Breaking Cage Page 6

  “I was right about the surfers then.”

  “Possibly, but my affinity for water sports may be shifting.”

  “Yeah? You having fun at the games?” I feel a sense of pride.

  “I am. I’m even learning the rules.” She shivers and rubs her arms.

  “Hannah, you’re going to need to fatten up. If you think this is cold, you’re in for a hellish nine months. Ever heard of the polar vortex?”

  “Polar vortex, global warming—when are these scientists going to decide if we’re freezing or burning?”

  “Give it a few months. You’ll be freezing.”

  Scout moves around, and I adjust him to my other arm. “Want to come with me to deliver this guy to his new home?”

  “Can it be on record?” A mischievous smile lights up her eyes.

  “Sure, but you have to mention Mariah and her rare disorder. I want people to know the ways they can help.”

  Cocking her head, she gives me a look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “You’re . . . unexpected sometimes.”

  “Is that a good thing?” She seems different today, her mood lighter, her body relaxed.

  Our arms brush against each other as we walk side by side. I stiffen at the sudden contact. “Yeah, Cage. It’s a good thing.”

  People always want to touch me, get close to me, but most keep a healthy distance. Not Hannah. She walks with me farther into the park, and I realize I like it. Something about her makes me want to get closer, to touch her, to breathe her in and explore this attraction.

  We make small talk, Hannah telling me about her new apartment in Wicker Park.

  “Of course that’s where you’d live.”

  She turns to me. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Her irritation makes me chuckle, her tiny freckles all vying for a spot on her small button nose. “Settle down, Hannah. You’re scaring Scout.”

  “Scout? You named him Scout?”

  “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

  “Kind of cliché, don’t you think? Why not Buddy or Rover, or . . . I know. You should have named him Benji.”

  “What’s even more cliché is a Los Angeles transplant finding a cute little apartment in Wicker Park.”

  She’s annoyed. I could taunt her all day and get off watching her ivory skin heat in frustration. Desire replacing thought, I slide my index finger down the curve of her cheek, let it rest on the edge of her chin. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back away. Her lips part. Her lids lower.

  Lust engulfs me. An overpowering desire to taste her—any part of her—slams into me, and my heart races with adrenaline.

  Sliding my hand through her hair, I close the distance between us, cupping the back of her head. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move. She parts and wets those pink, heart-shaped lips with her tongue. I stifle a groan while the rest of the world evaporates and I lean forward.

  Her warm breath glides across my lips, a whimper escaping her throat.

  “I’ve just spotted the Bears’ starting quarterback, Derek Cage, folks.”

  Oh. Fuck. Damn reporters are always getting in my way.

  Releasing my grip, I stare into her eyes, catching my reflection in her dark irises. Panic inundates me, and I walk away, avoiding the hovering reporter, thwarting disaster.

  “Hey, wait up,” Hannah calls, out of breath, flustered, and probably as sexually amped as I am.

  I keep my stride brisk and purposeful.

  “Okay, I get it,” she says. “I won’t make fun of your dog names again. You can chill with the cold shoulder.”

  “I’m not giving you the cold shoulder. Just trying to find the Jones family.” I search the faces in the crowd, recognizing a lot of people but not seeing Mariah or her parents anywhere.

  I’m at a loss for words. My actions were unacceptable. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a woman in public. I like sex—love it actually. I’m a man. It’s human nature to think with our dicks when a beautiful woman is around, but I’ve always been able to keep a semblance of control, waiting until we were away from prying eyes before I made a move. Why is this different?

  My life is utterly fucked up. I’m a danger to women like her. Hannah wants a story on me, but she has no idea what she would be getting herself into. My world could obliterate hers.

  “What do they look like?”

  “Who?” I ask.

  She stops cold. “The Joneses,” she says warily.

  She’s not deterred in the slightest at my change in personality, not slowing when I pick up my pace.

  I like it. I like her, dammit.

