The Gilded Cage Read online

  “Talk, honey, if you want to talk, but first I’d like to thank you properly.”

  “You don’t need to do that—”

  He dipped his head and captured her mouth.

  An explosion of taste hit her head and every bone in her body melted into liquid fire. His mouth was hot and fierce as he kissed her senseless. She’d never believed any of her friends when they said a man’s kiss could do that, but here she was, swooning in the tiny space of a trailer kitchen as the long lost Lockwood twin turned her entire world on its head with one kiss. She sighed against his lips. One kiss wouldn’t hurt, right? They could talk…after.

  His hand around her throat slid back to the base of her neck and then fisted in her hair, tugging on the strands. It gave her just the edge of pain to heighten the pleasure as he pressed his body fully to hers. Heat flooded her, making her skin burn deliciously. Fenn nibbled her mouth, and then licked at her slightly parted lips before delving inside. His tongue teased hers, dueling until she was clutching at his shoulders, trying to get closer. Their hips rocked together and the fabric of his jeans rubbed at her bare thighs, the roughness delicious and erotic. Fenn’s other hand slid down from her waist over her backside and clenched her ass. Sparks shot through her at the rough grasp. Even wedged against the fridge, his hand managed to grip her. He pinched her. Hard.

  On instinct she bit his bottom lip. They both sprung apart, the trailer rocking slightly.

  “Ow!” she snapped, just as he cursed at the same time.

  For a second neither of them seemed to know what to do. Hayden almost laughed. It was all so ridiculous. She never just gave in and kissed a guy. Every romantic or sexual encounter she’d had up to this moment in her life had been of her planning, each event carefully orchestrated by her and under her control.

  For Fenn to just haul her into his arms and kiss her? It destroyed every idea she thought she understood about sex and what aroused her. The times she’d surrendered to a few of the doms at the Gilded Cuff had felt nothing like this. In one kiss Fenn had given her the choice, the freedom to surrender, but had not forced it. And she’d given in willingly, with no need to try and control him. It had turned her into a melted mess of sensations and desire.

  “Can we please talk now?” she begged in a ragged whimper as she ran shaking hands through her hair.

  Fenn’s eyes still glittered with barely controlled passion but he nodded and pointed to the rumpled bed behind her. Coda lay on the navy blue comforter, her head resting on her paws, blue eyes glowing like diamonds infused with light. Hayden glanced at Fenn, one brow raised in challenge.

  “The bed? Seriously?”

  He rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “No chairs. Only place to sit.”

  “Of course it is,” she half-muttered and eased down onto the bed’s edge. Coda raised her furry head and watched, ears pricked forward, her eyes focused on them.

  “Does she bite?” Hayden cocked her head in the dog’s direction. She wasn’t afraid, but she did want to be prepared if the dog was aggressive.

  Fenn shuffled over and sat down, allowing Coda to stand guard between them. The dog nuzzled his hand, as though to encourage him to pet her, and he scratched her behind the ears.

  “No. Not unless she thinks you’re a threat. She’s never bitten anyone that I know of. You don’t like dogs?” The question was punctuated with disapproval.

  “I love dogs. I’ve just never had one. My parents wouldn’t let me.”

  “You still live with them?” He seemed curious, less accusing.

  She crossed her legs, kicking one foot in agitation. “Where I’m from, it’s what the girls do until they get married. Trust me, I’d rather have my own place, but my father threatened to cut me off if I left home. I don’t really need the money, but he made it clear his friends would keep anyone from hiring me, no matter how qualified I am for a job.”

  “And what kind of place are you from that would allow a man to do that to his daughter?” This time Fenn’s scowl was not directed at her. It was evident in the way his jaw ticked that he didn’t seem to approve of her father. At least they agreed on something.

  He stroked his long elegant fingers along Coda’s head and down her neck, over her back. The dog sighed as though in Heaven and Hayden nearly did, too, just remembering how it had felt a few minutes ago to have his hands stroking her like that.

