Chapter Two

Striker waited for the inevitable blush to cover her face. Three, two, one…and there it was. He smirked. When he’d first come back to the former United States, he’d discovered it held only three types of women. There were the unenhanced, who were impossible to shock as they’d seen it all, done it all. The wealthy enhanced, who tended to indulge their every whim and were looking for something to shock the hell out of them. And then there were the ones like Friday Jones, who’d sold their souls to the companies and didn’t have time for anything but work. Those women, he scared the hell out of.

He tended to avoid the glassy-eyed unenhanced, but he’d had his fair share of fun with the rich women. Friday was the first little worker bee who’d intrigued him. He wasn’t sure if that was because of her hour-glass figure, her milky skin and wide blue eyes, or the way she stood in front of him, terrified, yet asking for help. Not to mention she intrigued him, purely on the merit that she’d managed to find him. He wasn’t an easy man to track down.

“You can’t mean…” she blustered at last. For a minute, he’d thought she’d turned mute.

“Mean what, chère?”

“Mean me.” Her fair skin was a dark pink now, the flush running down into that ugly, formless jumpsuit she wore. “You can’t want me.”

“Oh, but I do.” Not for the reasons she had in mind, but it sure was entertaining to watch her think it. No, he might be a bastard, and he sure as hell had done some questionable things in his life, but he’d never forced a woman to have sex with him. And no matter what was going through Friday’s head, he wasn’t about to start now.

She gaped at him like a pretty fish stuck in an aquarium. She knew she was caught. He laid the gun on the table, within easy reach. This woman wasn’t a danger, but if she was being honest, she had a large chunk of Enforcement on her tail. If they crashed the bar, he wanted to be able to shoot his way out of trouble. Something he’d become adept at during his lifetime.

“Sit down.” It was an order. He didn’t need her fainting in front of him.

She sat slowly and cautiously, as though dazed. Long dark lashes fluttered as she stared at him.

He leaned over the table. “I want a year of your time. That’s my price. Take it or leave it.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She licked plump, ruby-colored lips that made his cock stand to attention, and he willed it right back down. This negotiation wasn’t about sex. It was about survival.

“A year? Of me?” She no longer sounded like a programmed auto-voice. There was actual emotion in there now. Okay, so it was shock, but it was still better than listening to that lifeless tone she’d had going a minute ago. “You want to use me for a year? Can’t you get other women? Is it because you only have one eye?”

He laughed loud and hard, attracting the attention of wary customers. “No, chère. I have no problems getting women. Believe it or not, some women find the eyepatch sexy. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve been asked to play pirate. There are a whole lot of women out there who want to pretend they’re being raided and pillaged.” He cocked an eyebrow at her as he smiled, but she obviously didn’t think he was amusing.

She gaped at him again, her eyes wide. Cute. Seriously cute. “Then why?” she whispered.

“You don’t need to know my reasons. You just need to know the price if you want my services. And my price is one full year, starting right now. A year in which you do what I want, when and where I want, no questions asked.”

“I-I-I…” She swallowed again. “How can you ask that of me when I don’t even know what you might want? What if you plan to harm me?”

She needed parameters. He could do that. He just couldn’t give her the details of why he wanted her and what he expected her to do. “Okay, here are the ground rules. I won’t do anything to harm you in any way. I won’t cause pain. I won’t inflict emotional or mental torture. I only want a year of your time and your compliance. It’s up to you. Just how desperate are you to live? Desperate enough to sign yourself over to a real outlaw?” He folded his arms and waited, confident she would make the right decision. She was seriously out of options.

As she thought it over, he signaled to the waitress for a water. A moment later the glass was placed in front of Friday. She snatched it up as though she were dying of thirst. As she drank, her eyes stayed on him. When the glass was empty, she clutched it to her chest. The cool, controlled facade she’d had in place since walking into the dive was gone.

“You can’t be serious, I can’t offer myself up as payment. It’s”—she cast around for the word, color leeching from her face as she did so—“wrong. No, barbaric. It’s barbaric.” Her blue eyes were wide with shock—or horror at the thought of spending a year in his tender care.

“You got some other way of getting me the credits you’d owe?”

He watched her eyes flicker as her agile mind raced through options. “I can pay you off over a set amount of time.”

“A payment plan?” He laughed again. She was too much. “For how long? Considering what you’ll owe me, bébé, you’ll be paying it off for the rest of your life. What’s one year compared to a whole lifetime of debt?”

“But it’s one year of…” The poor, sheltered little bee couldn’t even say the words.

“Of whatever I want,” he supplied helpfully.

“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

He shrugged. It was a pity, but not unexpected. “Then you die.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “There are no other options that you’ll accept?”

He knew his smile was feral and watched her shiver when she saw it. “Chère, you ain’t got nothing else to offer.”

He watched realization sink in and her shoulders slump. Striker didn’t like to see a woman defeated, but reality was sometimes a hard pill to swallow. He knew that better than most.

She licked her lips. “What happens at the end of the year?”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go and leave you there.”

“Unharmed?”

“Unharmed.” But not unchanged.

Her hand shook as she put the glass back on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Striker saw the owner of the bar head toward them. Glen studied Friday thoughtfully, but wisely kept his conclusions to himself.

“Got incoming. Enforcement.” Glen cocked his head toward Friday. “They’re after her. They got a tip-off she was here.” He scowled as he scanned the room full of cash-strapped miners. “Not unexpected. They’re offering a reward.”

Friday sucked in a breath but didn’t freak out. Striker appreciated that.

