, but there was more to his edge than fatigue. His buddy and business partner Gage had been pressuring him to take a meeting with this bigwig money guy so they could finally open their own nightclub, but Christian wasn’t warm to the idea of bringing more people to the deal. That saying “Too many cooks in the kitchen…” came to mind and he could almost hear his foster mother’s voice in his head saying it, too. Mama Jo may be a couple of states away in West Virginia but her voice was firmly in his subconscious. Most times, it was a good thing because it kept him walking the straight and narrow when he might otherwise feel pulled in a different direction. Other times it was a bit annoying to have the female version of Jiminy Cricket on his shoulder.

He entered the fitness center and was met by loud music and a tattooed woman who looked as if she could bench-press him without breaking a sweat. She smiled, revealing her tongue piercing—something Christian had never found attractive—but he returned the smile as he swiped his membership ID.

Christian met Gage at the weight station where he was already doing his reps.

“You’re late,” Gage said, his face tightening with the exertion of a curling exercise set with major poundage.

Christian pulled his sweatshirt over his head and tossed it aside. “Cut me some slack. I just went to bed about three hours ago. You’re lucky I came at all.”

Gage grunted and allowed the weight to slowly release. “Yeah, yeah, cry me a river.” He grabbed a towel and mopped his face. “So, you give any more thought to what I mentioned to you the other day?” he asked, around a gulp of Vitaminwater.

Christian withheld the grimace threatening to pull on his mouth. He knew this was their best shot but it left him with a bad taste. Still, he nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’m in. What do you know about this guy? Is he solid? I don’t want to climb into bed with someone who’s going to just take my money and split,” he grumbled.

Gage brightened and grinned. “So paranoid. Yeah, he’s solid. This is what he does. He handpicks projects to invest in. Trust me, everyone in town wants this guy in their corner.”

“So how do you know him?” Christian asked.

Gage shrugged but his expression turned coy. “I just do. This is our best chance at getting the club off the ground in this environment. It’s not like we have a handful of investors lining up to open a nightclub in this economic climate. It sucks, man. That’s why it’s important that you make a good impression with him.”

“What’s his name again?” Christian asked, settling into the leg press machine.

“Frank Rocco,” Gage answered, getting ready for another set. “I think you’ll like him. He’s a nice older guy who gives off a real down-to-earth vibe. Nothing like the rest of the suits I’ve dealt with. Frank’s the kind of guy who would sit down and have a beer with you just as easily as he would drink some fancy French wine. You’ll like him,” Gage assured him with another grin. He blew out a short breath and started his sets.

They were both silent for the moment, focused on the exercise, but Christian’s mind was not on his reps but rather what he felt was a crossroads in his life. He’d always dreamed of owning his own nightclub, something classy like Martini only not quite so stuffy, but just when he thought he’d saved enough capital to quit his job so he could focus on his own project, he was faced with the unpleasant reality that no one was willing to float him a loan because he had no track record in his field. It was the proverbial catch-22. He needed experience to prove himself but he couldn’t prove himself without experience. So he needed someone who was willing to take a chance on him and his vision to get his foot in the door. It’d been a year of trying to find the capital and coming up short that had finally tipped the scale. He didn’t like the idea of being attached to a money guy but he was willing to do what it took to get his business open.

“So set up the meeting then,” Christian said, his jaw tight.

“Good, because I already did,” Gage admitted with a grunt as he lowered the weights, sweat running down his face in rivulets. “First meeting is set for next week over coffee at this little hole-in-the-wall place called Café Au Lait that supposedly makes the best espresso in the Village. Wear something casual but not too casual.”

“I know how to dress,” Christian said, shooting his friend an annoyed look. “You just worry about yourself. I always make a good first impression.”

Gage mopped his face. “You’re right. That’s why I know this is going to work. I wouldn’t have tied myself to you in this deal if I didn’t think we could make it happen. I forgot my phone at home so I’ll text you the date, time and address when we’re done here.”

“Thanks,” Christian said, appreciating his friend’s candor and his support but it wasn’t entirely altruistic on Gage’s part. Gage, like Christian, wanted to make money. He finished his set and moved to another machine to work on his deltoids. He focused on the workout, glad to blank out for a minute. The past few weeks had been hell. He loved the city but sometimes it wore him down. It was easy to stumble and fall in this place where the pace never stopped or slowed down for pedestrians. But every now and again, he felt that odd twinge for a little peace and quiet. He usually satisfied that urge with a visit home to Mama Jo but he hadn’t been able to get back there for a while now. He knew what the twinge really was—guilt.

Mama Jo had raised him and his foster brothers, Thomas and Owen, when hell had opened its doors for each of them and the flames of their personal lives had threatened to incinerate them.

He owed that woman more than she could ever know. That was another reason he wanted to get the club running. He wanted to make sure he always had the means to take care of Mama Jo if the need ever arose. He knew he could make a go of things if he was given the chance, but so far, he’d been hit by a shitload of roadblocks. And he was feeling the pressure.

“Hey, I need a favor,” Gage said, interrupting his thoughts. Christian slowly disengaged the weights and stepped away from the machine he was using, suspicion raising his brows at Gage’s request. “I managed to score this date with a girl I’ve been trying to land for weeks now and she finally said yes…”

Christian shook his head, knowing where this was going. “I don’t double-date,” he said.

“Dude, wait until you see her friend. She’s hot,” he assured him but Christian wasn’t buying.

“So why aren’t you going after her instead?”

“I’m a gentleman—”

“No, you’re not. You’re a man-whore. What’s the deal? Is she missing a leg? Got a great personality but has a moustache? C’mon…don’t con a con, man. I know you’re trying to sell me a damaged bit of goods.”

Gage laughed but didn’t deny it. “So, she’s a little on the plump side,” he admitted. “But you’re always talking about how shallow I am so I figured you’d be willing to take a lovely—albeit healthy—lady out for the evening.”

“I don’t mind a woman with curves,” Christian said, shaking his head. “But doing anything that helps you get laid I’m against on principle. I figure I’m saving some woman’s heart from getting broken because after you hit it and then don’t call her back she’s going to cry her eyes out. My foster mother says, ‘Karma is a bitch’ and, brother, you’re headed for a world of hurt very soon the way you’ve been behaving since I’ve known you.”

“Thank you, Ghandi,” Gage retorted with a snort. “Save the morality for when you’re back in the sticks of Virginia. This is Manhattan, my friend, where the women are as tough as the men. Besides, when was the last time you enjoyed the company of someone other than your hand?”