Wrecked

By Christa Wick

MARIE: It's been six years since I got my baby brother and sister out of the hellhole of abuse we grew up in. Six years spent looking over my shoulder, wondering if we'd ever truly escape our father's wrath. Everything I did back then, I did to keep them alive. And now that a violent criminal from our past has found us, I'm forced again to use the skills I never asked to be good at. It's bad enough I end up getting caught in the crime by a man as ruthless as my sister's captor. But needing—and wanting—to trust him? That's completely unchartered territory for me.

 

LUKE: It's been a while since I've caught someone stealing from me—I'm just not the kind of man people make that mistake with often. Hell, if I'd been able to take my eyes off of her that night, she would've gotten away with it, too; she's that good. And yeah, this mess she's in is bad enough I don't fault her actions. Still, letting her go is out of the question. I know she thinks I'm as dangerous as they come, and in some ways I am. Given how protective I'm starting to feel about her, dangerous doesn't even begin to describe the lengths I'll go to keep her safe.

 

Previously published as House Rules (c) 2014, revised throughout with newly added content, new characters, and a different extended ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christa Wick
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223372318

Book preview

1

MARIE

I push my stool back from the Black Jack table, more than seven thousand dollars in chips sliding around inside my cup. My foot touches the floor just as I catch the flick of the dealer's eyes toward someone behind me.

When a hand firmly cups my elbow a heartbeat later, I know I'm busted.

Rule Number 1—The House always wins.

Rule Number 2—If the House isn't winning, you must be cheating.

Tonight, at least for me, the house is losing. And, sure enough, it’s because I'm cheating.

Miss Lafayette, that was quite a streak of luck. His grip tightening, my captor slowly draws me the rest of the way off the stool. Genuinely stirring to watch.

With the mystery man knowing my real name, I know I have zero chance of convincing him luck has anything to do with it. Still, I have to try. Too much depends on my leaving the casino with the money I won.

Rose is counting on me.

Forcing a smile, I turn to look at him—and immediately falter.

The man holding my arm falls somewhere between smoldering hot and achingly beautiful with his dark brown gaze, lustrous black hair, and neatly trimmed beard and mustache. A tailored silk suit covers his thick, muscular body.

If I saw him in a magazine or on television, he would have my plus-size panties falling right off of me, for sure. Sadly, I don’t have the luxury of fantasizing about him right now.

Bottom line—I can’t get caught. Not now. The fallout from failure here isn’t just a trip to jail.

But a dead sister.

Just thinking about what’s at stake here causes my smile to slip, but I quickly jerk it back into place, increasing the wattage as I take another calming breath. I’m rusty, yet somehow, I manage not to choke on the sudden knot in my throat as I feign polite confusion. I think you have me mistaken for someone else. But I’m pleased to meet you all the same.

I attempt to extract my elbow from his steely grip so that I might offer my hand like the well-bred, innocent young lady I’m pretending to be. With his fingers expertly placed on opposing nerve centers along my arm, however, it takes him less than an ounce of pressure to keep me pinned in place.

So you’re a Black Jack enthusiast? I ask casually as I force my body to relax while I plan my next move.

He lifts a negligent shoulder. Not particularly. Though I certainly enjoyed watching you play it. Smiling, he finally releases my elbow and offers me his arm, his dark eyes glittering like smoky quartz. We can discuss the fickle nature of luck after you cash out.

The deeply masculine voice sends a warm shiver down my spine. Every bit as rich and chocolatey as his gaze, the sound leaves me wondering what it would feel like to take him in my mouth and let him melt all over my tongue. The sensation of doing just that grabs me so completely that it takes at least five seconds for his words to click together.

Cash out…

Unless he’s trying to trick me away from the casino's guests without a major uproar on my part, cashing me out implies that there will be no cops and no trip to jail. My heart resumes beating. I’m docile as a kitten as he leads me toward the cashier's cage.

I can’t tell if he knows more than he’s letting on and wants a bribe or has assumed I was simply counting cards and intends to ban me from the casino. I’ll play ball either way, but I’m really hoping it’s the latter. Because I’ll need every last dollar I won tonight to keep Rose alive.

Reaching the cashier's cage, he pushes my cup toward the woman behind the glass. She sorts the chips, counts out seventy-six hundred-dollar bills, wraps them together then slides the bundle to me. My pulse accelerating nearly out of control, I secure the money inside my purse before looking at the man who is definitely my captor and possibly a blackmailer.

He waits patiently, stone-faced and gorgeous until I’m done.

Now, time for that talk, beautiful.

Securing my elbow once more, his mouth puckers as his gaze sweeps down my body. When he looks up and stares straight into my eyes, I feel like he’s just sucker punched me.

A second blow to my equilibrium lands a few minutes later as we move through a staff-only corridor and someone addresses my escort as Mr. Masters.

This is Mr. Masters? As in Luke Masters, the owner of the casino I've been essentially stealing from all night.

Of all the damn luck.

Studying my reaction to hearing his name, he waves me onto the elevator then follows me in and pushes the button for the penthouse. Of course.

Hell, I’m totally screwed.

My heart beats faster and faster with every floor we ascend. More than likely, especially since I've been caught, he can read me like an open book.

My transparency is unsurprising. Years have passed since I pulled any kind of a con or used my exemplary memory to gain an advantage at a card table. I’m out of practice, unprepared, and easy prey for a man like Masters.

