Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Violet

It isn't until we walk into the kitchen that I notice there are a lot more people here than I initially thought. Somehow, it helps me draw in a breath. They're just quiet, their presence and work seamless in the background. Two more of his staff are in the garden, and only paces away from them, four strong men dressed in military attire look like they're doing… drills? It's hard to tell from here, but it's clear they're training.

The guard at the door inclines his head at us as we pass, and Cain holds his palm up when he begins to follow us. Either he has guards outside as well, or he trusts that I'm not here to ambush him.

Maybe he shouldn't be so trusting.

The side door leading to the garage opens, and a portly, middle-aged Latina woman with pretty brown eyes and short brown hair enters, her arms heavily laden with brown grocery bags. Cain pauses, his hand on the door to exit, when he sees her coming in.

"You know better than to carry those in yourself," he scolds, clucking his tongue at her as he walks over to her. "Alma, why didn't you call me?" Reaching her, he plucks the bags out of her hands before sliding them onto the countertop.

She smiles at him. "Eh, thought you'd be busy, and it's good for me to still do things sometimes, se?or ," she says.

"And you're no good to me laid up in bed because you threw your back out again," he mutters, rebuking her. I nearly cringe at the sharp edge in his tone, but she only winks at me.

The door shuts behind us. The warm summer air tickles my skin.

"Mr. Master?—"

"Call me Cain."

Skipping the formalities so soon. Interesting. "Cain. That's a unique name. I've only known one other man with a name like that, but he spelled it differently." The son of one of my foster parents.

"You've looked up my name."

"Of course." I am not going to lie to him unless I have to.

A shadow crosses his features for a split second before he grows serious. "You don't hear the name Violet every day either."

"My name was supposed to be Angela, but when my mother saw my eyes, she changed her mind."

"You were born with eyes that color, then?"

A curious question. It shouldn't please me that he's noted the color of my eyes. Everyone notices them, but he seems the type that only notices you if it matters.

"Yes."

We walk in silence down a path made of stones that leads past the garden to the barn or shed or whatever it is.

"I'm not going to waste your time, Mister—Cain. You own a private investigation agency."

He walks with his hands in his pockets, which might look casual but really only serves to make the muscles along his arms and neck bulge that much more. God.

"Depends on who you ask."

I have to walk faster to keep up with his long strides. I'm falling behind him. For one brief, crazy moment, I'm tempted to smack his back and tell him to slow down. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs a large shoulder and scowls at the path in front of him. "I don't advertise."

"And yet, I'd hazard a guess you're booked through next year."

"And then some."

We walk in silence for another moment while I try to formulate a plan to tell him what I need.

"I don't have the kind of money you'd ask for, but… I could barter."

Why did it sound so much better in my head?

He stops walking long enough to give me an amused smirk. "I don't need homemade soap or homegrown tomatoes." Another rude glance down at me. "And you're right. You can't afford my company." I know he means I can't afford to hire him, but the way he says it makes it sound like I'm not worthy of being in his presence. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don't tell him off, grounding myself in the stab of pain.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

My cheeks heat. I decide the best course of action is to ignore the taunt. "We could help each other. A mutually beneficial situation. I mean, I—I have talents and skills that could benefit your organization, and I could benefit from what you have to offer as well."

He sighs. "Don't waste my time. To be honest, I'm not even sure this consultation is something you could afford, but it's warm out and I needed some fresh air. I'd be charging most people by the hour for this discussion alone, but I'm taking pity on you." He looks down at my crumpled dress and faded purse. My skin prickles uncomfortably, but before I can respond he continues. "You're already talking about collaboration, and I don't even know why you're here."

I won't rise to take his bait, I won't. But God, my temper's a beast, and it's hard to keep it on a leash sometimes.

"I—I need help finding a few people, and I believe you could help me."

Still scowling, he doesn't respond, so naturally I feel the need to keep talking, because that always helps.

"I'm skilled in martial arts. I'm reigning champion on the East Coast?—"

"In the women's division," he interrupts with an impatient sigh.

Does he know that? Does he know anything else about me, or was it just a guess about an obvious fact?

My blood begins to go from a simmer to a boil, and I slow my pace. "Excuse me?"

"In the women's division," he repeats with a casual shrug, hands still in his pockets. "Means nothing when you're up against a man."

"Oh, is that right?" Chauvinistic prick, I mentally tack on.

I imagine drop-kicking him right here. A swift kick between his legs would incapacitate him enough for me to move quickly.

He doesn't bother to hide the disdain in his tone. "Of course. I'm sure you could drop a pussy on his ass, but it means jack shit unless you're fighting a real man."

He's dropping all semblance of professionalism, and another warning bell chimes in my mind.

We've made it to the edge of the garden. A brisk wind carries warm air from over the sea, white-capped waves crashing in the distance behind him. A gull caws overhead, but I hardly hear it. The blood pounds in my ears with my rising temper. A corner of his beautiful, perfect lips quirks upward. Mocking me. "Got under your skin. Want to prove me wrong?"

