Chapter 18

Eighteen

"You have immediate access, right?" I ask as Ash comes back from the main house with a Louis Vuitton travel bag over his shoulder. "To the money, I mean. Because I need it by noon three days from now. And what are you doing with that?"

"Borrowing it," he says, as he plunks the bag onto the bed and unzips it. He pulls out a sundress and passes it to me. "I think it'll fit you."

"It's adorable," I say, which is true. "But money? Access? Hello? It has to be an electronic transfer, so you're set up to do that, too, right? Do you need to make some sort of arrangement with your bank? Should you call and let them know?"

He lifts his head, meets my eyes, then crosses to a chest of drawers.

I get the message—he's got it under control.

I start to ask if I'm right about that, then tell myself to stop. To trust him. "Fine," I say, after drawing a calming breath. Then I focus on the dress I've been carrying around. "Um, this?"

"We call that a dress," he says. "It's one I had immediate access to, so…"

I pick up one of the small throw pillows from the bed and toss it at him. "It's Nikki's, right?" I ask as he laughs and dodges the pillow. "Why are you handing it to me?"

He looks me up and down in a way that erases all the pillow-throwing laughter. "Because, Brianna," he says in a voice laced with heat. "I want you in a dress."

"Oh." The change in the room's atmosphere is palpable, and I hope I sound casual when I glance down at the tailored slacks and sleeveless blouse I'd worn for the interview. "What's wrong with this?"

"Did you think I was bluffing about payment?"

My nipples go hard, and my cheeks heat as the pressure of need builds between my legs. I want what he's calling a payment, and the only thing that bothers me is that he damn well knows it.

I tell myself that's just fine. Yes, I ran from him in the past, but this time I won't. I can't because that's the deal.

Which means that by the rules of our deal, we'll both get what we want.

As if he's reading my mind, the corner of his mouth quirks up, making him look like a sexy anti-hero from an action movie. He takes a step toward me, a raw heat filling the space between us. He's going to touch me—I'm certain of it. Just as I'm certain that I'll melt in his arms when he does. This isn't a bargain. His terms aren't really payment at all. He's simply giving me the money and throwing himself in as a gift.

"Go ahead," he says, once again looking me over in that hard, hot way he has. "Strip."

The world shatters like ice .

Desire freezes in my gut, hard and painful, as a wave of fear washes over me. I reach out to steady myself, only to find that nothing is there, and suddenly, I'm tumbling to the ground, my knees unable to support me, my entire body turned limp and cold and afraid.

Strip.

That word. That voice.

Except it wasn't that voice.

I scoot backward, then draw my knees up and hug them, telling myself over and over and over that it wasn't him saying it. That I'm not trapped in a room. That I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.

Through a tunnel a thousand miles long, I hear Ash's voice calling my name. Then his hands on my knees. I twist, turning away from him, mortified as reality crashes back over me.

"Hey, shhh. It's okay. Are you hurt?"

I don't understand, then realize I'd landed hard on my elbow. I focus on that. The pain. Not the memory. Not the horror.

And little by little, I use that pain to help me focus so that I can follow Ash's voice back to the world. Back to myself.

"I'm sorry." My voice is small, like a child.

He's crouching in front of me, and tentatively takes my hands. I don't tug them away. "You don't have a thing to be sorry for," he says.

I see both understanding and a question in his eyes, like a man who knows that the moon is up in space, but he doesn't have a clue how it got there. "Are you okay now?"

I nod, surprised that it's true. Right now, with Ash beside me, I really am okay. I wait, knowing he's going to ask me what happened. That's when okay will turn into horrible. That's when the nightmares will come dancing into the room despite the sun shining outside.

But he doesn't ask. All he says is, "You'll have your money. But I'm cutting the strings."

The words flow through me like warm whiskey, welcome and a little intoxicating. But still a crutch.

I tug my hands from his as I shake my head. "I need that money," I say, my eyes on the floor. "But I'm not taking charity."

Gently, he uses a fingertip to tilt up my chin. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

I shake my head. Then I stand up. I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath. I can do this. I was surprised, that's all. But I can do this.

I have to.

"Say it again," I demand.

His brow furrows, then he slowly shakes his head.

"That word. Say it again."

He's silent.

"Dammit, Ash. You had conditions. That's the deal I agreed to." I feel tears sting my eyes, and I will not cry. I will not let the way that my kidnappers tormented me fuck me up. I will do my part, and Ash is going to play his part, too, or else I'm going to kick his extremely fine ass. " Say it. "

He looks at me, and I can't read a thing on his face. The he lifts his chin, and his eyes lock on mine when he says it: "Strip."

I wait for it—the second rush of fear, of disgust, of loathing for what they did to me, and terror from all the rest I still don't know. I haven't even had the courage to look at those Greatest Hits yet, after all. But the rush doesn't come. I'm not in that room. I'm in the Stark guest house. It may not be my home anymore, but it's a warm, familiar place.

And I'm with Ash. A man with a wicked reputation and a past laced with more than a little danger. A man who plays with his little brother and sisters on the floor of their playroom. Who laughed with me over drinks in a socked-in airport.

A man who put sexual conditions on the three million dollars I desperately need. Who agreed not to ask me why I need the money.

A man who didn't hesitate to withdraw those conditions when he got his first look at my pain.

In other words, I'm safe.

Slowly, I peel off my shirt. I look at him, expecting to see victory in his eyes, but I don't. Like his father, Ash is an expert at hiding his emotions when he wants to. Right now, all he does is indicate that I should continue. I do, toeing off my shoes and then stripping off my pants. I don't bother trying to look graceful. These are terms. Not a seduction. And I'm left standing there in my lacy bra and hipster panties. Just one more commodity in the trade.

The dress is on the floor where I dropped it. It's pale blue and strapless, with a bodice made of stretchy material.

When I start to put it on, he shakes his head. "Take off the bra."

I almost argue, just for form. A bra doesn't work with that dress, after all. I was just keeping it on until the very last minute.

But that's not the real reason I stay silent. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I like this game. Before, I felt like a victim, desperately scrambling for money. Now—even though I'm undressing at the whim of a man who's paying me to submit so that I can pay off a sick fuck who's blackmailing me—I feel powerful.

That probably makes me delusional. At the very least, it makes me screwed up.

But I figure that's better than terrified.

The bottom line is that I trust Ash. And considering the very big hoop he's making me jump through, that's pretty remarkable.

Once the dress is on, I move to where he's sitting on the bed and turn around, as if I'm in a fashion show. "Done," I say as I start to step into my sandals, but he grabs a chunk of the skirt and holds me in place.

"Not quite," he says, then starts to hitch up my skirt.

"What are you?—"

"Shhh," he says, and I go quiet. It hardly matters. I know what he's doing. He's going to touch me.

And damned if I don't want him to.

He ruches the skirt up, and I feel the warmth of his touch as his hands go to my hips and the band of my panties. He tugs them down, sliding off the bed so he can take them all the way to the floor. "Step out," he says, and I do, closing my eyes in expectation of his palms caressing their way back up my calves, my thighs. Finding my core. And, yes, finding me already wet.

Except he doesn't.

Instead, he sits back down on the bed.

I turn, frowning. "What the hell?"

"The deal was immediate access. No panties, Bree."

"Oh." Apparently, I was three steps ahead of him, and now I feel like an idiot who's shown her cards. Except I haven't. As far as he's concerned, I'm just complaining about his little game. About going panty-less.

Then I see the way his brow furrows, followed by a quick, smug smile.

He says nothing, but I know he understands.

It's fifteen-love, and Ashton is winning.