It had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had been dragged away in handcuffs, to spend the next months in prison. Years since she had lied, betrayed him, turned him in to the cops. It had been years, but his anger hadn't cooled. Jack Doherty wanted revenge. And now was the time to get it.
In front of him in the small concrete room was a metal folding chair. It was empty now. It wouldn't be empty for long.
Jack paced the small room rhythmically, his steps long and sure. At six and a half feet tall, his head nearly brushed the low ceiling. He looked down at his hands—large, callused, and scarred, clenched so tightly that the knuckles were blanched completely white. He could hardly wait.
It wasn't long before the heavy door clanged open. Two men, Alex and Sean—his right-hand men, his favorite thugs—burst in, each holding the elbow of a petite, half-collapsed figure between them. They threw her forward; with her hands tied behind her back, her knees bit the concrete hard. To her credit, she didn't cry out. The color of her blood on the gray floor was electric. The cloth bag over her head hid any emotions that might be crossing her face.
"Get her in the chair," Jack ordered. His palms were sweaty. He pushed up each of his sleeves past the elbow, displaying tattooed, sinewy flesh. The veins on his forearms were visible, pulsing. He was Michelangelo's triumph come to life.
Sean and Alex grabbed the prisoner's arms again and bundled her back into the chair.
Jack stepped forward and pulled the bag from the girl's head in one swift motion. And there she was. Cassandra Lane. She was just as Jack had remembered, in that first glance. The same ruler-straight white-blond hair that fell to her elbows. The same round, doe-brown eyes, framed in lashes so long and feathery they were in danger of getting tangled when she blinked. The same full pink lips—the top one slightly fuller than the bottom—, dimpled cheeks, straight little nose, sharp cheekbones.
He let his eyes travel down her creamy throat. Languidly. Sensually. Her body was the same too, just as he had remembered it. Petite yet curvy, with full breasts and a tiny waist, muscled long legs and a firm, round ass like a peach. She was dressed in a white blouse and black skirt—professional, but still sexy. Her skin was pale with fear, her lips trembling. He liked the way panic looked on her. It suited her.
"Hey, Cass," he greeted her throatily. He took a step forward, ran his knuckles down her milky cheek. She flinched at the contact and the coldness of the silver ring he wore, a tear trickling down to her left dimple.
"Jack," she said coolly. Her voice too was just the same, husky but sweet, always sounding like she'd spent the night before screaming at a rock show, or inhaling a few too many cigarettes. It was smoky and smooth and one of the things he'd always loved about her. He could hear her purring his name in his memories, feel the creamy warmth of her skin beneath his body.
He blinked, and then he finally saw a few changes. She had a burgeoning black eye, a trickle of blood running down her chin. (She'd put up something of a fight, then.) Her nails—always short when he knew her—were almond-shaped and perfectly manicured, ballet-pink. She was wearing stockings. The girl Jack knew never wore stockings. Something about the changes irked him. Particularly the bruises. He didn't want someone else marking up that pretty face. That job should belong to him alone.
Alex and Sean were still watching him, waiting to see what he'd do. He ran his hand down Cassandra's neck, feeling the thin silk cloth of her blouse between his rough fingertips. "How old are you, Cass?"
The girl shut her eyes, the corners of her cherry lips turning town. "Nineteen, Jack. You know it."
He did, of course. "And how old am I now, Cass? Remind me."
Eyes still closed, her tongue darted across her lips. "Twenty-eight."
"That's right." He ran his fingertips back up to her smooth face, tracing the edges of the bruise that spread across her nose and cheekbone. "And what do you think about those edges, Cass? Do they suit you?"
A muscle twitched in her jaw. Her coffee-colored eyes flew open. "It wasn't about the ages, Jack. You know it."
"No? The judge seemed to think so. Funny, though, that that came up at all. Seeing as I never fucked you. That's right, isn't it, Cass?"
Cassie was squirming in her seat. "Jack—"
"Isn't it, Cassandra?" The crack his hand made as it struck her cheek was so loud that it echoed in the small room. Cassie's head snapped sideways, gossamer hair flying, an immediate red handprint outlined on the girl's porcelain skin.
Cassie's lips were open in a soundless gasp. Her eyes were teary. "Yes," she admitted. "That's right."
...
The night they met had been the coldest night that November. Jack's band had been playing at the Corner, their first show in the States that year. It was a good crowd, a wild energy, even early in the evening. And then Jack had seen her.
The girl was standing alone, wearing a black dress. Her skin was pale and luminous, her hair pure gold. Her lips were painted blood-red. Her shoes had six-inch heels, but she was still shorter than most of the crowd. Somehow, though, the room seemed to be revolving around her. Somehow, no one could look away from her—the golden girl in the black silk dress so short and loose it would have looked like a pillowcase on anyone else. On her, it was magic.
She was dancing, swaying side to side, with one pale moonlight arm above her haloed head. Her eyes were closed, dusky lashes sweeping across her cheek like swaths of velvet. Those ruby lips. Those glossy legs. She was some other species entirely. Made of gold and silk and sunlight.
Jack reached out his hand to her. The crowded parted like an ancient sea. Those shining eyes. That satin skin. Her hand was in his, delicate-boned and cool. She was beside him on the stage, soaking up every ray of the spotlight. It danced under her skin. He sang every song to her. She spun across the cherry wood like a nymph. Her skirt twirled up to show the very top inches of her slender thighs. He was drunk on her.
The show ended and they were stumbling up the stairs, drunk on music and lust and whiskey. He shoved open the door of his suite, pushed her back onto the wide white bed. She was like an angel. Her cheeks were flushed, her red lips laughing. He was kissing her thighs, her wrists, the perfumed curve of her graceful neck. Her dress was tumbling off and he was melting in the sight of her breasts in a black lace bra, pushed up and perfect and tantalizing. Her slender stomach, faintly muscled and concave, with a perfect little belly button. Her panties, high-cut and lacy, showing that her glossy skin was smooth and perfect all the way up. Showing the curves of her taught, round ass. The gap between her thin, smooth thighs.
His cock was hard beneath his jeans. Her tongue was dancing in his mouth, her tongue silky, her lips like pillows. She was biting his shoulder, clawing up his back. And then she was pulling away. And then she was saying, "We can't." And she told him her secret.
And they hadn't. He hadn't minded the idea of waiting. He'd been with his share of women—hell, several men's share of women—but he'd been raised Catholic (he was Irish, after all)—and the idea of that perfect little virgin waiting for him. It wasn't like they couldn't find other ways to amuse themselves.
For the next six months, they'd been constantly together. They drank too much alcohol and partied too hard and kissed their lips raw. He couldn't get enough of her strawberry-smell and her glossy hair and that perfect, smooth, untouched skin. They fought and screamed and drove each other crazy. He'd been a mess, then. Too many drugs and too little sleep and too many demons. She was so sweet to him, holding him when his nightmares came, stroking his hair back from his forehead and sliding her smooth body over his. Offering him her neck to choke, letting him squeeze bruises into her skin. It always made his cock the hardest. And he's stroke it until he came, imaging the day he'd get to hold her down and slide that cock into her little pussy. They worked well together. She calmed his rage, his craziness, his monsters. He bought her dresses and played her songs and imagined bending her over the foot of the bed and fucking her, that muscled little ass bouncing against his cock. Sometimes they played a little rough—he had to, with all that aggression building up. A man can only wait so long. Especially a man like him. And usually she'd liked it. She liked being choked till her vision faded, liked being spanked over his lap until his handprints turned from red to purple. But he wanted more than that. He pushed a little. And one day, he'd pushed a little too far.
And she'd ran. And then the police had arrived. The charges read,
