Theirs to Corrupt (Titans Captivated #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Link

“The first time I saw him kill a man, he was balancing a tray of champagne.” I tip my head to the side, indicating Paxton Gallagher, my trusty bodyguard and the man I can’t imagine not having by my side.

My words hanging in the air, Johnson frantically looks at the man who is blocking his way out of the booth.

Pax shrugs. “And I didn’t spill a drop.”

In the most satisfying way possible, Johnson’s face contorts with fear.

Men like him are all too predictable. Swaggeringly brave when bullying others but crumbling under real pressure.

I lean back in my seat at the Rusty Nail, the fabric of my suit whispering against the cracked vinyl upholstery.

The man across from me—the latest in a long line of disappointments—squirms. Beads of sweat form on his balding head, despite the way the air-conditioning is valiantly struggling against Houston’s summer humidity.

The stench of Johnson’s fear clogs my nostrils.

He should have carefully considered his options before betraying my trust.

Allowing myself a cold smile, I continue the story. “We were at a charity gala. Black tie. Pax was undercover as a waiter.” I pause, savoring the growing terror in Johnson’s watery eyes. He can’t look away. “Whole thing was over in less than two seconds.”

Even now, though he appears relaxed, Pax is a mountain of barely restrained violence in a tailored suit. His gaze constantly scans the room, ever vigilant.

Johnson’s Adam’s apple seems to be convulsing. “Mr. Merritt, please. I swear I didn’t know about the discrepancies in the books. If you’ll just give me a chance to explain?—”

“You’ve had chances, Johnson.” I keep my tone conversational. “Three of them, to be exact. I don’t appreciate being lied to, especially not by someone I trusted to manage one of my investments.”

As I speak, movement catches my eye.

A server approaches our table, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard.

She’s young, early twenties perhaps, with a mane of chestnut hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her jeans are a little loose, as is her shirt. The caution in her eyes speaks of hard-won experience beyond her years.

And I’m intrigued.

Pax notices her too.

I continue addressing Johnson, but my attention is divided. “You have twenty-four hours to produce the real financials, or my friend over there might have to provide another champagne service.” I lean forward, allowing steel into my voice. “Do we understand each other?”

The woman is close enough to have heard my thinly veiled threat.

Her composure slips, her hand trembles, and the glasses on her tray clink together precariously.

She avoids my gaze as she fights to steady the beverages.

Why, I’m not sure, but I reach out to stabilize a teetering glass.

My fingers brush against hers, and a surprising burst of electricity jolts through me. Her hand is small, a stark contrast to those I shake in boardrooms and back alleys.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, refusing to look in my direction as she continues to a nearby table.

I track the sway of her hips as she walks away, noting the feminine grace in her movements despite her obvious nervousness.

She doesn’t belong in a dive bar.

So why is she here, waiting tables?

Shaking off the momentary distraction, I refocus on Johnson. “You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll get you what you need, Mr. Merritt. Just…please…” he stammers, his pudgy fingers leaving damp prints on his glass of untouched whiskey. “My family?—”

“Be grateful I’m being generous. Same time tomorrow. Same place. You’ll be here.” It’s not a question.

As he attempts to flee, he knocks over his drink. “I’m sorry. I’m…” He grabs a napkin and tries to mop up the mess.

“Get out of here,” Pax snaps.

Tripping over his own feet, Johnson scurries away like the rat he is.

Moments later, the server is back, smelling of jasmine, vanilla, and sweet innocence—something I’m surprised I can still recognize.

She hasn’t missed a thing, and within moments, she’s leaning past me to wipe away the liquid and pick up the discarded glass.

Pax slides into the seat that Johnson has vacated. As always, my bodyguard has his back to the wall and his face to the door. Nothing will ever get past him.

“Your server had to leave.” After clearing her throat, she goes on. “I’ll be taking over your table.”

Quickly she glances toward the bar and the owner, Marge. “If you’d rather have someone else wait on you, I can arrange?—”

“No.” My interruption is swift. No way in hell am I letting her get away after what she overheard.

After what she overheard?

As if that has anything to do with it.

No way in hell am I letting her get away while her scent is still tantalizingly wrapped around me.

“In that case… Can I get you anything else? Another round?”

There’s no reason to stay.

We’d planned to go to the Braes—the exclusive country club I belong to—but I’m reluctant to leave. “Another round.” I nod.

Pax arches a single, dark eyebrow.

“Thank you…” Looking at her, I tilt my head, inviting her to supply her name, which she doesn’t.

That makes me lean back in my seat to regard her more closely.

Though Pax and I don’t come here often, I know all the bartenders and most of the servers. “You must be new here.”

“Relatively.”

Her vague reply only intrigues me more.

“I’m Pax.” My bodyguard has more charm than I do, and he smiles disarmingly at her.

“Hello.” Once again, she keeps her features neutral.

So much for charm.

“Link,” I offer.

“I know who you are.” She barely hesitates before moving off.

I scowl, and Pax clears his throat, no doubt to cover his laugh. I’m not caught off guard often.

No doubt she asked Marge about me.

What the hell had the owner said?

Pax makes a motion that imitates a plane crashing, and he makes a whistling sound to accompany it.