I'm already in a fighting stance, my shoes kicked to the side like so much baggage. My hands clench into fists at my sides. I don't care who he is, he just tossed the gauntlet down and I do not back down.

"Of course I do."

Stop, the little inner voice of reason warns.

I never did like that voice.

And suddenly, it doesn't matter that I'm wearing a dress, that he's a hundred pounds heavier than I am, and I'm trying to convince him to hire me. All I see is a brawny sexist who needs to learn a lesson.

I've spent years perfecting the double-leg takedown, a move that works in the ring or on the street. If he was unaware, I might be able to take him down. He's prepared though, and way too big.

All I want to do is level him. I could drop him to the ground, without actually causing injury. I've done the move a thousand times. Though he's bigger than I am—by a lot—I'm smaller and more agile, giving me a decided advantage. But while it might be satisfying to drop a man of his size to the ground, that's just the problem—he's fucking huge, and I'm not, and that really fucking matters.

"No." With effort, I drop the fighting stance, and shrug my shoulders. I walk casually over to him. "You're too big for a girl like me," I say with mock humility. I wait until he resumes his casual walking. "I couldn't possibly—" He looks away from me, a strategic error and my only chance.

Thwack. I kick my leg out so fast I register surprise in his eyes, but he's even faster than I am. Instinctively, he deflects, and instead of striking back, ducks. When he's bent over, I shove, pushing him off-kilter.

For one second, one glorious second, I've got him as he's taken by surprise and falls. I quickly pin him down. Victory courses through me, and I can't stop the grin that sweeps over my face at the surprise in his eyes. But the moment's short-lived.

Fuck.

His eyes darkening to gray blue, he coils his body, and the next thing I know, I'm soaring through the air. There's an audible sound of a tear, and then… he's immobilized me.

No.

He's on top of me, and I'm pinned beneath him.

"You think you need to show me who you are?" he asks. Just to show off, the bastard's got both my wrists in one huge hand, and I can't move.

I realize three things at once.

First, my dress is torn. The ripping sound was the neckline. A flap of fabric moves in the breeze, baring my bra-clad boobs to him. Great.

Second, his… body is on top of me.

And he's… large, and strong, and masculine, and really smells a lot better than any man ever should. Images of the two of us naked flit through my mind because I'm not a corpse, and other than us not knowing each other, being outdoors where anyone could see us, and fully clothed… what's to stop me from mentally going there?

Third… he's furious. A vein throbs in his temple, and his nostrils flare. I can tell he's holding himself back from really hurting me.

My throat tightens with the sudden knowledge that once again, I've let my temper get the best of me and probably just ruined everything.

Again.

He won't let me stay now. I know he won't. Only a fool would.

"You were saying?" His eyes spark at me like flashes of flint.

"I can fight," I say through gritted teeth, my voice shaking.

"Of course you can." He spits out the words like venom. I feel momentarily vindicated. He doesn't wonder if I can fight. " That was never in question."

Wasn't it? Did he bait me? If he did, I leapt to it like a goddamn fish to a worm-covered hook. His admission that I can fight takes a bit of the wind out of my sails.

If I wasn't fully restrained under him, I could reach out and touch that rugged stubble along his jaw. There's a silvery scar near his left eye I didn't notice before, weirdly similar to mine. Huh.

"You listen." His voice is a deadly purr, like the growl of a mountain lion warning its prey. He lowers his face to mine so we're only inches apart. I can't believe I thought he had an ounce of softness in him just moments ago. He's nothing but hard lines and angles, as flexible as steel. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face, but his eyes are cold as ice. "Do not ever do that again."

"Do what?" My voice is barely a whisper.

He leans in closer, the muscles along his neck taut. He bares his teeth, his voice no more than a growl. "Try to fight me."

He doesn't even say fight me, but try.

Ouch.

Okay, so I'm getting off with a warning? If he wanted to throw me off his property, he wouldn't use the word "again."

Would he?

He's got me in an expert submission hold, more skilled than most I've fought before.

I came here to suggest a business proposal and he's served me humble pie.

Good one, Vi. I stifle a sigh.

"Tell me you won't ever even think about fighting me again, Miss Price."

"I won't fight you." My voice is clogged with emotion. I don't concede often, and when I do, it's under duress, just like this. I don't make any promises beyond that, though.

There are many, many things I could do that don't fall under the umbrella of "fighting."

"Why are you here?"

"You're still on top of me."

"I'm aware." He doesn't budge.

I won't sugarcoat things. I won't pretend I'm here for any reason other than my true purpose. I draw in a breath and hold his gaze, unblinking, my tone of voice firm and confident despite my compromised position.

"I need you to help me find the people who killed my parents."

Still holding me beneath him, he gives me one short nod before he releases me. I get to my feet, shaking a little, and fruitlessly try to hold the flapping fabric against my breasts. My hands shake.

He reaches for the hem of his tee and yanks it up over his head before he tosses it in my direction.

