I was bruised and battered, but alive. Living, breathing, heart beating because of one man. All because of the man everyone told me to avoid.
The beautiful devil who had just killed four men in front of me … and disturbingly, that didn’t diminish my attraction for him one bit. It only made me want to know him more.
Who was Arthur Adley?
I needed to find out.
Chapter Three
CHESKA
The car stopped at Arthur’s yacht. My mobile vibrated, and I pulled it out of my clutch, which Arthur had retrieved from the alley floor.
FREYA: Where are you? We’re worried.
I took a deep breath.
Gone home. Had a headache. I’m going to bed. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.
I put my phone in my bag and tried not to feel guilty for omitting the truth about what had happened. But despite my throbbing cheek and my brush with the attackers, I needed to know what Arthur planned to do next. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to get behind the high walls he had clearly built around him. He was a deep, dark mystery wrapped up in a seductive package, and I was intent on figuring him out.
The driver opened the door beside Arthur and he stepped out. He walked around the boot and opened my door. I climbed out, wincing when my stomach stabbed with pain—the result of the punch I’d taken to my torso. Like in the alleyway, Arthur didn’t hesitate; he scooped me into his arms and carried me toward his yacht. Nerves burst in my chest.
Arthur walked onto the back deck and through to the living quarters. I roved my gaze around the area, numbly looking at the cherry-wood finishes and Italian furnishings. An older man was waiting, and when I saw his black bag, I realised he was a doctor.
“Not in here,” Arthur said to him and carried me through the centre corridor of the boat and into a large master bedroom. He placed me down on a huge bed that was dressed in black bed linen. Arthur stepped back, but from the way he crossed his arms over his chest and remained only a few feet from the bed, it was crystal clear that he wasn’t leaving.
The doctor looked at him, appearing slightly unnerved. “Señor? I will examine her now.” Arthur nodded his head at the Spanish doctor but stayed where he was. “You can leave the room.”
“No,” was all Arthur said. Goosebumps broke out on my arms at his curt, cold response.
The doctor looked to me for guidance. “I’m fine with him staying,” I said.
The doctor sighed but examined me from head to toe. He hesitated, glancing back to Arthur when he said, “Have you been compromised, señorita?”
It took me a moment to understand his meaning. When it hit home, I shook my head. “No,” I said, seeing Arthur’s jaw clench again. The doctor stood and started putting his equipment back in his bag.
“Bathe, then place ice on your cheek for the swelling. I will leave pain medication for you to take. There is no lasting or significant damage. You will be fine once the bruising fades.”
“Thank you,” I said, and the doctor left the room. A man dressed in a dark suit came to lead him away. I looked down at my torn and bloodied dress and felt disgust and the residual embers of fear roll through me.
What would have happened if Arthur hadn’t found me?
“Shower is through there.” Arthur pointed to an en-suite bathroom. When I struggled to get up from the bed, he held out his hand. Our palms kissed, and my heart doubled its beat and shivers raced through the very marrow of my bones. Arthur helped me off the bed. There was no reason I couldn’t go and shower next door on my own yacht. But I didn’t want to go back there alone. That thought forced me to remember something, and I felt my stomach cave in.
“They knew my name,” I whispered, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His hand held me a fraction tighter at that information. I sucked in a stuttered breath. “They called me a spoilt Harlow cunt.” I swallowed back the bile that was clawing up my throat. “Arthur … they knew who I was. They knew I was a Harlow.” The fear I had felt from the attack increased tenfold at knowing I was targeted. That they had followed me to the alley. That they had been waiting for the right time to capture me. To hurt me. To take me …
Arthur stepped closer, so close I smelled the fresh water notes of his aftershave and the spice of what must have been his bodywash. “They won’t get you here,” he said, and I felt the truth of that statement wash over me like a refreshing summer rainfall. He nudged his chin toward the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Get the smell of those fuckers off your skin.”
At his curt attitude, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Before I did, I saw Arthur take his phone from his pocket and start calling people. I moved to the shower and turned it on. Steam filled the luxurious space, and I stripped off my dress, avoiding the mirror. When I was naked, I went to move under the spray, but I caught my reflection in my peripheral vision.
I had to see it. Had to see what those monsters had done to me. My stomach rolled—I had red welts from their grips, and my cheek was slightly swollen and sore from the strike to my face. But, bizarrely, what held my focus the most were the finger marks Ollie Lawson had left on my arm. A fissure of unease trickled down my spine as I thought of how he had changed in a second from the kind and attentive friend he had always been to the controlling and aggressive boy he’d morphed into at the club.
And he hated Arthur. Arthur who had just saved me.
My legs were weak as I entered the shower, the hot spray crashing down on my head like holy water piped in from Lourdes. Shock must have still had me in its grasp; my legs buckled and I hit the tiled floor.
Those men knew my name. They had come after me.
Who were they? What did they want with me?
Shivering, I tried to get to my feet, but my pathetic legs wouldn’t move, residual shock from the attack rendering them useless. The door to the bathroom suddenly slammed open, and there Arthur stood, backlit by the dim bedroom light, appearing like a fallen angel.
“I can’t get up,” I whispered, despising the tremble in my voice.
Arthur walked toward me. He didn’t look at my naked body once as he picked me up in his arms. “Have you cleaned yourself?” He looked at my half-damp hair and still-dirty skin and must have decided for himself that I hadn’t. He removed his glasses and put them on the side of the sink. I couldn’t take my eyes from his face, the unobstructed view of his deep blue eyes and long dark lashes.
As if I weighed nothing at all, he carried me under the spray. His white shirt and navy shorts became sodden, and his dark hair went from styled to the side to flat against his forehead. He looked so much younger this way. At times I forgot we were the same age. He always seemed so much older.
Arthur sat me on the stall’s ledge and reached for the shampoo on the corner shelf. He poured some into his hand and started washing my long dark hair. I winced when he brushed over a bruise that was forming on my scalp, where the attackers had yanked my hair back. Arthur’s hands stopped moving, and he exhaled a long, steady breath. He resumed washing my hair, but this time he was softer, more careful, so gentle in his touch and tenderness that tears welled in my eyes. As I tipped my head back, the tears spilled onto my cheeks, dripping down my neck and melding with the hot water.