Sheri WhiteFeather - Mob Mistress

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To MJ for helping me write for the Romantic Suspense

line, to Patience for making me feel so welcome,

to Natashya for being my wonderful new editor,

and to Carl and Kim for the prison information.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Justin Elk squinted in the darkness, his vision blurred, his temples throbbing. Blood pumped through his veins as thick and cumbersome as liquid lead.

The last thing he remembered was stopping at a roadside diner for a cup of coffee and a club sandwich. He’d been headed to the Gulf of Mexico, to loll on the beach, to enjoy a much-needed vacation.

And then he’d awakened here.

In an unfamiliar bed, stripped down to his jeans. His shirt and boots had been removed. His silver-buckled belt was gone, too.

He shifted his weight and cursed the emasculating wooziness. He’d been drugged. He could feel the sluggish beat of his heart, the sleep-induced, head-spinning intoxication.

Someone must have spiked his coffee at the diner. Slipped him a Mickey or whatever it was called. He’d gotten groggy when he’d climbed back into his truck, but at the time he wasn’t sure why. He’d been too tired to drive, so he’d sat behind the wheel, trying to combat the sudden fatigue.

Which meant what? That they’d waited for him to conk out before they’d carted him off to…

He gripped the side of the massive bed, doing his damnedest to pull himself up.

His surroundings seemed grand, even in the vault of night. The sheets bunched beneath his fingers, the fabric soft and luxurious. Egyptian cotton, he thought. Probably four or five hundred bucks a pop. He’d never slept on anything this high-dollar before, but he knew how expensive quality linens could be. His family owned and operated a guest ranch that pampered its city-slicker guests.

He finally managed to sit upright and fumble for a lamp. With an unsteady grip, he illuminated the room.

The light glared straight at him, making pinwheels twist and turn before his eyes. Fighting another wave of dizziness, he turned his head, catching glimpses of his glamorous gilded cage.

Even though the furniture mutated in the drug-laced fog, he noticed opulent antiques. A French door, which he assumed was securely locked, showcased what appeared to be a terrace, and a hallway led to what he assumed was the rest of the suite. He suspected this was a guest room in someone’s house.

Weren’t kidnapping victims supposed to be bound and gagged and crammed into dark, dingy basements?

Whoever did this wasn’t holding him for ransom. They probably had more money, more power, more social standing than his family could ever have.

He tried to drag himself out of bed, but before his feet hit the rippling floor, the whole damn room spun. Everything went by in a mindless blur.

Shit.

The sedative sluicing through his system was keeping him prisoner. He hoped that he didn’t OD. He didn’t want to croak in some rich man’s castle. Then again, maybe the person who’d arranged his captivity was a woman.

Yeah, right. A decadent heiress just dying to have him, a Texas-bred horseman, as her sex slave. A Hill Country cowboy who gave riding lessons and guided tours.

Get real, he told himself. He hadn’t been abducted because he looked good in a pair of Wranglers.

The room wouldn’t quit spinning, so he turned off the lamp, shutting out the pinwheels, the glaring little lights flashing like camera bulbs beneath his eyes. He spewed a string of profanities and fought to stay conscious.

But he lost the battle and passed out again.

When Justin came to, he sensed the presence of another person.

Someone watching him.

Angry, he forced himself to sit up. He didn’t care how wasted he was. This time he was going to pound his way out of this mess. But as he reached for the lamp to expose his captor, a woman’s voice came out of the night.

“I unplugged it,” she said. “I unplugged all of them.”

Justin cursed. He couldn’t very well pound a nameless, faceless female. Her tone was barely audible, barely above a whisper. He wondered if his heiress theory wasn’t as far-fetched as it had seemed. “Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that. I’ll get into trouble. I’m not supposed to be in your room.”

Was this a game? Or was she on the level? He followed the direction of her voice and caught sight of her shadowy outline. She was only a few feet away.

Not that he could make out her features. He couldn’t even distinguish the color or length of her hair. She seemed misty, like a ghost.

Or an angel.

Maybe he was dreaming. No, he thought. It was the drug. The room was spinning again.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“That’s a stupid question,” he snapped. The digital clock on the nightstand displayed blurry red numbers. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was.

She moved closer, and he struggled to focus, to see her more clearly, but the runaway-carousel motion hadn’t stopped.

When she touched him, placing a cool hand against his cheek, his heart bumped his chest.

“Is the medication making you nauseous?” she asked.

“Just dizzy.” He tried to breathe in her scent, but she wasn’t wearing a fragrance. Everything about her remained a mystery. “Are you a nurse?”

“No. But I saw them carry you in here, and I heard them talking about you. I could tell you were drugged.” She removed her hand from his cheek, her featherlight touch fading. “I assume they’ve given you a couple of doses since then.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday. They said that you were important to them. That they’re not going to hurt you.”

“Who are they?” he asked, praying that she was being honest. That she wasn’t part of the conspiracy.

“The West Coast Family,” she responded.

“What?” Confused, he gazed at her hazy image.

“The media calls them the Hollywood Mob.”

His befuddled brain kicked into gear. “The Halloways? That’s who did this to me?”

“Yes.” She sat on the edge of his bed, rustling the pricey sheets. “How well do you know them?”

“I don’t know them at all. My uncle testified against Denny Halloway, their old boss, but that was ages ago. Twenty-nine years or so.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised. “So that means Reed Blackwood is your uncle?”

“He’s my mother’s brother.” Justin frowned, wondering why Reed’s name came so easily to her. “He went into the witness protection program.”

“Yes, I know. I read about him in old newspaper clippings.”

He stalled, analyzing her response. If she were closely associated with the mob, she would have known about Reed firsthand.

“My uncle has never been part of my life,” he said, admitting that he was scarcely related to the other man. “I was about a year old when he went into the program. He means nothing to me, and I mean nothing to him.” He paused, curious about his surroundings. “Is this the Halloways’ house?”