Absolute Power (Absolute Power Duet Book 1) Read online

  Absolute Power

  Jeana E. Mann

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Jagger

  2. Cash

  3. Jagger

  4. Jagger

  5. Jagger

  6. Jagger

  7. Jagger

  8. Jagger

  9. Jagger

  10. Jagger

  11. Cash

  12. Jagger

  13. Jagger

  14. Jagger

  READY FOR ABSOLUTE TRUST?

  Also by Jeana E. Mann

  About the Author

  “Power is of two kinds: one is obtained by the fear of punishment and the other by acts of love.” –Mahatma Gandhi

  Preface

  Cash

  “Please.” Her pouty mouth trembles on the plea as I bend her over the back of my sofa and gaze down at her plump ass. Legs spread apart. Naked. Fearful but willing.

  “Please, what?” I trail a fingertip down the groove of her spine, loving the way her smooth skin erupts in gooseflesh. With her hands tied behind her, she’s submissive and needy. Just the way I’ve fantasized a million times.

  “Please fuck me.” The tremble in her voice gives me all the power in this bizarre relationship of struggle and revenge.

  This woman stole from me. Humiliated me. Threatened my reputation. I went after her in a quest for revenge, but I didn’t realize her lips would taste like wine, or her body would beg to be dominated. Equal parts of anger and desire war inside my head. She owes me. I want her. Why is this so damn complicated? Why am I more concerned about her happiness than my reputation? It makes no sense.

  Maybe I’ve lost my edge. At this moment, nothing matters more than her. I wrap my fingers around her neck, lift her to a standing position, and lower my lips to her ear. “You only had to ask for it.”

  I awake from the dream, sweating, with a painful erection tenting the sheet. Not only does this dark-eyed angel haunt my reality, she’s managed to infiltrate my sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t think. I can’t even get a good night’s rest because of her. With a groan of frustration, I climb out of bed and walk to the window overlooking the lake. This madness has to end, and it can only come to one conclusion. By the end of the summer, I’ll own her body, mind, and soul.

  One

  Jagger

  The bell over the door to Mercer’s Fine Jewelry and Art Gallery jingles. A stranger crosses the threshold. I curse under my breath at the interruption to my nightly routine. I should’ve locked the door at closing. Before tonight, it’s never been necessary. Few people venture out after dark in Baxter’s Corner, Indiana. In fact, you might say this small, sleepy community rolls up the sidewalks and shuts down when the sun hits the horizon. That’s why I chose this place as my home. Low key. No hassle. Quiet.

  “We’re closed.” I toss the remark over my shoulder, not bothering to look up from the dust mop in my hands.

  “The sign says you’re open.” The grit in the deep, masculine voice entices me to turn around. This isn’t our usual type of customer. He’s tall, the crown of his head almost grazing the top of the door frame. A black denim jacket showcases his broad shoulders. He lowers the hood of his sweatshirt to reveal dark, close-cropped hair. A pulse of attraction hits me straight between the thighs. Strange. I haven’t had a tingle down there in months.

  Sensing my desire, he flashes a shy grin. Lo and behold, two fathomless dimples appear in his cheeks. Beneath his tough-guy exterior, his smile holds boyish appeal.

  “Um, no worries. I forgot to flip the sign.” I smile back and rest the handle of the dust mop against the nearest display case. “What can I do for you?”

  He bends at the knees to get a better look at my name badge. “Jagger? Unusual name.” The line of his lips tightens for a fraction of a second.

  “Yeah, my mom was into the Rolling Stones.” Before she became a substance abuser. Before she abandoned me and my older sister Calliope.

  He takes a step closer and extends a hand for me to shake. The movement draws my attention to the tattoos there. A skull and snake wrapped around a knife. Above the collar of his shirt, a hawk centers above the notch in his collarbone, wings wrapping around the column of his neck. Gang style tattoos like those worn by members of DOR, the Disciples of Rage. I’ve heard of Chicago gangs moving south into Indiana, looking for recruits in the smaller towns, and forcing shop owners to pay money for protection. I never thought it would happen here.

