Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

Once upon a time, I was a lonely little girl who played with dolls and had an invisible friend and daydreamed about the day my Prince Charming would arrive to sweep me off my feet and take me away from my cloistered, claustrophobic life to live with him in his beautiful castle.

My prince was kind. He was noble. He was strong and brave, but most of all, he was good.

He was so damn good that a dragon would throw itself at his feet and stretch out its neck willingly for the honor of being slain by a man of such goodness.

My prince did not kill other men.

My prince also did not lie, cheat, steal, extort protection money from merchants, or run prostitution rings, drug cartels, or illegal gambling operations.

He wasn’t arrogant. Nor was he irritating, nor bossy, nor vain.

He was not the subject of government criminal investigations.

He owned clothing other than black Armani suits.

He was, in short, the most perfect specimen of manhood that an innocent child could imagine.

But I never, in all my wildest dreams, imagined that my good prince could kiss like this.

Killian’s mouth is hot and demanding, fused to mine with ferocious need. He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he’s dying. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his entire life and now that it’s here, he’s going to wring every drop of pleasure from it or kill himself trying.

He spins me around, pushes me up against the car, flattens his body against mine, and thrusts his tongue deeper into my mouth. When I arch against him, digging my fingers into the muscles of his back, he makes a sound of pleasure low in this throat that is utterly masculine and sexual.

It’s a growl. A rumble. A lion’s guttural grunt of dominance as he mounts his lioness.

When he realizes I’m not fighting him or trying to push him away, he moans into my mouth, moving one hand to encircle my throat and burying the other in my hair.

He pulls my head back and kisses me deeper.

The kiss goes on until I’m delirious. My breasts feel heavy and begin to ache. Heat pulses between my legs. My heart is a trapped bird beating frantically against the cage of my chest, and my mind is empty except for a drunken, repeated chant of yes yes holy mother of god YES.

He rocks his hips into mine so I feel the whole hard length of his cock, throbbing insistently, as demanding as his mouth is.

Even when I sag against him, weak and mewling, he refuses to let me go.

Just as I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he breaks the kiss abruptly and puts his mouth next to my ear. Breathing hard, he says roughly, “Fuck yes, baby. Feel it. Feel it with me.”

He fits his mouth against mine again, covering my moan.

This time the kiss is softer. Slower. More luxurious. Like melting into a steaming hot bath, all my muscles liquid heat. I forget about hating him and wind my arms up around his broad shoulders. I press my breasts against the hard expanse of his chest.

A high, sweet thrill sings through me when he groans.

He slides the hand encircling my neck down to my breast, cupping it through my dress, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rigid peak of my nipple.

I know if he put his demanding hot mouth there and sucked, I’d come.

He breaks the kiss again, this time to nuzzle my neck and whisper hotly into my ear. His lips move over my skin. His beard tickles me. I don’t understand the words he’s saying: they’re not in English. It’s Irish he’s speaking, and somehow that makes it even more of a turn-on. My whole body feels as if it’s on fire.

I drop my head back, gasping for breath.

When my head hits the car window, it’s with a flat, unsexy thud that acts like a wake-up alarm to my woozy brain.

Wait. What the hell am I doing?

I freeze.

Feeling the change in me, Killian stills, too. He straightens, frames my face in his big hands, and gazes down at me. Entire planets are burning in his eyes.

“Don’t run away yet,” he says gruffly. “Sit with it for a moment longer.”

We stare at each other, nose to nose, breathing raggedly. My lips feel bruised. My heart feels bruised. My knees are shaking, my panties are soaked, and I think I have just gone out of my mind.

I whisper in horror, “You kissed me.”

“Aye. What’s really gonna make you tear your hair out later on is remembering how lustily you kissed me back.”

I flatten my hands over his chest and shove, pushing him away far enough to jerk out of his arms. I stand several feet away, my hand cupped over my mouth, unable to look at him.

He says, “For the record, I fucking loved it, too.”

I spin around and slap his face.

His head snaps to the side. He stands still for seconds that feel like lifetimes, then he slowly turns his head around and locks his burning gaze onto mine.

He licks his lips. I know it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to lunge for me.

I turn around and head back to the apartment, breaking into a run halfway across the street.

Moving in a daze, I take off the dress, leaving it in a pile in the middle of my bedroom floor. I change into jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket and boots, then use the back stairs of the building to enter the parking garage.

Then I get into my car and head to work.