  Lucky dog.

  “It’s not so much the place as the type of people who raised me. My parents are close-minded when it comes to what well-bred ladies ought to do. I’m from Weston, on the North shore of Long Island.” She waited for some telltale reaction, anything to show her that a glimmer of a memory still existed between him and place where he’d been born. Surely that eight-year-old boy was still inside him somewhere.

  “Ahh…” He sneered and shook his head. “A rich city girl. That explains your whole getup, honey.” He waved a hand at her body as though that explained everything.

  “Getup? What do you mean by that?” She bristled.

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile, as though he knew he was poking a sleeping bear and was trying to see how far he could get by teasing her.

  “The dress, those fuck-me pumps, the way your breasts are just begging to be squeezed, and those nipples to be sucked…honey, you’re a walking wet dream and you know exactly what that does to a man. Few girls out here can dress like that. It’s all city girl.”

  City girl? Strangely that made her more upset than being called a buckle bunny. The idea of not belonging here, of sticking out in a bad way, twisted a small dagger in her chest. Covering up that invisible wound, she responded in the only way she knew how. She let her temper start to build.

  “Hey!” She snapped and jabbed a finger in his chest. “You don’t know me, don’t know anything about my life. I’m here trying to save you and you’re being a complete asshole.”

  “Save me? Didn’t you already do that when you nearly got yourself trampled by that damn bull? We need to talk about that, by the way, I won’t let some woman die saving my hide. I could have handled the brute just fine on my own.” His eyes narrowed.

  Hayden wanted to smack her head against the nearest wall. “Fenn, this isn’t about the stupid bull, okay? There is someone out there trying to find and kill you.” There. She’d just cut to the chase and work her way back from there.

  “What do you mean, someone is trying to kill me?” he growled.

  Coda straightened and whined softly.

  “Someone has hired an assassin to kill you.”

  He raised his brows. “Assassins? Honey, I think you might have had a little too much to drink tonight.”

  She growled and stamped her heeled foot on the floor of the trailer. “I haven’t had anything to drink. You have to listen to me. Your life is in danger.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, I’ll play along. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  She could tell by the dubious look on his face he still didn’t believe her. “Because of who you are.”

  “Who I am?” He voiced each syllable as though he thought she was insane. Given the way she felt right now trying to explain this, she did feel a little crazy.

  “You’re Fenn Lockwood. Famous missing twin of the Lockwood family from Long Island. Haven’t you heard of the story?”

  Fenn shook his head. “What story?”

  “At age eight, you were kidnapped from your home in Weston, Long Island. No one ever saw you again and everyone thought you were dead. You have a twin brother, Emery, who’s looking for you…” She trailed off as the sight of blood draining from his face made her dramatic speech wither on her tongue.

  Fenn leaned forward, slid his hand into her hair and clenched it, holding her in place, his face inches from hers.

  “Start talking, honey.”

  Chapter 3

  Greyson Andrews lined up with the scope of his sniper rifle, carefully adjusting the barrel a few millimeters to the left. From
his hidden vantage point on an apartment building rooftop, he could see his target clearly as the man strutted about his penthouse flat on the east side of London. Greyson watched the pudgy man in the expensive clothes as he reached across his bar to pour himself a glass of scotch.

  The key to success in Greyson’s line of work was timing. One missed shot was a way to get caught, or killed.

  The man in his sights lumbered over to a plush couch in front of a TV and plopped down. Greyson readied himself; the target had to be standing still before he’d risk firing. He blew out a slow, measured breath, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet shot out of the barrel and shattered the window before it penetrated the target’s skull. The man slumped forward a few inches and Greyson immediately began packing his gear.

  He never focused on the kill, never wasted time glorifying in the death he delivered. To him this was little different than putting down a rabid dog. Each job he took was justified, each life a waste upon this earth.

