Kidnapped by the Billionaire - Jackie Ashenden
Seven years ago Elijah Hunt lost everything that gave his life meaning.
Now, he’d lost it again.
This fucking bullshit was starting to get old.
The subway car rattled through the dark tunnel as he sat there with his fingers curled around the Colt in the pocket of his overcoat, watching the woman who sat opposite and a couple of seats down the car from him.
She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t recognized him. But then he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t.
She looked like she was in her own little world anyway, staring down at the fringed leather purse she held tightly in her hands as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
Violet Fiztgerald. Daughter of the biggest prick God had ever put on this earth. The prick he’d spent the last seven years serving.
Not anymore. That prick was now dead and so was everything Elijah had worked toward.
He wasn’t just pissed. He’d gotten beyond that. Way, way beyond it.
He was now in the cold zone, the dead place. Where only one thing had any meaning anymore: Take them down. Take them all down.
There was just one thing he needed in order to make that happen. Violet. His handy little backup plan.
She shifted in her seat, glancing distractedly at the drunk sitting a couple of seats away, an expression of distaste flickering across small, precise features heavily masked by the makeup she wore. Thick black eyeliner and dark blue mascara. Full red mouth. Her long blonde hair in its ridiculous dreadlocks was pulled back in a ponytail, and as she changed her hold on her battered-looking purse, the many silver bracelets she wore around her wrist made chiming sounds.
She was wrapped in a long and completely over-the-top dark blue coat of worn velvet, belted tightly around her waist. The boots on her feet were black and scuffed, lacing right up under the bright fall of her Indian silk skirt. In addition to the bracelets around her wrists, she wore heavy silver hoops in her ears and a little blue sapphire that glittered in her nose.
Ever since he’d become Fitzgerald’s right-hand man, Violet had been dressing like she’d stumbled over a box of theater costumes and just put them all on.
She looked ridiculous. A poor little rich kid trying rebellion on for size. When he’d first met her, she’d just come back from college after studying psychology against the express wishes of her parents. Then, not a couple of months after being back, she’d left again to pursue yet more study. She was one of those perpetual students, without a goal or purpose, substituting academia for a proper job. He despised her. Especially when not long after she’d come back with her master’s degree, she’d then taken off to India and Europe, claiming she needed some “me time.” And all on her father’s dime.
Spoiled, that’s what she was. Unfortunately for her though, the days of swanning around doing whatever the hell she wanted were now at an end.
The lights flickered as the train went around a corner, then began to slow as it approached the station.
Keeping an eye on her and her mother had been one of his jobs, so he had an idea where she was going. And if he was right, she’d be getting off here.
Sure enough, as the train drew up to the platform, Violet got to her feet.
Time to go.
People were beginning to crowd around the doors, but he had no problem making sure they moved out of the way as he came up behind her. She was a full head shorter than he was and smelled faintly of some kind of hippie shit perfume. Sandalwood possibly.
Filing the observation automatically away, he brought the Colt out discreetly and bent his head so his mouth was near her ear. Then he jammed the muzzle against her back and said coldly, “Scream and I’ll kill you.”
She stiffened, jerking around to face him, shock written all over her pretty features.
He allowed her a glance, since one look into his eyes would be all she needed to know he meant business, and gave her an icy smile. “You don’t want to die, do you, Violet?”
Eyes the color of fine turquoise widened, her pupils dilating. Her gaze flickered all over his face, probably taking in the bruises and cuts left by fucking Zac Rutherford’s fists. He probably looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, but that was a good thing. The more terrified she was, the less likely she’d fight him—and he really couldn’t