It’s still early. Traffic is light. I’m at my desk within fifteen minutes, staring blankly at a dark computer screen, my hands still trembling, my mouth still feeling bruised.

I’m sitting in the exact same spot an hour later when my boss comes in.

“Hey, kiddo. How was your weekend?”

Hank says it in passing, rapping his knuckles on the top of my cubicle as he goes. I mumble an answer. I couldn’t say what.

He stops, backtracks, and looks at me with concern in his dark blue eyes. At fifty, he’s ruggedly handsome, tan and fit with a full head of sandy blond hair. I’ve always thought he looks like an advertisement for the benefits of healthy living.

“Did someone die?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re as white as a sheet.” He glances at my hands. “And your hands are shaking.”

I slide my hands under my desk, wringing them together guiltily. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

His gaze is steady. His expression is unconvinced. I should know by now that the man has such acute observation skills, he could find a mouse hiding in the dark.

“You want to talk about it?”

My laugh is faint and semi-hysterical. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He jerks his head to one side. “Come in my office. I’ll get us some coffee.”

Coffee, ha ha. Maybe that’s not such a good idea. The last time I had coffee with a man, I went insane and turned into a giant, pulsing clitoris.

I rise, walk unsteadily into his office, and sink into the nearest chair. Hank returns in a few minutes with two Styrofoam cups and hands me one. Then he sits behind his big mahogany desk and looks at me.

“So. Give it to me. Who, what, when, where, and why?”

I laugh despite myself. He’s such a reporter. Taking a sip of bitter coffee to buy a moment, I look at all the framed awards hanging on the wall behind his desk. The office is small but comfortable, decorated all in beiges and creams. Conspicuously absent are any photos of family.

I say, “Do you ever regret not having children?”

His brows shoot up. “The question assumes I’ve ever met a woman I wanted to have children with.”

Embarrassed, I look down at the ugly white cup in my hands. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s none of my business.”

After a moment of silence, Hank says, “I’ll answer it in a sec, but first I want to point out that this is a momentous occasion.”

I glance up at him from under my brows.

He smiles, dimples flashing in both cheeks. “In the five years since you became my assistant, today’s the first time you’ve ever asked me a personal question.”

“It’s not because I don’t care.”

“I know.” His voice gentles. “It’s because you don’t want any personal questions asked in return.”

Oh god. I’m that obvious?

His tone turns brisk. “Anyway. To answer your question, no. I don’t regret not having children. They absolutely terrify me.”

That makes me laugh. “Kids scare you?”

“Their sole purpose is to grow up and replace us. We’re breeding our replacements. Have you ever thought of that?”

“You’ve been watching too many alien movies.”

“My sister has six of the little monsters. Six.” He shudders. “Visiting her house is like descending into Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Half a dozen violent, miniature tyrants going around smashing things and screaming like a bunch of Vikings on crack. It’s total chaos. She’s forty-two but she looks a hundred and two. If I hadn’t gotten a vasectomy in my twenties, watching her raise those future criminals would’ve definitely sent me running to the doctor.”

I feel a cold pang of panic. “Do you think people can be born bad? Like they come out that way, pre-programmed, and no matter how they try to be good, they’ll always be rotten?”

He cocks his head, frowning at me. “No. I’m being hyperbolic. My sister is a very good mother. Her kids will turn out fine. What are you really asking?”

I look down at the cup in my hands, horrified to discover it’s blurry. My eyes are watering. I clear my throat and blow out a hard breath. What the hell. Just say it. You’ve got nothing to lose.

“I’m asking for advice.” When Hank doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him. “I need a man’s opinion. An older man. Someone smart. Worldly. Like you.”

“Okay. That’s flattering, thank you. But couldn’t you ask your father?”

“We’re not close. Actually, we haven’t spoken in years.”

He digests that information for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. He’s a bad guy. The kind of bad that’s malignant, like cancer.”

I can tell by his expression that he’s dying to sit forward in his chair and interrogate me, because that’s his instinct. His reporter’s instinct kicking in, the way a dog’s instinct to chase kicks in when it spots a squirrel. But he restrains himself and simply nods, indicating he’s listening.

“I met a man.” I stop and take another breath.

“Go on.”

I look down again. This is way too hard. “Um. He’s…” Beautiful. Complicated. Aggravating. Interesting. A king among criminals. Sexy beyond compare. “I can’t decide if I like him or I hate him. I mean, I should hate him. He’s everything I shouldn’t want. But he’s also…unexpected. Intelligent. Fascinating.”