“Asshole,” I snap, but I can’t take my gaze off our innocent server as she moves to a small terminal to key in our order.

Someone feeds the jukebox, and a classic country tune drowns out casual conversation as she disappears into the back room.

What’s your story?

And why the fuck is my dick hard?

“Think Johnson will come through?” Pax asks.

His question drags me away from musings, and I can’t say I’m happy about it. “He’d be a fool not to.”

Pax shrugs. “And he’s already proven himself to be exactly that.”

But until now, he hadn’t heard that story about Pax.

The object of my interest finally appears from the back room, and she walks around to the bar where she leans forward, waiting for the order to be filled.

The view of denim stretched over her rear holds me speechless.

I continue to take her in as Marge pulls our bottle from the top shelf behind the bar. It’s the only thing we drink. But we hadn’t ordered the same for Johnson.

“You didn’t hear a word I said,” Pax notes, a hint of amusement in his voice.

When I don’t respond, Pax follows my gaze. “She doesn’t belong.”

His words echo my earlier observation.

“Want me to find out who she is?”

For a moment, I consider my response.

The smart move would be to have Pax dig up everything he can on this mysterious woman. But there’s a part of me—a part I thought long buried—that relishes the challenge of unraveling the puzzle myself. “No,” I decide. “Let’s see how this plays out.”

As if on cue, she starts to walk our way, a fresh round of drinks balanced on her tray.

I note the way she squares her shoulders before approaching us. Feeling as if you’re stepping into the lion’s den, little dove?

If so, she’s not far from wrong.

Without a word, she delivers our whiskey.

“Thank you,” I reply, then pause deliberately before adding, “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

A flicker of something—caution? defiance?—crosses her face before she answers. “That’s because I didn’t give it.” She dazzles me with a smile.

Pax clears his throat.

I sweep my gaze over her, and her face heats. “What are you running from?”

“Running?” She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“Hiding, then.”

She balls a hand into a fist, then shoves it into her apron pocket as if to hide it.

My guess is closer than she’s willing to admit.

“Nikki,” she says.

Though she doesn’t blink, I taste her fib on the air.

Interesting.

“Well, Nikki, I noticed your interest in my business discussion. Dangerous habit, that. Eavesdropping.”

Though a pulse frantically flutters in her throat, she doesn’t blink. “Didn’t hear a word.”

She lies easily but not convincingly.

I tilt my head, studying her with care. “You did. And you’d be well advised to forget that you did.”

At my pseudothreat, momentary fear flashes through her wide, light-blue eyes. Almost instantly, she blinks it away and she tips her chin back.

She’s not as adept at hiding her emotions as she’d like to think.

“I’ll bring your check.”

After pivoting, she hurries away and is flagged down by the occupants of another table.

As she stops, she gives them an actual smile—which is much more than the fake one she offered me.

I scowl in a way that makes grown men cower.

Fuck me.

I want that attention directed at me.

At the bar, she confers with Marge once more. And the older woman flicks a frown in my direction. A warning not to mess with this particular employee?

“What’s your interest?” Pax asks.

With a sigh, I shake my head to clear it.

“Boss?”

Judging by the small grin on Pax’s face, he’s asked the question more than once. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah.” He nods.

Pax and I are more than bodyguard and protectee. He lives in a guest house on my River Oaks estate. Not that he spends much time at his own place.

He was assigned to me as a bodyguard when I hired Hawkeye Security. Now only he will do.

We’re no longer employer/employee. He’s my closest confidant and friend. We’re inseparable to the point that now we share women. Neither of us dates unless the lady in question understands the score in advance.

“You generally charm the pants off any lady you’re interested in.”

I take a drink of the finest single malt on the planet.

“She’s not interested.”

Yet.

“Is that her appeal?”

Pax knows I love nothing more than a conquest, no matter how short-lived the relationship—be it a night or a week.

But this is about much, much more than the challenge she presents. The wariness she struggles to hide intrigues me.

I want to get to know her.

Intend to get to know her.

She returns to drop the check on the table.

Without glancing at the total, Pax pulls out a credit card and slides it in her direction.

Then I produce a crisp hundred-dollar bill and offer it to her.

Her eyebrows furrow as she glances between me and Pax. “Would you like me to use this instead of the card?”

“No,” I reply before Pax can. “This is your tip.” The amount is not ridiculously out of line, given the cost of the drinks.

She shakes her head.

“I insist.”

Annoying me, she looks in Pax’s direction.

“Take it,” he encourages.

Still, she hesitates.

“For your excellent service,” I add. “Along with your discretion.” And because she fucking looks like she needs it.

“I told you I didn’t hear anything.”

“So you did.”

“Take it,” Pax repeats. “For putting up with him. You deserve it.”

“I…”

For the first time, the ice queen thaws.

“Thank you.” She accepts, and our fingers brush once again.

This time I note that her skin is slightly calloused from hard work. Fuck. I want to save her from that.

Once more, she moves off, and I can’t look away.

“Obsessed, boss?”

I don’t obsess over anything but business.

Yet my gaze is riveted on her. “She’s going to be ours,” I reply.

He knows me too well to argue. “Do you want me to let her know?”