Reaching the penthouse level, the elevator door opens onto a foyer. Pressing lightly between my shoulder blades, Masters guides me through a large living room and into another room that must be his home office.

Sit, he says, jabbing a finger at the chair in front of his large, imposing desk.

I obey at once. Eyes downcast, my heart continues knocking around inside my chest. Nervously, I pat absently at my side, forgetting for the moment that Masters relieved me of my purse and all of its contents. My things—

You should be far more worried about your warrants, Miss Lafayette.

That's right, warrants—plural. One for skipping out on being a material witness in a trial, and the other for kidnapping my two younger siblings six years ago.

Considering I was forced into this life a long time ago by an abusive con artist I refuse to think of as my father, two measly warrants is an accomplishment, really.

Six years off the grid and on the run. Masters swipes a finger across the iPad on his desk. How's that working out for you, Queenie?

Staring at him, I inhale slowly, hoping to mask my fear and anger. Look, like I told you before. You have the wrong girl. My name is Danielle Hilton. I can show you my I.D. if you’ll just give me back my—

Not buying it, baby doll. Head tilted, he subjects me to another lingering inspection.

Unable to stop myself, I smooth the fabric of my skirt against my thighs. I’m well-dressed for the first time in six years, my over-generous flesh concealed in the costume of a twenty-six-year old woman having a girls' night out. My reddish brown hair has been dyed a pale gold and more make-up than I normally wear in an entire year covers me in what was clearly an unsuccessful attempt to trick the facial recognition programs the casinos run.

But none of that explains why Masters' gaze is hooked on that inverted triangle where the deep cut V of the blouse exposes the top swell of my breasts.

As ashamed as I am of my body's reaction, I can't deny or hide that my nipples haven't stopped poking at the thin material covering them since Masters first curled a possessive hand around my waist and steered me into the elevator. Now, with his gaze locked on those two hard points, heat crawls across my cleavage. I tamp down on the squirm building in my ass and the need to shred my bottom lip.

Masters clearly wants to throw me off my game, unnerving me with fake, burning appraisals of my body. It has been so long since a man looked at me like that, and never a man like Masters, that I can't help but react.

I’ll be damned if I let him turn me into a helpless, quivering female mess though.

I focus on my sister, repeating her name inside my head. The word becomes a prayer, a prayer and a reminder that Rose will die if I don't pull my shit together right now. I repeat her name until the heat dissipates and I can look at Masters with nothing more than a cold, hard stare.

When I do, his attention returns to the iPad after a few seconds. A smile lingers at the corner of his mouth, but I don't have time to seethe. So I push my frustration down and focus on figuring out who this man really is beyond his power, money and sexy as fuck façade.

I scan the room. There’s no clutter on his desk. A laptop rests on the left, its screen closed in favor of the iPad he’s using to sift through my life. In front of the pad is a small wooden stand that holds a single coin upright.

I study the coin. It’s not actual currency but the kind of token military units and their commanders hand out. Memories I’m not proud of squirm inside my head and gut. My father used challenge coins like this as a recipe for a quick score by finding a bar frequented by active duty service members and veterans. Add a sob story to the coin and, presto, he had instant buddies he could scam for enough gas money to get us to the next con.

The coin and the fact that it’s on Masters' desk with no protective covering tells me a lot. For starters, he handles it—perhaps daily—so it’s important to him. Then there’s the significance of the familiar horse's head stamped with Roman numeral XII and the crossed daggers behind the chess piece. It’s a commander's coin from the 12th Psychological Operations Battalion.

Great. I’ve been collared by a former PsyOps casino owner.

I’m sunk and almost out of time. I look at the clock on the credenza to see just how little remains.

Am I keeping you from a hot date, Marie? Leaning forward, his gaze narrows. He places two fingers center of the iPad's display and draws them apart, expanding whatever text or image he’s been looking at. Your eyes are listed as brown.

So is my hair, I snap back, wanting his attention anywhere but on my eyes. It's called a disguise.

He licks his lips as if the juice of my confession already coats them. So, you admit you’re Marie Lafayette.

My shoulders bounce in a non-committal shrug. At this point, I’ll admit almost anything to keep his attention off the contact lenses turning my gold-brown gaze blue. I have a driver's license and a useless credit card stating I’m Danielle Hilton. Both are extremely good fakes. And, while I have never been fingerprinted, I’m willing to bet my prints were pulled from the trailer I lived in when I ran off with the twins when they were fourteen.

I realize how truly fucked I am unless my luck changes fast.

Rule Number 3—Luck never gives, it only lends.

The same is true of time. I have until six a.m. to return the contacts and the money I won to Solandro Ortiz or Rose is dead. I only have until two a.m., however, to return to the motel room I stashed my brother Tommy in or he will rabbit, just as I instructed.

Standing, Masters pushes the tablet aside and comes around to the front of the desk. His big, lean body looms over me, his proximity making it all but impossible to breathe. One finger traces the curve of my jaw as he leans even closer to whisper in my ear. My muscles heat as his deep timbre soaks into my skin. I can't help you if you won't tell me.

I don't snort but I want to. Obviously, Masters hopes I don't know Rule Number 4—You can't con a con.

I have to get out of this on my own, but I’ve forgotten how. I’ve kept my nose as clean as a nun's ass since I took the twins from my father and ran. I work multiple jobs, spend every day exhausted from ninety-hour work weeks and catch most of my sleep during long bus rides between work and the cheap one bedroom apartment where Tommy sleeps on a pull-out couch and Rose and I share a bed—when