  “Derek. It’s great to see you.” I don’t see Stephanie Jones until she’s right in front of me. “Thank you for coming.”

  My heart is racing, my palms sweating, but I put on a smile and greet the Jones family. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  Mariah has grown a few inches, gained a few new crooked teeth, but she’s still the sweet, quiet child I met a year ago. Lowering to one knee, I get eye level with her.

  “I named him Scout,” I peek over at Hannah, who’s smiling from ear to ear, “but you can call him whatever you’d like.”

  “Mariah, he’s adorable,” her mother says.

  Scout sniffs around Mariah’s feet, his tail wagging, and her mom picks him up, placing the puppy in her arms. Mariah’s smile glows, and true happiness shines in her big blue eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cage. Mariah’s been doing well, and this will further her growth. We can’t thank you enough for all of your support,” Mrs. Jones says.

  “I’m happy to help. This is Hannah Black. She’s . . . she’s my personal reporter, protecting me from the other vultures who like to hover.” I flash Hannah an evil smile, but she’s not paying attention. Her focus is on the Joneses and their little girl. She’s not uncomfortable. In fact, she looks in awe, as if privileged to share this moment.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Hannah says. “If it’s all right, I’d love to get Mariah’s story. Include it in a piece I’m doing on Derek, show the country The Rage does have a heart.”

  The Joneses laugh, the idea I’m anything but a gentleman absurd in their minds. “Oh, he has a heart, and it’s filled with gold. Call us next week, and we can talk. I’ll let you know all the amazing things he’s done for us over the past year,” Mariah’s father says.

  After a few minutes, they get Hannah’s number, say their goodbyes, and walk off with Scout.

  “Hannah.” My voice is serious. “You have to feature the disease in the story. It’s the only reason I allowed you to follow along.”

  A gentle hurt crosses her face. “Of course, I will, Derek. I’m not the parasite you think I am.” That’s not at all how I see her.

  A strange line of emotions runs between us as I stare at her hurt expression. I want to pull her into my arms and explore what this is between us, but for Hannah’s safety, I have to run the other direction.

  “Senator Cage, can we have a word?”

  And there is my cue. The sound of my dad’s name makes my choice easy.

  “I’ll see you around, Hannah.”

  My father made it very clear.

  Lose the reporter.

  I make it a habit not to listen to my father, even when the advice is sound, but I don’t need a scene either.

  It’s a foreign thought, one that flashes briefly in the periphery of my consciousness, but I hope Hannah doesn’t give up on her quest to find the real me. I’ve been hidden for so long. Angry and alone.

  Maybe Hannah Black’s the one to change all of that.

  I once read a book about a con-artist named Nathaniel Horton, an Englishman who embezzled more than fifty million dollars before he went into hiding. Nathaniel evaded the British government for twenty-plus years. To this day, I don’t think he’s ever been caught, the story of his life told using a pseudonym. Many know Nathaniel wrote the words. The events were described in such detail
, only a witness to the crime could have written it.

  “Deception,” he wrote, “it’s all about how you perceive it.” At the time, I was fascinated with that concept. I wasn’t sure what he’d meant . . . until my interaction with Derek Cage at Bryson’s Realm.

  There’s an allure to Derek Cage, a pull I can’t ignore. He’d leaned in to kiss me, and I’d wanted it, was practically begging for his lips to cover mine. With his past, the possibility that he’s a murderer, I should be terrified, but I’m not. Has Derek Cage mastered the art of deception or is he not the man everyone perceives?

  I have to discover the truth. I can’t let Derek distance himself. The sound of his father’s name had broken our connection. Loud enough for both of us to hear, it was easy to guess Tom Cage was the reason for Derek’s sudden departure. There’s a story between the two of them. It floats in the bubble they’ve surrounded themselves in, and I’m going to be the one to pop it.

