Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(12)

“Until this,” I supply.

“Until this,” he agrees.

“I assume she wants money?”

“Of course she does. But not until she’s done taunting me. She just tells me to be ready to give her what she wants. It’s been going on for months. I’m losing my mind every time I go into a game. And she’s enjoying the game she’s playing with me.”

“It could be just talk.”

“It’s not.”

“You have to go to the police.”

“I told you, she’ll move forward with her threats if I do, and I’ve told you what that means for me.”

I hope for his sake that I have the only chip, but . . . where is Stephanie? “When was the last time you heard from her?”

“A few days ago.”

“But why let her unit go, when she could have demanded money from you?”

“I don’t know the answer to that.”

“How did you know about the unit?”

“Private investigator. I’m hoping there’s a clue to where she is inside the unit.”

But I have the chip. This makes no sense and the cautious person in me, the one who has lived with lies and deceit most of my life, is in full-blown alert mode. “You say you’re good at reading people, but your winning record also says you have a good poker face. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

He stares at me for another few eternal seconds, and then suddenly he is standing, crossing the room. I twist around to find him snatching my cell phone. “It’s not broken,” he announces, already returning to me and pulling me to my feet.

“What are you doing now?” I demand.

His reply is to snatch my purse from the bed, stuff my cell inside, and place the strap over my shoulder, before demanding, “Come with me.”

There’s no chance for me to respond. He’s already tugging me along and down the stairs.

“Where are we going?” I ask, an unspoken demand in my question. “Stop. Wait.”

He surprises me by doing both, then launches into an explanation. “I told you: I have proof of the blackmail. You said you needed your purse. You have it. Now you’re coming with me.”

“Yes, but—” I blink and we’re moving again, and this time he keeps going. Jason is Trouble as surely as he’s a bull charging forward, and in seconds we’re out my front door.

“Do you have your keys?”

“Yes, but—”

He reaches inside and locks the door before yanking it shut, then reaches for my hand, and already he’s back in a full charge, headed toward the porch steps, when I shout, “Trouble—I mean Red Bull, or Jason—damn it, whoever you are, just stop!”

He turns and faces me. “The press and the fans call me Red Bull. You can call me Jason.” His lips quirk. “Or Trouble will do just fine.”

And before I can insist that I lock my dead bolt with me inside, he’s moving again, charging forward again, and I have two options. Scream for help, or go along for the ride.





CHAPTER FOUR


BLACKMAIL. A HOT POKER PLAYER. And me. How did this become my world? But sure enough, it is, and said poker player, also known as Trouble in my mind, Red Bull in his professional life, is dragging me toward his car—and then to who-knows-where. And I’m letting him because I hope he has the proof he claims to have that he’s being blackmailed. Okay, I have proof of that. I just want to know I have the entire story before I decide if I should hand over the storage unit to him or go to the police instead, which he swears will cause a backlash from his blackmailer.

Jason stops at the side of his car, a black, low-to-the-ground, sporty thing that stirs old memories I prefer to leave forgotten and stabs at my gut. He yanks the door open. I don’t move.

“Flashy much?” I challenge, and unbidden disapproval laces the words.

“I have sponsors,” he says, with the cool confidence I’m coming to expect from him. “Lamborghini happens to be one of them. And yeah. Flashy, baby. Remember? I work hard for it.”

I soften instantly, unsure why this car and this man have set the blades of the past cutting through me. I’m responding to skeletons in my closet that have everything to do with abusing money and power, but nothing to do with this man I think of as Trouble. He isn’t the trouble of my past. He’s Jason. And Jason deserves to be judged by his own actions, not those of others who once were in my life and never will be again.

“You getting in or am I putting you in?” Jason challenges when I don’t move.

My brows dip. “Oh, good grief. Put your caveman hat back in the closet, because it doesn’t fit. If I didn’t want to go with you, the entire neighborhood would know by now and we’d be on the news tonight.”

“So you’re saying you want to go with me?”

I walked right into that one and I quickly sidestep. “I’m willing to go with you.”

His eyes narrow, holding mine, and something in the air shifts, crackles, and I feel the connection sizzle through my body. I feel him in a way that lands a girl in bed with a man—and I know from my mother’s experience with my father that when said man is rich and famous, that doesn’t mean much. Which, aside from the whole blackmail thing, might just make Jason the perfect kind of trouble for me at this point in my life.