Mr. Red

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

NicoThe first thing to hit me as I regain consciousness, is the constant stabbing just above my left eye. I groan and shift, only to be hit with the second realization - that my hands and feet are bound. I blink and wince, trying to sweep the grappa induced cobwebs from my mind. I try moving my hands and feet again. Definitely bound. My heart pounds heavily against my sternum. This is a nightmare, right? My subconscious is punishing me, right? I swallow and with extreme effort, focus my eyes, suddenly aware I’m not alone. I sit up with a mind-stabbing jolt. “What in the hell? Who are you?” I croak at the scantily clad and clearly furious creature in front of me.

“Who in the hell are you?” she bristles, holding something head-level that takes me a minute to register as a cast-iron fry pan. “You drank my grappa,” she accuses.

“So I did.”

“You’re trespassing.”

I hold up my bound wrists, squinting, because it’s too f*****g bright in here. “So I am.” Jesus, who in the hell is this woman? The foreman? With supreme effort I focus my eyes, and nearly choke on my own spit as the woman comes into focus. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be tied up by a woman wearing some kind of big, fat rag curlers and a facial mask. The pale mask only serves to accentuate eyes so dark they’re nearly black. And clearly pissed as hell. I swallow as my eyes drift lower. Scantily clad doesn’t even begin to describe the sheer sleeping… thing she’s wearing. So sheer, her dusky n*****s and full, soft breasts call out to me like sirens. My breath catches somewhere in my chest. Her figure is lush, soft and curvy. The kind of body that begs to be squeezed and caressed. The kind of body you could lose yourself in, the kind of body that can take all of you. The polar opposite of Veronica. And God strike me dead for being a perv, but as I stare, my c**k thickens, arousal pooling deep in my balls for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

“Hey. Eyes up here,” she snaps.

Her voice pulls me out of my grappa-induced musings, and I make things ten times worse when I grin up at her. “Sorry, darlin’. It’s not every day I’m held captive at my brother’s place by a raving half-dressed lunatic in a facial mask and curlers.”

She sucks in a surprised breath. “I am not a lunatic.”

“So you do this kind of thing frequently then? Does Declan know you’re here?”

“I’m calling the cops.”

I lift my wrists again. “No need, sweetheart. Really. I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”

“How do I know?”

“Well, for starters,” I pull on the duct tape, my wrist nearly coming free. “I suggest you don’t turn to a life of crime anytime soon. I could have busted out of your restraints five minutes ago.”

Her eyes widen and she worries at her lower lip. “Why didn’t you?”

I let out an empty laugh. “Because I’m too f*****g tired, and my head hurts.”

“Because you stole my grappa.”

“Look, honey, if that’s what’s got your undies in a twist-” I drop my gaze to her hem, which is at eye level. “Are you even wearing undies?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry. She’s not, and I can see the barest hint of plump pussylips flirting with the folds of her… whatever you call it. f**k. It’s the hottest thing I’ve seen since, ever. I shift uncomfortably, because in spite of the grappa, my c**k is starving for something, anything besides my hand in the shower.

She lets out a squeak and lowers the pan, a dusky flush creeping across her chest. “I work for Declan,” she grits indignantly. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

I drop my head- it takes too much effort to be upright at the moment, and I study her through half-lidded eyes. What kind of game is she playing here? She’s looking at me like she knows me. Really knows me. But I swear I’ve never seen her before in my life. I don’t recognize her voice, or her body. And I’m pretty sure, once the err… creative face covering is removed, I’m not going to recognize her face either. “I think you know who I am.” I don’t have the energy to be coy.

She lets out a sigh. “You’re Nicholas Case, aren’t you?”

“Nico.” I raise my wrists again. “I’d shake your hand…” I shrug.

“Why are you here? Declan didn’t mention anything about visitors.”

The stabbing above my left eye starts again. “He invited me here weeks ago. Ask him.” I c***k open an eye, immediately drawn to dark buds puckered tight and pushing through the sheer fabric, teasing me with how untouchable they are. They might as well be eyeing me through a glass wall. I force myself back to neutral territory. “So you’re the foreman? Very progressive of Dec.”

She makes that squeaky noise deep in her throat again. “Hardly. I’m the winemaker.”

That makes me sit up, albeit too fast, as my head angrily reminds me. “Wait. Dec’s making wine?” Sonofagun. He’s never shown the faintest interest.

“No. I’m making wine. That’s why he hired me. That’s why-” She shakes her head. “Why’m I telling you this?”

I flash her a mischievous grin. “Because I’m the kind of guy women love to confide in.” Not. So not. If anything, I was the kind of guy mothers forbid their daughters to date. But maybe I’m about to turn over a new leaf.

She’s not buying it. She scoffs. “Good to know you’re still a bullshitter,” she retorts with a huff.

“Wait. Do we know each other?”

She freezes, but it’s so f*****g hard to read her with that thing covering her face, I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “No,” she says firmly with a shake of her head. “The papers have said all anyone needs to know about you.”

Truth. My brothers and I have been fodder for both the society pages and the gossip rags since we were probably sixteen. But she’d only know that if she’s from here. “What did you say your name was?”

She c***s her head, eyes narrowing. “Alison.”

“Alison?”

Her mouth thins as if she’s having some kind of inner battle with herself. “Alison Walker.”

“A pleasure to meet you. Alison.” I catch her eyes and let my mouth linger over her name. It’s as sensuous on the tongue as her body would be underneath me. If only we could resolve the small issue of the duct tape.

Something hot flares in the deep dark depths of her eyes, and she clears her throat. “Stay here.”

Like I’m going anywhere. I stare unabashedly as she turns and hurries down the hall, still clutching the frying pan. Her barely-there nighty barely covering the plump curves of her a*s as it sways in time with her hips.

Holy. Hell.

Maybe there’s a silver lining in this nightmare after all.