“What do you want me to do?” The bar owner rubbed his jaw. It wasn’t a nervous action; it meant he was already thinking of scenarios and countermeasures.

“What’s it gonna be, chère? You need to decide. Time has just run out.”

“This isn’t much of a choice,” she snapped, showing some spine. He liked it.

“It’s the only one you have.”

She swallowed, bit her bottom lip, then straightened her shoulders. He’d expected to find dull acceptance in her eyes. Instead, he saw determination.

“Okay. I agree.” He could see her heartbeat throb rapidly in the curve of her throat. “One year, starting right now.”

He wanted to pump the air. He’d secured a geneticist for the team. Instead he inclined his head. “Good decision.” He turned to the bar owner. “The bike’s out back. We’ll need twenty minutes.”

“I’ve got you covered.” The big man strode away.

“Let’s go, chère.” Striker stood, holstered his gun in the rig strapped to his thigh, and held out a hand to her.

With shaky fingers, she curled her hand in his. He couldn’t suppress his grin of triumph as he strode toward the back of the bar, dragging his new acquisition along with him. Once they were somewhere safe, somewhere they could talk, he’d explain exactly why he needed her and put her mind at ease. Until then, he’d just have to let her imagination run riot, because they had more important things to deal with—like staying alive.

What have I done? What have I done?

Friday focused on Striker’s back as they hurried through the room. Her stomach clenched in waves, and she knew if she’d eaten any food at all that day it would have been decorating the floor.

A year with the smuggler, or death? What the hell kind of choice was that?

She’d signed with CommTECH to ensure that she wouldn’t have to sell her body to live, like so many of the women she’d grown up around. And here she was, doing it anyway. Forced into it by a pirate with a black heart. A year! What would he do? What would she have to endure? It was too much to contemplate. Part of her wondered if she wasn’t better off letting the poison run its course, instead.

She’d gone from one form of slavery to another in the space of a breath. At least with CommTECH, she’d had an idea what she was getting into. With this man, she didn’t have a clue. Did he expect her to be his sex slave for a year? What if he meant to sell her and earn his money that way? Was she to spend her year servicing strangers to pay him back for saving her life? Fear hit her hard, making her trip over her own feet.

“Come on.” He tugged her hand, his huge fist swallowing hers and reminding her of exactly how strong he was and just how helpless she was in comparison.

They pushed out into the humid air of the desert. Night had fallen, but the temperature hadn’t. He tugged her into a lockup hidden in the alley behind the bar.

“Wait.” She dug her feet in and fought to stop.

With clear irritation, he turned on her. “You want to die here? In an alley? Because that’s what’s gonna happen as soon as Enforcement arrive.”

Blood rushed loudly in her ears, making it hard to concentrate. Sweat pooled in the small of her back.

“I have to know.” She stared him in the eye, looking for reassurance. “I have to know if you plan to sell me to make your money.”

He hung his head and let out a long sigh. When he looked back up at her, his jaw was clenched. Anger? Frustration? She wasn’t sure which.

“I don’t pimp women. Your time will belong to me for the year. No one else will touch you. We’ll talk more about the details of our deal once we’re safe. But I won’t do anything to harm you. Got it?”

Relief made her tremble. “Got it.”

“Great. Now can we leave before someone burns a hole through my chest?”

“Wait. You said no one will touch me. But will you let other people watch us when we’re sexually active?”

He stared at her, dumbstruck for a second. “Woman, you have a sick mind. I’m not sure if I’m impressed, insulted, or worried. No, there won’t be any audience to any sex we might have. Happy?”

Might? What did that mean? Did he have something else in mind for her? If so, what?

He pressed his thumb to the entry-scan and opened the door to the lockup. It was dark, but Friday could make out the covered shape of a bike.

“Catch.” A helmet thudded into her stomach. She pulled it on.

He pulled the cover off the machine as she fumbled with the strap of her helmet. That wasn’t a hoverbike. The questions about his intentions fled, now that she was faced with something else she didn’t understand.

“What is it?” She watched as he straddled the machine.

“This, bébé, is a relic. It’s a fully restored, slightly adapted, Ducati.”

She must have looked blank, because she felt blank.

“It’s a motorbike. Vintage. Get on.”

“Where?” She looked for the passenger capsule, but there wasn’t one.

He looked down and shook his head. “Sit behind me. Wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.” When he looked back up at her, it was fierce. “Now.”

The word acted like a whip. It hit her hard, making her rush into action. She fastened the helmet and climbed onto the back of the bike. Sitting with her legs spread wide wasn’t comfortable. Having a strange man between them made it worse.

“Wrap your arms around me. When I lean, you lean, too.”

She did as she was told, although her face burned at the thought of being so close to him. But then, it was something she’d best get used to. The man owned her now.

“Tighter.” It was an order.

His muscled back was a furnace against her chest. She pressed her breasts flat against him, scooted forward until her hips were flush with his, and wrapped her arms tight around his middle. She clung to fistfuls of his shirt. He smelled of citrus and sandalwood, a heady combination that made her already roiling stomach quake.

The bike roared into life. She gasped at the noise. It sounded nothing like the low hum of the hover vehicles.

“Don’t let go.” With that last order, the bike shot forward, taking them into the balmy streets of Munroe.

They headed out of town, toward the glowing lights of the thirty-foot-high wall that marked the southern edge of the Northern Territory and the start of the Red Zone.

The world’s deadliest no-man’s-land.

And Friday’s only hope of escape.