  My stomach clenches. I hesitate, but he goes the extra few inches and slides his palm against mine. His touch is warm and confident, sending an unexpected prickle through my fingers. After a second, he releases me then shoves both hands deep into the pockets of his blue jeans. The smile drops from his face. An impending sense of danger flashes through me.

  “I don’t want any problems.” The breathiness in my voice betrays my anxiety. I’m not sure what bothers me more, the glittering darkness of his eyes or his air of implacable confidence.

  “Neither do I.” The scratchiness in his baritone creates an itch in my core, one that can only be resolved by sex. Hot, hot sex with me bent over the textile table and my panties around my ankles.

  I lick the dryness from my lips and glance at the phone resting on the counter. Too far away to be helpful. One deep breath helps steady my nerves. “The town cop will be by for a security check any minute.” A total lie.

  He shrugs. “I haven’t broken any laws, have I? I’m just a dude who loves fine jewelry and art.” As he speaks, he studies the framed black-and-white picture on the wall. He clasps his hands behind his back. “This is nice. Who’s the photographer?”

  “Stella Valentine.” The words crackle from my tight throat. “That’s the covered bridge from the next town down the road.” Maybe I’m overreacting. If life has taught me anything, it’s to expect the unexpected. Plenty of people have judged me for my appearance. I don’t want to be one of them. He deserves the benefit of the doubt. Together, we admire the sharp focus and tonal range of the photograph. “She’s local. Very talented. She does a lot of work for National Geographic. Some people think she’s going to be the next Ansel Adams.” I trace the picture frame with a fingertip. Scoring an original Stella Valentine for the gallery was a highlight of my job. “If you like this, she has more. We’re thinking of having a show this summer.”

  “I like it. What else you got?” He steps around me to study the hand thrown pottery on the shelf behind us. The tension eases from my shoulders. His interest seems sincere. I feel like a judgmental ass.

  “Everything in here is from local artists and craftsmen.” For a few seconds, my enthusiasm for the work overrides my distrust. “There are metal sculptures in the next room and jewelry in the room beyond that.”

  “Yeah?” Through double thick lashes, he casts a panty-melting side glance in my direction. “What kind of jewelry?”

  “Rings, necklaces, pendants, precious gems, and diamonds.” I smile, unable to curb my flirtatious tone. Sexy guys are few and far between in Baxter’s Corner. “Is there anything specific you’re interested in?”

  “Maybe. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “Okay. I’m here if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks, Jagger.” The way he says my name sends a pleasant wave of goose bumps along my arms. His dark eyes sweep over me, assessing and enigmatic. “I’ll do that.”

  Once his back is to me, I sweep my phone from the counter and into my pocket. I retrieve the dust mop and run it over the worn pine floor, trailing along behind him. Although my gaze is lowered toward my work, I watch him through my lashes. He scrutinizes each display, tilting his head to capture the c
reations from different angles, until he comes to the jewelry cases.

  “These are good.” He taps a fingernail on the glass above an arrangement of necklaces and rings. “Who makes these?”

  “Me,” I croak, clear my throat, and try again. “I do.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows lift. “Think you could do some custom work for me? I wanna make something for my grandma’s birthday.”

  “Sure.” Although he’s not exactly the kind of customer I was hoping to attract, I can use the work. And how cute is he—talking about his grandma? “We can sit down and create something together, or you can send me a picture of what she likes. I can make just about anything.”

  The dimples return, bracketing his wide mouth. “Pretty and talented. You’re quite a girl, Jagger.”

  “Thanks.” My cheeks warm under his praise, which is almost as confusing as his interest in the custom jewelry.

  “I’m curious.” A few strides brings him inside my personal space. The scent of spicy cologne teases my nose. Up close, his toned, athletic body is intimidating. I press my thighs together, fighting away the moisture gathering in my panties. He cocks his head. “How does a girl like you get into a business like this?”

