Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(17)
I had explored the rooms of my prison earlier this morning, looking for possible escape points and for any potential weapons. I had come up dry on both points. Even if I had found a way to slip out into an unguarded area of the property I would be facing a long trek in an unforgiving desert landscape. And who could forget Rafe following me around all day, his blue eyes burning into me with anger and a sick desire.
The rooms I was free to explore were exquisitely furnished and spotless. The man had a good decorator. Considering where I came from I knew how to spot serious wealth; to tell the difference between a cheap imitation rug for instance, or one that cost more than a down payment on a house. This man was hideously rich. Which made me wonder what the heck he did to accumulate all of this wealth to attribute the need for an around the clock security detail that rivaled the president’s. All of my guesses were not good. What the f*ck had my father been thinking getting involved with this guy? I wondered what my father was doing now. Was he cooperating with the demands? Or had he called the police? I doubted my mother would want the “scandal” of her daughter being kidnapped. I imagine her greatest worry right now would be how bad the lighting would be in a police press conference. I couldn’t imagine my father becoming outraged or out of his mind with worry for me. He never really expressed much emotion toward me. We got along okay, even had some enjoyable conversations. My father had a dry wit and I enjoyed his company when he was around, which wasn’t often. He was never affectionate with me, but didn’t hesitate in getting me whatever I wanted and he did drop everything to help me when I needed it. He loved me in his own detached sort of way. He would do what it took to get me home I hoped.
My thoughts moved to someone who would have an entirely different reaction to news of my kidnapping. Or he would have. Before. Maybe six months ago before I had come home and refused to talk to him. Avoided him at all costs. And when he had finally had enough of my evasion and silence I had to flat out lie to him. I’d never forget the look in his eyes after I uttered words that broke my own heart. So maybe after that he might not have the reaction I would have thought. He might not have any reaction at all. I was solely to blame for that. I sabotaged any future I had with him. It would have been a f*cked up future anyway, with the shadow of a dead man between us. No, it would have been doomed. I did us both a favor.
But now while I was imprisoned, facing the grim reality of my own mortality, I couldn’t help but think back to when I first saw him.
Brock.
CHAPTER THREE
One Year Ago
It wasn’t love at first sight. Fireworks didn’t explode between us, nor did my angelic good looks and womanly wiles ruin him for anyone else. Pure sexual attraction was what it was at the start. Nothing deeper. No romance novel, “you are mine for the rest of eternity” crap. All that magic was saved for my best friend. Not that I begrudged her, not for a second. She deserved every inch of that fairy dust that was sprinkled between her and Cade. I made sure none of that shit settled on my designer clad shoulders. I had been all sparkly eyed and struck dumb by love. By her very brother, in fact. I had been there, got the t-shirt and the kick to my lady bits. Okay, maybe more like a gunshot wound to the heart. The pain was as fresh as it was the day Ian yanked my heart out of my chest and stomped on it before handing it back to me.
“Ames, we had fun—it was amazing, in fact. You’re an incredible person, beautiful inside and out. You’re special. I love you. But this can’t work. You can’t pine for me while I’m thousands of miles away. I might not come back. I can’t be thinking about you. I need to stop this before it’s too late and shit gets complicated. You’ll thank me later.”
I gripped the cocktail shaker in my hand tightly at that memory, anger a more comfortable companion than heartbreak. Pining. Me? That was exactly what I had been doing for a f*cking year. There had been men. I hadn’t been a nun. I wasn’t one of those girls that said goodbye to orgasms because she was hoping her “true love” would get his shit together. I was, however, a hugely toned down version of my former sexual self. There had been men. But not many. And every time I took someone to bed I felt like crying. Heartbreak had turned me into a sniveling mess.
So I had decided as well as leaving New York I was leaving the sad and pathetic Amy Abrams behind. I wasn’t becoming a new person. I was going to be the old Amy. Pre Ian. That Amy knew what the deal was. Friends, high heels, designer threads, great cocktails and sex. Just sex. No messy strings, no emotional attachments.
I had originally thought this decision was ironic, considering I was moving to a tiny town where the f*ckable men pool would be small. Miniscule.
But I had been pleasantly surprised after my first few days here. It was as if this town attracted beautiful men. If I was a conspiracy theorist I would have been suspicious at just how a town this small managed to get such a great selection of men. I was not. What I happened to be was horny. I didn’t care if they were a government experiment gone wrong (or incredibly right), or aliens from another planet. The last time I had sex was months ago. That had to change.
I doubted that I would be finding any eligible bed buddies at our store opening, but I was delightfully surprised. My eyes flickered to the sexy policemen that had waltzed through the door not ten minutes ago. They were hot. But they were clean cut, handsome, good guys. Well, I didn’t know if they were technically good guys but they represented them. They were a little too close to a certain soldier who I was trying to get over. No, I didn’t need a good guy. I didn’t need someone who would treat me right and tell me I was beautiful. I needed an *. Someone who would f*ck me and then not call me until he wanted me in his bed again. Someone who I wouldn’t fall in love with.