  The Bears’ first away game is tomorrow against the Broncos. Booking a room at the team hotel in Denver was easy. Getting Chandler to find out their schedule was no problem. Convincing Derek to talk to me may prove more of a challenge. I’ve planted myself in the hotel bar for the past hour, knowing he’s about to walk through those doors.

  “Ms. Black, I think you dropped this.”

  Startled to find Reggie in the stool next to me, my red leather wallet gripped in his long slender fingers, I silently stare at him. He doesn’t look away, his eyes menacing. There’s a creep factor about Reggie Maddox, something I can’t put my finger on, but I don’t like the way he looks at me.

  “How did you get that?” I finally ask. “And how did you know it was mine?”

  He slides the wallet over to me, his lips a thin line of distrust. I don’t know what I’ve done to offend him, but I’m not on his top favorites list.

  “It was under your stool, and you just confirmed it’s yours.”

  I reach for the wallet “Thank yo—”

  “Leave Derek alone. He doesn’t need anyone rummaging through his past.”

  Taken aback, I sit taller. This guy is not going to boss me around. “I’ll let Derek decide who he wants in his past. Thanks for the wallet.”

  Turning my back on him, I motion for the bartender. He saunters over, wearing a nametag that says Carl. He doesn’t look like a Carl, more like a Connor or a Trevor, someone who’d rather be on a snowboard than inside serving drinks.

  Reggie’s voice is hot in my ear. “You should be more careful, next time, Ms. Black. Your personal information might fall into the wrong hands.”

  Threatened, I face him, but I’m met with his retreating back. I watch him walk up to a woman and within seconds she’s leaving with him, his hand a guide on her lower back. He doesn’t look at me, but vanishes through the long corridor, as though he hadn’t seen me.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I look to Carl, and shake off the strange effects of Reggie Maddox.

  “Perrier and lime,” I mumble as I cautiously hold on to my wallet.

  Over the past few weeks, I’ve had an odd sense of being watched, as though someone is following my every move. The research I’ve done on Lily Harold’s murder hasn’t helped the unease I feel whenever I’m alone. She was an innocent young girl, with loving parents and a bright future. Her death was a tragedy, a horrible event that devastated and shocked her community. And eleven years later, simply reading about her death, is enough to keep me on edge. It’s irrational, as though the act of watching a horror film will make the events come to life. But I can’t shake the sensation that breaking through Derek Cage’s steel exterior is exposing more than the answer to a decade-old crime. There’s a dark history buried in the lives of the Cage clan, and hopefully uncovering the truth doesn’t shatter us to pieces.

  There is a small commotion at the entrance of the hotel. Derek strolls into the lobby. The dark strands of his hair are pulled off his face, and his square jaw is covered in stubble. Sexy. He’s aloof. His fuck-off attitude has my pulse quickening.

  He affects me more than I’d care to admit, and I’m defenseless when he spots me, his eyes piercing the distance between us, his brow creasing, his frown tightening.

  Lowering his dark lashes, he stops and inhales a deep breath. It seems my appearance has angered him, but then he opens his stunning blue eyes, and a sexy and sweet grin appears on his face, sending my heart into panic mode. He’s magnificent. He’s not walking but striding toward me.

  His white button-down is un-tucked over faded blue jeans, and the sleeves are rolled to his elbows. “Hannah.” He takes the seat beside me. “I didn’t realize press was staying in this hotel.”

  “I’m not officially press. I’m here to see you.”

  The bartender interrupts us. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Cage?”

  Derek nods. “Water, please.” He fingers a loose tendril of hair on my cheek. “I have a game tomorrow, Hannah.”

  He slides his knees between mine, trailing his fingers sensually down my bare arm. My skin tingles in its wake. It’s the oddest sensation, and it’s distracting.

  “I know. I came to watch, cheer you on.” My voice is higher than usual, my sudden desire for him impossible to hide.

  A smile lights his face, causing butterflies to take flight inside my stomach. Carl puts the water in front of Derek, and as he takes a sip, I’m fixated on the movement of his throat, the strength of his jaw, the bronze color of his skin.