  “Um, well, I’ve always liked art. Especially fine jewelry. And my sister was in the business.” As a jewel thief, but that’s another story. A tug at my subconscious warns me to stop talking. Oversharing to a gang-type thug isn’t the smartest idea.

  “But you do all the work, right?” He shoves his hands into his pockets again and stares down at me. “I mean, you run the place.”

  “Yes, I’m the manager. Mr. Mercer is getting up there in years and wants to retire. He taught me everything I know about the business and jewelry design.”

  “Come to think of it, I think you made a piece for my friend. A platinum ring with a four-carat simulated ruby surrounded by cubic zirconias. High quality. Very unique. In fact, most jewelers wouldn’t know it’s a fake.” The intensity of his stare does crazy things to my insides. “I’ve got a picture of it on my phone. Let me show you.” A knot begins to form in the pit of my stomach. I glance down at the floor. He hands the phone to me, but one glance is all I need to recognize the entwined vines engraved on the band, the crisscross gallery, the flawless simulated stones.

  “Um, it’s very pretty, but no. It wasn’t me.” The lie doesn’t discourage him.

  “Are you sure?” He flashes those panty-dropping dimples. “He said he got it here a few weeks ago.” Even though his hands remain in his pockets, the threat of danger emanates from the coiled strength in his muscles. “Sorry if I’m being pushy. I was just really impressed by the craftsmanship, and my grandma deserves the best.”

  “No. It’s okay.” My stomach churns. “I’d remember something like that.” How could I forget? That particular piece took a month to make.

  “Ah, well.” His gaze dips to my lips, and holy hell, I’m dumbstruck by the promise of his full mouth on mine. Now is not the time for sexual fantasies, however. I need to get him out of here. Pronto. He shakes his head. “That’s disappointing. Because I’m very, very interested in meeting the person who made it.”

  “Are you a cop?” The question arrives in a whisper, barely audible. Dozens of scenarios play out in my head. None of them end in my favor.

  His laughter rings through the empty room. “Do I look like a cop to you, Jagger?”

  “No.” Damn. I roll my lips together. The ring had been the latest in a string of forgeries. I’d seen it in the window of a premier jewelry store in upscale Carmel. When I went home, I made a copy. A month later, I walked back into the place, asked to see the ring, and—when the salesgirl turned her back—swapped the forgery for the real one. The thrill had been unbelievable. I never thought anyone would find out. Especially not a sexy-as-sin tatted-up gangbanger.

  “What were you looking for?” Emeline, our salesperson/accountant, strides into the room from the rear of the store on a cloud of cold air. She’d left work an hour ago to get ready for her date and wasn’t supposed to be back until her shift tomorrow morning. Her hazel eyes take note of the man standing in my personal space and flicker to my face, questioning. “Is everything okay?” With a sigh of relief, she grabs her phone from the shelf beneath the counter. “There it is. I knew I left it here.”

  The stranger’s expression brightens. “I’m looking for the person who made this ring. Your girl here doesn’t recall, but maybe you do.” He holds up his phone. Em leans forward to study the picture.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure, I remember. Jagger made it.” She’s too enamored with his dimples to notice my dismay.

  “Is that right?” His even white teeth bite into the fullness of his lower lip. Plush, soft, kissable lips. “Jagger seems to have forgotten.”

  “Seriously, Jag? You worked on it for weeks and—” The rest of her words die on her lips when she catches the panic in my eyes. She makes a strangled chirp and clears her throat. “Or maybe not. Who knows. I’m an airhead.”

  “Must’ve been a mix-up,” the guy replies with an easy shrug of those wide shoulders. “Too bad.”

  “Did you need anything else, Em?” I ask her, eager to get her out of the store before she gets me into more trouble.

