Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(53)

“Easy to threaten when you’re three on one, isn’t it?” Bob tosses back with a sneer, trying to stand his ground, even while on his knees.

That makes Cain’s lips curl into a smile. Not the smile I love. A wicked smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. As if he was waiting for an invitation. “Nate, Ben, . . . take Charlie and step outside.” His icy tone sends a shiver through my insides.

Ben and Nate share a look but don’t move.

“Outside. Now!” Cain’s bark makes me jump.

Ben moves as if to comply, reaching out to me with a hand. Nate doesn’t budge, though. “You know I can’t do that, boss.”

“And why is that?” Cain taunts, never leaving Bob’s eyes. It’s as if he knows the answer but wants Nate to say it out loud, to have Bob hear it.

“Because this fool will not walk out of here if I leave you alone with him,” Nate answers, just as calmly. “So why don’t you let me take care of him.” Adding a little more softly, “Let it go, Cain.”

I haven’t taken a single breath since they stormed in. I have to take one now. It’s small and shaky and, as I study Cain’s face—a mask of cold, detached hatred—I realize that I’ve now gone from one dangerous situation to another.

I need Bob gone. Immediately.

“I’m fine, Cain. He’s just some guy who thought I was someone else,” I explain, taking a step forward.

Cain’s severe gaze finally settles on me. There is a turmoil within his eyes that can’t be missed—fear? Panic? Anger? Shock? With tentative steps, I close the distance and place a gentle hand on his forearm, which is taut with tension. His eyes haven’t left mine. “Cain, please. Just let Nate take him out.” I hate the pleading in my tone but at this point, I’m desperate. I can’t have Bob saying a word and I definitely can’t have Cain beating the hell out of him. That will just end badly for me down the road. As it is, I don’t know what this is going to mean at my next drop. I can’t think about it right now.

Right now I have to defuse this situation.

I slowly rub my hand back and forth over Cain’s arm, each muscle ripped, as tightly wound as he is.

After another long pause, he finally releases Bob from his death grip and steps in front of me, shielding my body behind him protectively.

As Bob struggles to get up, his eyes flash to me. I see the promise in them.

The promise of retribution.

I fight the tremble that skates along my spine.

“Your type isn’t welcome in this club,” Cain warns. “Stay the f**k out.”

Bob snorts, trailing beside Nate, who’s got one mammoth hand resting on his shoulder to steer him in the right direction as quickly and quietly as possible. Bob throws back, “Maybe you should look more closely at the type of whores you hire in here.”

Nate and Ben—obviously knowing their boss too well—anticipated his reaction because they move fast, Nate shoving Bob out of the room while Ben blocks Cain from chasing after him. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him,” Ben says, stepping backward slowly, “and you take care of Charlie.”

My hands find my stomach, pressing against the growing tangle of nerves inside. Why couldn’t I just keep these lives separate for a while longer? It’s as if the universe is conspiring against me, reminding me that I don’t have an indefinite amount of time. That everything will come crashing down. With just one phone call, just one visit . . .

Ginger already suspects something. She’s still talking to me, but she’s moody.

Now Bob knows how to find me. What if that had been Jimmy coming in here? Hell, tomorrow it could be Jimmy out there, watching me strip. My insides coil tighter at the thought.

And Cain . . .

At some point he made his way back into the V.I.P. room. He’s studying me with those hawkish eyes. Can he see my inner turmoil? My guilt? My duplicity? If he does, he doesn’t let on. He just stands there, studying me in silence until I’m ready to scream.

“Say something,” I finally demand in a hoarse whisper. I wait for him to growl at me as he did at Bob. To fire me for being in the V.I.P. room with a customer, though clearly I wasn’t doing any entertaining. I wait for him to look at me with hateful, disgusted eyes. To interrogate me, hammering me with questions, accusations, theories.

But he does none of that. He calmly pushes the door shut. Then, so fluidly that I miss his movement, I feel my body tugged toward him by the wrist, into his firm chest as his arms wrap around my frame, pulling me close, until I can almost feel the mess of emotions radiating from him—that same worry and pain and fear that I saw in his eyes.

And the last thing I expect him to do at this moment is the first thing he does.

With one hand lifting to curl around the back of my neck, Cain’s head dips to seal his mouth over mine. There’s no hesitation, there’s no doubt. There’s certainly no shyness, his tongue coaxing my lips apart and then diving in to claim my mouth as if it belongs to him already, skillfully stroking in a way that makes my knees weak and a low moan rumble in my throat.

It takes a few seconds for my shocked brain to fully grasp what’s happening but my willingness is immediate when I do, falling into him, my hands crawling up his stomach and chest—relishing every hard ridge that I’ve envisioned touching for weeks. He deepens the kiss, his arms pulling me tight to his body, trapping my hand over the spot on his chest where his heart rests. I feel it beating more wildly than my own and I marvel that I may be doing that to him.