  Once Greyson tucked his rifle into its black carrying case, he trotted across the rooftop to the door that would take him back down to the exit of the building he’d broken into. As he moved, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number on a secure line.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice answered, the one word sounding tremulous.

  “It’s Andrews. Your ex-husband is no longer a problem,” he said.

  An exhale of relief, a stifled gasp. “Thank you! I’ll make sure the second half of your payment hits your account immediately.” Then his client hung up.

  A cool one-point-five million for this job—to take out a child molester who’d harmed his own children and threatened to kill his wife if she went to the police. Not bad at all. Greyson smiled. He did enjoy the money, as much as he enjoyed removing men like that from the world.

  He jogged down the nine flights of stairs, barely winded. When he reached the ground floor of the apartment building and exited onto the street, he hailed a cab and got in, giving the driver directions to his hotel. His cell phone vibrated and he took it out again. On its screen was a number he didn’t recognize. With a glance to the balding middle-aged cab driver, who seemed oblivious to his current fare, Greyson answered.

  “Who is this?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. The streets of London were a blur of color and sound as he focused on the call.

  “A friend gave me your number in case he was unable to fulfill his contract.”

  Greyson leaned back in the cab seat. “I don’t have friends. Give me a name.”

  “Antonio D’Angelo.”

  Greyson’s body went cold and his muscles taut. His father? What did this man know of his father?

  “He didn’t complete his contract?” he asked the man on the other end of the phone.

  Not completing a job usually meant one thing: death. Surely Antonio wasn’t dead. The man had taught him everything of the trade they’d shared in the last ten years. He may not have been a sterling example of fatherhood, but that didn’t change the fact that he was Greyson’s father. While Greyson had never relied on parental figures, especially not after his mother passed away when he was sixteen, Antonio had given him some guidance, encouraged him to join MI-6, and eventually coached him into the line of private service.

  “No. He didn’t.” The man on the other end sounded bored and irritated.

  “What happened to him?” His fingers clenched his phone hard enough that the case began to crack.

  The other man sighed. “I hired him to do a job. He told me he’d done half of it. Apparently that was a lie. Now I’ve got two problems on my hands, both which need eliminating. One is unreachable right now, but the other—he’s out in the open and a thorn in my side. I need the job finished. D’Angelo swore he’d finish it and if he didn’t, to call you and have it done. Kill them and you kill the two men who took his life.”

  “He is dead? You’re sure?” Greyson asked. The targets had killed his father? He almost couldn’t believe it. His father was ruthless, a killer in his own right and no one would have gotten the drop on him easily.

  “Yes. I’m not going to say it again. Will you take the job or not?” The man’s accent was American, but definitely cultured. He was wealthy. The pay would have to be good. Revenge and money for it. It would have to suffice; not that it would bring his father back. He wasn’t delusional about that.

  “I’ll demand half payment up front if I agree. And you’ll have to give me more details.” He wouldn’t normally agree to jobs outside of the United Kingdom, but this definitely called for an exception to his normal practices.

  The American chuckled. “There’s plenty of time for that. I’m not on the most secure line. I will call you back in fifteen minutes.” Then he hung up.

  For several long seconds, Greyson stared straight ahead through the front window of the cab. D’Angelo was dead. Now that he’d settled the business end of the matter, he let his emotions flood open through the narrow gate he usually kept tightly closed. Rage gathered inside him like a coming storm and he embraced the darkness. Whoever had killed Antonio would pay. He would finish the job his father had started.

  * * *

  “You’re not Fenn Smith. You’re Fenn Lockwood.”

  Fenn stared at the red-haired beauty. He dropped his hand from its possessive hold in her hair as a massive headache built up behind his eyes.