  “Um, no. That’s it.” She backs toward the employee entrance. “But I can stay if you need me.” Her worried glance bounces between me and the smoldering bad boy. “Tony’s waiting in the car. I can ask him to come back in a bit.”

  “No. I’m fine. You can go.” I summon a deep breath to calm my nerves. No damage has been done—yet. With a little luck, this guy will leave and no one will ever know what I’ve done.

  “Are you sure?” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Absolutely. This gentleman was on his way out.”

  “Okay, well, see you later.” Her high heels click on the wood floor as she leaves.

  “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your evening,” the man calls after her. If he wasn’t so intimidating, he’d be absolutely charming.

  Once she’s safely out of earshot, evicting this sexy thug becomes my top priority. I smile and try to crowd him in the direction of the exit. “I apologize for the mix-up. She gets confused easily. Mr.—I’m sorry? I didn’t catch your name.” He doesn’t reply, just gives me a strange knowing look like he has a secret—one I’m not going to enjoy. I nod toward the door. “If you don’t mind, it’s getting late, and I really do need to close up.”

  “All right.” He walks to the front door. I trail on his heels, intending to secure the store the minute he crosses the threshold. Instead of leaving, he locks the door and draws the shade. When he turns around, the corners of his eyes crinkle, but there’s no sign of humor on his face. I’m less than two yards from him with nowhere to run. His dark eyes lock with mine. “Let’s get real for a minute, Jagger.”

  He walks up to me, his strides slow and easy. The tips of his black-and-white Chuck Taylor’s stop millimeters from my scuffed ballet flats. Up close, I can see the stubble on his cheeks, the small scar above his left eyebrow, and the black lines of the tattoo curling around his neck. Fear chills my blood. I’ve seen that look before in my ex-boyfriend’s eyes. It’s the look of a man with an agenda—one that won’t play out in my favor. He drags the backs of his fingers down my cheek in a soft caress then wraps them around my throat. The blockage of blood through my arteries creates spots before my eyes.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I croak. “We don’t have any money. We’ve already made the bank deposit for the day.”

  “Why would I want to hurt a pretty little thing like you?” He releases my throat. Adrenaline races through my veins. Under different circumstances, I’d swoon over the way he tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. His touch, although gentle, disguises a threat. “I’m just here to talk.”

  “About what?” In my wildest dreams, I can’t come up with a valid reason for his presence. If he’s not a cop, then why is he asking these questions?

&
nbsp; “You stole from me, Jagger.” He straightens the collar of my blouse. “Now what are we gonna do about this?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” The shaking in my body intensifies until I’m sure he can hear my teeth chattering.

  He inches closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to look at him. My body tingles, acutely aware of his size, his strength, his maleness. Although my common sense is screaming to escape, my body angles toward him in a primal urge to mate. The width of his shoulders blocks out the rest of the room. His cologne, expensive and masculine, carries hints of citrus and rain. Delicious.

  “About a month ago, someone came into my store, switched out this ruby ring for a fake, and walked away. A pretty girl with long, dark hair and big, baby doll eyes.” His gaze caresses my face, my breasts, before returning to my mouth. That look is everything—sin and seduction and promise rolled up inside a pretty bad boy exterior. “So, I started asking around. It wasn’t very hard to find you.” Between his thumb and index finger, he rolls one of my errant curls. “You’ve got some big balls, baby girl.”

  “It wasn’t me.” My skin burns where his fingertips brushed my shoulder. I take a step backward. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable—”

  “Don’t deny it. I’ve got you on video.” His eyes grow darker, predatory like a wolf. Guilt tightens my chest. I’d been so careful to keep my face away from the camera. He must have more than one in the showroom.

  As the gap closes between us, I struggle to breathe. His gaze narrows. “Did you think I wouldn’t come looking for you?” When I don’t answer, he creeps forward. I retreat until my back hits the wall. He places his palms flat against the plaster on each side of my head, trapping me between two strong arms. “I want the original ring or the money.”