Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(36)
Author: Jen Frederick

I cover my face with my hands because I can’t think with Ian staring at me so intently.

“I can’t do it. I’m not very good at texting.”

“All the better. He’ll know you can’t write and will be forced to send you images.”

“I swear you have an answer for everything.” I start to rub my forehead and then remember the admonition of the Red Door people against touching my face.

“Do you have some moral objection? You do work for Malcolm.”

Okay, right, so a drug mule has no conscience, but it isn’t the same thing. The people who are taking the drugs are participating in their own ruin.

“But what? We want bad things to be said about him on Page Six?”

“On page six and page one and all the pages in between,” he says softly.

“And you expect that while I’m carrying on with this Howe dude that I’m going to sleep with you?”

“Not expect. Hope.”

“You’re crazy.” I push his hands away, feeling incredibly cold.

“I don’t expect or want you to sleep with Howe. I only want you to talk to him, be friendly. He’ll be interested because I’m interested. The idea that he could lure someone away from me will be too much to resist. A few pictures and we’re done. I don’t anticipate it taking him longer than a few encounters before he tries to express himself in some embarrassing fashion.”

“Why don’t you just ruin him financially? Can’t you do that?” I fist my hands in my lap wishing I am anywhere but here.

“I could,” he responds. His head is turned out the window and in profile he looks less stern and more thoughtful. “Not yet, though.”

Ian turns toward me and in his eyes I see both pain and determination.

My character was set at the age of fifteen.

Without conscious thought, I reach over to squeeze his hand. His grip is firm in response but implacable. Ian has been alone for a long time and even though I don’t entirely agree or understand his plans, I realize I’d do just about anything for him. That’s an uncomfortable feeling.

Chapter 19

STEVE DROPS US OFF IN an alley in Hell’s Kitchen, and the recessed door of a four-story brick building opens before we can reach it. Barely any light spills out, and once inside I can see why. The door opens onto a shadowy landing with steps going in both directions.

“Mr. Kerr, I’m Priya Kulkarni. Mr. Kaga’s assistant. He asked me to show you to the private viewing lounge first.” She extends a hand toward the second floor.

“Lead the way,” Ian responds, giving me a little push so that I head up the stairs in front of him. As Priya walks ahead of us, the stair treads begin to illuminate. I peek behind me and see that the entryway is again shrouded in darkness.

“These lights are so cool,” I comment, allowing my mind to be distracted from the Howe deal.

“Mr. Kaga believes in the conservation of our natural resources. While the club itself does not run on solar power reserves, the offices and private areas do,” she explains.

Behind me, I hear Ian snort. “Mr. Kaga is a cheap, opportunistic bastard.”

“I heard that,” a male voice from above us booms out. Whatever Mr. Kaga is, he has a voice well-suited for the stage. It’s loud but nicely modulated. When we reach the top, I see that he could easily be a star on the stage. His black hair and razor-sharp cheekbones could be seen from the last row of the upper deck of the Shubert Theatre. Even in the dim light, I can make out his effortless gorgeousness. I wonder if all of Ian’s acquaintances are good-looking. It’s not like Steve is hard on the eyes, either.

Priya gives him a short bow and disappears down the hallway, little lights flashing to illuminate her path as she goes.

“Tad Kaga, at your service.” He lifts my hand and simultaneously pulls me forward and presses his warm lips to the back of my hand. I nearly faint. I’ve never had anyone kiss my hand before. What is with these guys and their old school hand kissing? It should be banned! As I stumble backwards, two hands brace my fall—one tries to pull me back as the other tries to pull me forward. Tad releases me with a smirk and I fall against the hard chest of Ian.

“Not yours, Kaga.” His arm bands around my waist and he lifts me against him, the delicate knit and lace of my top gathers under my br**sts as he half-carries me onto the landing and past Tad, whose smirk has widened to a full on grin.

“I thought I was the one of our little troupe who had a problem with sharing.” Tad proceeds to a few steps down the hall. I’m grateful that the darkness hides the evidence my cheeks are currently the color of my shirt—and not because of any excess makeup. If Ian and I were alone, I would share what I thought of his display of possessiveness. He doesn’t deserve to feel territorial, not after what he’s asked me to do.

Ian pulls me back so I can feel his hardness flush against my back. There’s no give to any inch of his body. From his sternum to his thighs he’s just marble. Into my ear, just slightly above a whisper, he says, “Just because I haven’t stuck my c**k in you doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking of you at every moment, wanting you more than the world needs oxygen.” The hand that had shackled my wrist drifts to the bottom of my shorts, and for a moment I hold my breath thinking he’s going to spin me around and kiss me until I pass out.

A cough interrupts us and my eyes shoot upward to see Tad staring above my head, his face serious. A communication passes between him and Ian. Tad nods and then winks at me. The silent messages are clearly coded by testosterone as I can’t figure it out, but perhaps it was his acknowledgment of Ian’s totally fake claim over me. Unfortunately, the point of protest for me has passed. I’ve already exhibited my weakness when it comes to Ian.

“Victoria Corielli, meet Tadashubu Kaga, scion of the Kaga empire,” Ian introduces us. “Tad’s an old friend.”

For the first time I notice there are no doors in the hallway. The floors are made of some kind of dark, striped wood and the walls are covered in gray squares with rounded edges. Every four feet or so there is a linear break from floor to ceiling and its only after Tad pushes on one that I realize a few of them are doors. He gestures for us to enter.

Inside is a spacious room that overlooks a two-level nightclub. Longer than it is wide, the room reminds me of a stadium box where I once delivered caviar during a Giants game. A tech company ran out when hosting some Russian oligarchs. Sandra told me later that the caviar was worth nearly twenty grand. I only delivered five small containers of them. From the ease of both Tad and Ian, I suspect that they wouldn’t be surprised at all by the price of four-thousand-dollar cans of caviar. Life for some people is simply unreal.