  “Lockwood?” he echoed. He’d never heard the name before…yet…the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “You were born on Long Island and lived there until you were eight years old,” Hayden continued. He met her gaze and was instantly swallowed by the rich cobalt blue. He’d never seen anyone with eyes that shade of blue except—

  More pain exploded in tiny bursts further back along his skull. He reached up and rubbed the back of his head absentmindedly. His fingers traced the small, faintly raised line of a scar, a boyhood injury falling from a tree. He didn’t remember falling. His father said it had been a nasty head wound, and he’d had a concussion.

  “No. I’m Fenn Smith. My father was Lewis Smith. I’ve lived here all my life.” His fingers threaded through Coda’s thick fur, the touch his only comfort in that moment.

  “Do you remember anything before you were eight?” Hayden asked patiently

  He wracked his brain, trying to think back. There was only blackness. “Do you remember anything before you were eight?” he shot back.

  Hayden’s sad little smile did something funny to his chest. He rubbed at it to soothe the ache.

  “I remember spilling my mother’s perfume all over the carpet by her vanity table. I was four and a half. I remember watching my brother cry when he thought no one was watching him. I can see him holding an old photograph of him and his three friends around a tent, camping out when they were six years old.” She reached into an almost invisible pocket in her dress and pulled out her cell phone. Tapping the screen a few times, she opened up a gallery of photos. Then she selected one and held her phone out to him.

  He didn’t want to take the phone, but his hand moved of its own accord. When he saw the screen his body went rigid. Four little boys, knobby-kneed and bright-eyed, were posing in front of a crudely constructed tent. Two boys stood to the left, one a dark-haired child, the other a red- haired boy. On the right of the photo, two golden-haired boys were grinning. One had his arm slung around the other boy’s shoulders. They were exact copies of each other.

  Twins. His heart squeezed in his chest to the point of pain.

  Hayden leaned over Coda and pointed to the twin on the far right.

  “That…is you.”

  “It’s not me. That’s not me.” His voice was hoarse and he couldn’t swallow. There were no photographs of him until after his father had died. The man hadn’t liked cameras much. But Fenn remembered what he’d looked like as a boy, a vague sense of self that right now was making him sick.

  “And here.” Hayden flicked a finger across the screen, showing a young man in his te
ens posing on a polo pony. Blond hair matted to his forehead with sweat, the young man was grinning like a fool.

  Fenn lifted his gaze from the screen and looked at his fridge, where a few snapshots were taped to the plastic surface. One of them was a picture from when he was seventeen, leaning back against a fence post, hat tipped back on his head. An identical grin stretched across his face.

  “No.” He denied it in a breathless whisper.

  “Yes.” Hayden flicked the screen again and one last picture appeared. A man in his early thirties in an expensive suit stood by the entrance to a massive mansion. A serious, almost haunted look in his eyes shadowed the casual smile on the man’s face.

  The man looked exactly like him. Except for the barest hint of a scar on his brow, Fenn would have thought the man in the photo was him and it was all part of some elaborate joke his friends were playing.

  “This is Emery. Your younger brother by two minutes. He’s been looking for you.”

  Icy claws dragged their tips through his brain.

  The fireflies danced in dizzying circles as he tried to capture them in a glass jar. A warm summer breeze blanketed him as he ran up the stairs toward a distant room with two beds. A name on the tip of his tongue, a name as familiar as his own, but he only had to think it in his head. A sense of safety, a total, all-consuming protection, like a magic spell cast over a castle by a benevolent wizard.

  When had he ever felt that safe? He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way, but he had, hadn’t he? The fireflies, the glowing Japanese lanterns, the woman in the dress that unfurled at her legs like flower petals. Bell-like laughter, the sweet scent of perfume…home. Not Colorado.

  “No!” He shouted and leapt from the bed.

  There was no air. He couldn’t breathe. Had to get out of there…He stumbled to the door of the trailer and down the steps where he collapsed on his hands and knees and retched violently. Tears stung like flint knives as his entire body heaved and every muscle clenched with anxiety. Rough dirt and rocks scraped his palms as he clawed at the earth.