Numbly, I catch it mid-air. It's soft and warm and smells like him, spicy and virile and all male.

I look at him and blink.

"Put it on."

I look down at my bare chest and ripped dress, then back like an idiot to the bunched-up fabric in my hand before I realize he's standing bare from the waist up in front of me. As he turns away from me, I tug the tee on quickly, to block my view of his perfect, chiseled back, crossed with the same silvery scars as my own.

For some reason, that makes me want to cry. No one has scars like that without a story. No one.

His tee swims on me, and I feel like an utter fool, the edge of my dress peeking out underneath the hem of his shirt. But I came here with a purpose, and I'm not leaving until I tell him more. So, I ignore the burning in my throat. I ignore the way his tee feels on me, too soft for a man like him, so warm it's a comfort. I ignore the way my body responds to his.

And I take back an ounce of control. I can either walk around here like a little kid wearing her brother's oversized tee, or I can own this.

I reach to the back of the dress, ignore the pain in my arm from the awkward position, and tug the zipper down. I shimmy out of it, and the ripped fabric pools around my ankles. I bend and lift it, so I'm wearing nothing but his tee like a dress.

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it, only crooks his finger at me. I follow.

I read once that in the animal kingdom, a female can't control the innate biological desire to mate with an alpha male. Instinctively, she knows he would protect her and their offspring

I comfort myself with the knowledge. Visceral attraction to an alpha male is an instinct, not a choice. It isn't my fault.

"Come with me." He jerks his chin forward and begins to walk. I'm not really a fan of being bossed around, but I think I've pushed my luck enough.

With his shirt flapping around my body, I follow him to the fence at the edge of his property. From here I can see he has a pretty, curved pool with a small waterfall cascading into it from the left. Adirondack chairs line the sunny perimeter, a perfect retreat.

"Sit."

He folds his bulk into a large chair by the poolside and jerks his chin at a chair opposite him. I choose a chair as far away from him as I can get. Here, I'm in direct sunlight and blinded, unable to stare at his muscled shoulders, the dog tags that swing around his neck, or those washboard abs I would drink shots off of and not regret. Even while staring at his eyes, I'm aware of a faint smattering of dark hair across his chest, the way his waist tapers to faded jeans that hug his waist right where… I swallow. And block out everything I can to focus on him.

I've studied neurolinguistic programming, among other brain tricks. If you train yourself hard enough, you can erase bad memories, traumatic events, and replace them instead with a flash of white or a happy thought. It takes practice, but it can be done. In a split second, I mentally block out his masculinity and focus on his eyes, the rest of him bathed in imaginary bright white.

"Tell me everything."

"About what?"

"About what you need from me."

I take a risk and push him a little.

"You've already decided I can't afford your services and you've already decided I'm of no use to you. So why tell you?"

A slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he isn't used to being questioned. "Did I say I have no use for you?"

Did I—does he mean—no. God , no. Again, I want to run, and again, I make myself stay before my mind thinks of the very many ways he can use me. "No, sir. You didn't."

"Then tell me. Let's just say I'm curious."

I know without explanation that the only way I'll ever get his cooperation and help is to do exactly what he's asking.

So, I do. I give him the bald, honest, painful truth. I tell him quickly and succinctly, so I don't waste his time or mine.

"When I was four years old, my father worked as an assassin. My mother did not know this, and it took me a full decade after I put my mind to it to find out the truth. One night, they were pulled from their beds and executed."

Anyone else would be surprised by this. It's not exactly a story you tell when you first meet someone. It's not a story I tell anyone.

I register no surprise in his eyes. He's heard accounts like mine before.

It's why I'm here.

"Whoever it was never came after me. We lived in a cramped apartment, and my makeshift room was a closet. My mother must've shut the door when she heard intruders."

"Sloppy work."

"At the very least, hasty. I spent the rest of my childhood in foster care until the moment I turned eighteen. I've been piecing things together about their death since my earliest memories, and I've reached an impasse."

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-four."

He holds everything I've said for a moment and doesn't respond.

I watch as he crosses his ankle over his knee and leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. I make my eyes look away from the rippling muscle he effortlessly flaunts when he leans back.

"And what will you do when you find them?"

"The same thing you would."

It's a bold move, to assume I know how he'd behave.

I brace myself for his anger, or outrage, or a command to leave. Maybe he'll even call someone to come and escort me off his property. How far is too far to push a man like him?

He does none of those things.

"And what is it I would do?"

I squirm but don't look away. "You'd kill them."

He doesn't deny it.

"I don't think you're capable of murder, Miss Price."

So, we're back to formalities. I can play that game, too.

"That's only because you don't know me, sir."

"And if I did?"

I swallow before I draw in a deep breath. "You'd know that there's nothing I won't do for the people I'm loyal to."

He slowly nods. The hint of approval fills me with pride.

Run, my instinct warns. It's dangerous to value the opinion of someone like him.

"That's closer."

"Closer to what?"

"Convincing me to hire you."