I close my eyes and think of Killian’s face. “He’s by far the most interesting man I’ve ever met. And—aside from my father—also the most dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

I open my eyes to find Hank staring at me with lifted brows, his expression incredulous. “Like how dangerous? On a scale of driving while intoxicated to Darth Vader.”

I answer without hesitation. “Darth Vader is a mama’s boy compared to him. He’s more like the love child of Lex Luther and Maleficent. Times ten thousand.”

We stare at each other in silence, until Hank says carefully, “If this man is harming you, Juliet, we need to go to the police and report it.”

All my held breath bursts out of me in a loud, wild laugh. “God, no. The only danger he poses to me is the ruination of my entire collection of panties.”

Hank blinks.

I pull my lips between my teeth and stare at him in horror. “Sorry.”

He makes a face and drags a hand through his hair, then chuckles nervously. “It’s no problem, I just wasn’t expecting that. Well.” It’s his turn to clear his throat. “This, ah, this dangerous man of yours. How did you meet him?”

“I stole something from him. A lot of things, actually. I mean it was all the same type of thing, just a bunch of them.”

Hank is beginning to look like he regrets embarking on this particular chat. He spends a moment choosing his words, then says, “You committed a theft.”

“Oh, yeah. A big one. Then this dangerous man discovered it was me who did it—I won’t bore you with the details of how he found out it was me, but they’re pretty interesting—and he followed me. And he kept following me, because he liked me, even when he discovered that my father is, like, his worst enemy.”

Hank peers at me. He’s starting to look confused. “Uh-huh.”

Warming up to the subject, I sit up straighter in my chair. “And that’s the main problem, really. Not that the two of them are enemies, but that he’s in the same line of work as my father. He basically has the same type of lifestyle.”

“The malignant type.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Have you considered professional therapy?”

I stare at him, strangely hurt. “Jeez, Hank.”

He says gently, “That’s not a rebuke. I say it out of genuine concern. Because what I’m hearing is that you have an intense sexual attraction to a man you know you should stay away from, but can’t.” He pauses. “Also, the theft thing is a problem.”

“It’s more like a hobby.”

His voice rises. “You’ve stolen something more than once?”

I’m feeling reckless, so I admit it. Might as well keep the scandalous admissions train going full steam ahead. “Oh, god, yeah. Lots of times.”

He gapes at me. “You could end up in prison!”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ve been in jail before. It’s surprisingly relaxing. You get a lot of good thinking done.”

Hank sits back into his chair slowly, his brow furrowed, his expression one of dismay.

“I know,” I say softly, watching his face. “I seem like such a nice girl.”

“You are a nice girl. Honestly, this is shocking.”

“What if I told you that I only steal from bad guys and that all the stuff I take goes to help the less fortunate?”

“I’d say that story’s as old as the hills.”

“So’s the story of Moses. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

He props his elbows on his desk, drops his head into his hands, and groans. “Please stop talking.”

This is why you don’t confide in people. The truth makes them twitchy. “Oh, relax, Hank. I’m only kidding. Not about the guy I shouldn’t like, but about everything else.”

When he looks up at me, I send him my most winsome smile. He narrows his eyes, clearly dubious. “So you didn’t steal anything from him?”

I wave my hand in the air dismissively. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“And he’s not dangerous?”

“He’s an accountant.”

“Why shouldn’t you like him, then?”

“Because my father’s an accountant, too. I swore I’d never marry one. All that bean counting could drive a girl nuts.”

We stare at each other. Me with a straight face, Hank with a face like he’s painfully constipated.

Finally, he sighs. “Okay. Here’s my advice. Take it for what it’s worth. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Life is short. You don’t get a do-over. Kiss who you need to kiss, love who you need to love, tell anyone who disrespects you to go fuck themselves. Let your heart lead you where it wants to. Don’t ever make a decision based on fear. In fact, if it scares you, that’s the thing you should run fastest toward, because that’s where real life is. In the scary parts. In the messy parts. In the parts that aren’t so pretty. Dive in and take a swim in all the pain and beauty that life has to offer, so that at the end of it, you don’t have any regrets.

“We only come this way once. Our obligation for receiving the miraculous gift of life is to truly, fully live it.”

He pauses, blinking. “Wow. I wish I’d recorded that. It was brilliant.”

My voice choked, I say, “I’ll transcribe it for you. I’m pretty sure it’s etched into my soul.”

“Oh god. You’re crying.”

“I am not,” I say through a sob. Swiping at my watering eyes, I add, “I’m just on my period.”

Shaking his head, Hank chuckles. “So glad we’re finally doing the sharing thing at eight o’clock on a Monday morning. I should’ve called in sick.”

I stand, round his desk, and throw my arms around his neck. Still in his chair, he pats my back in a fatherly way.

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Okay. This is the limit of my paternal instincts, kiddo. If you need more help, I’m gonna send you to Ruth in Human Resources because I literally have no idea how to handle emotional young women.”

I straighten and smile down at him. “You’re a good egg, Hank Hauser.”

He waves me off. “Quit trying to butter me up. You’re not due for a wage increase for another five months.”

A knock on Hank’s office door makes us turn.

A young man stands in the doorway. He’s Latino, good-looking, maybe late twenties, dressed in an expensive black suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar. He’s carrying a big bouquet of dark red roses and a flat black velvet box, about twelve inches square, tied with black ribbon.

“Juliet,” he says sternly, gazing at me like I’m being accused of a terrible wrongdoing.

Oh god. What’s this? “She’s out sick today.”

He quirks his mouth and shakes his head. “Nice try. You want these here?” He jerks his chin toward Hank’s desk.

Bemused at this new development, Hank makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “By all means, mister…”

“Diego. Just Diego.”

Diego is obviously not your average delivery boy. Aside from the suit, he’s also got that cocky swagger that I know all too well.

Made men all walk like they’ve got a million dollars in cash stuck up their butts.

He sets the bouquet of roses down, puts the black box next to it, then turns and heads back toward the door. Before he walks out, he stops abruptly and looks at me.

“He’s not what you think he is.”

We gaze at each other steadily. I feel Hank looking back and forth between us in concern, unsure if he should intervene or let this odd little drama play out.

I want it to play out. I’ve had enough of this “not who but what” BS.

“Tell me what he is, then.”

Diego glances at Hank. He looks back at me. His voice low, he says, “He bought my mother a house. Paid it off. Gave her the deed. Nobody in my family’s ever owned property.”

“That’s a touching story, Diego. My father once bought someone property, too. Gave him the deed, moved him and his whole family in. The house burned to the ground within a week, with everyone still in it. Guess who lit the match that started the fire?”

Hank’s mouth drops open.

Diego’s eyes flash. He says, “That’s fucked up.”

“It is. Bad people can sometimes act like they’re doing good things, but it’s only a game. It’s make-believe. If I were you, I’d tell your mother to find another place to live before your employer shows his true colors and lights a match.”

Hank stands, hands spread wide like he’s conducting an intervention. “Okay, this is getting weird. Diego, I think it’s time for you to—”

“What did they do?” says Diego, aggressively cutting him off. “The family who got burned in the fire—what did they do to deserve it?”

I say softly, “Oh. You still think it’s about honor, huh? This little club you’ve joined, you think it’s a brotherhood based on principles, when really it’s just an excuse for cruel men to grind people under their heels.”

We stare at each other. Hank looks on in dismay.

Then Diego says, “I come from bad people, too. My employer isn’t one of them. I thought he was at the beginning. But my ignorance doesn’t equal his guilt.”

At the end of my patience, I demand, “What does it equal, then?”

He gazes at me, dark eyes glittering. “I hope you figure it out. Because he’s worth it. And what he’s doing is important work.”

My mouth drops open. Being a gangster is important work?

Diego turns around and strides out.

After a moment, Hank says my name. He looks up from the black velvet box he’s holding. He’s undone the ribbon, and the lid stands open in his hands. He turns the box around so I can see what’s inside.

It’s a necklace. Diamonds glitter against black velvet, three fat rows of them nestled together around a large center stone, big as a robin’s egg and black as ink.

My gut tells me that’s a diamond, too.

Hank says drily, “So, this accountant of yours. Not only does he have loyal underlings and extraordinary taste in jewelry, he’s quite the romantic, too.”

He doesn’t bother to wait for me to respond, he simply holds up the small white card that came with the gift and reads aloud from it. “Thus with a kiss I die.”

More Shakespeare. It’s Romeo’s final line from the play, after he drinks the poison to join his love in the afterlife. A chill of foreboding runs through me.

Looking at me steadily, Hank says, “Must’ve been some kiss, Juliet.”

My laugh is utterly without mirth. “Yeah. It was a real killer.”