  Derek sets the glass down. “Do you have a ticket?”

  With unsteady hands, I pull one out of my purse and wave it in front of him.

  He snatches it from my fingers, studies it. Seemingly disappointed he says, “This is press seating.”

  Larry had pulled a few strings yesterday when I called, begging him to get me a pass into this game. Technically, I’m not press, Travis is. My focus is on Derek Cage, not the Bears. But I need to be there. I will always need to be there if I’m going to learn anything about Derek Cage. Two hours later, I had one VIP ticket to the press box and locker room access.

  “Connections,” I say with a shrug.

  Derek grips the ticket between his thumb and forefinger. In one swift move, he rips it in two. “What are you—?”

  “I’ll get you a field pass and a seat in the owner’s box. You don’t have to sit with the parasites.”

  My heart races; my palms sweat. What is going on here? I stare at the liquor bottles that line the back of the bar. “Derek. I am the press.”

  “No. You’re my press.”

  I stare at him speechless. It’s what I’ve wanted, a break into that coat of armor, but I wasn’t expecting it.

  “Ask me anything you want, Hannah.”

  “What?” I quickly turn in his direction.

  He leans forward and slides his hands up my legs, moving my dress high on my thighs, and I think my vagina has had a coronary.

  Sensations explode between my legs when the warmth of his breath flutters across my ear, my heart pounding furiously.

  “You are sitting in this bar, wearing a fuck-me-now dress and shoes I’d ask you to leave on if you were in my bed. Your nipples are as hard as gum drops, and you expect me to believe you came here to watch the game?”

  Heat floods my cheeks, and I sneak a quick peek down. For fuck’s sake, my nipples are hard. Note to self: wear a padded bra around this man.

  Leaning forward, his lips graze the outer edge of my ear. “Ask me,” he whispers. “Ask me anything you want.”

  His hands leave my thighs, and he sits back, breaking all physical contact. I am jolted by the loss of heat. There’s a burning ache that’s settled at the apex of my thighs, and my heart is hammering hard enough to make me lose concentration.

  I take a sip of my drink, clear my throat and mind, and gain some distance, pretending I can lock my visceral reaction to Derek Cage in a box.

  With shaking fingers I open my purse and grab a pencil and notepad.

  He’s studying me, lips pinched, br
eathing labored.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Hit me, what do you want to know?”

  “You are the only child to Tom and Madeline Cage.”

  He remains silent. His smile vanishes. For the first time, I notice a crooked hook to his nose, a scar above his left eye. There is a cleft in his chin that is charming, and a dimple in his right cheek that is, frankly, quite adorable. He’s a man, a stunning male specimen, but if you dig deep, you can see the boy behind all that testosterone, an innocent child who has possibly seen too much ugliness in his young age.

  I chew on the end of my pencil. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You stated a fact. No answer needed.”

  The pencil stills on my lips. “It was a clarifying question. You’re supposed to tell me if I have my facts straight.”

  Once again, he falls silent. I hear the clink of glass while the bartender cleans up and the low rumble of conversations going on around us. The heavy beat of my heart is as prominent as the piano player in the corner. It’s amazing what you can hear when you listen. The paper on my notepad crinkles when I move my arm. The air I inhale causes my nostrils to make a sound that would normally go unnoticed.

  I use the pencil to scratch my head and take a different approach. “How do you remember your mother?”

  “Fondly.”

  His answer is swift, direct, almost . . . angry. What am I doing asking open-ended questions? I know better than that. But the expression in his eyes causes me to drop the remainder of the question from my lips.

  “You loved her.”

  Rubbing his chest, he looks away.

  “What do you remember about her?”

  “No. We’re not going there.”

  His adamant refusal to answer makes me smile. “It is rumored she wasn’t supposed to be on that bridge. She was expected at home but never returned. Is this accurate?”

  He leans forward, and I bend to meet him. Close enough that I can feel the whispers of breath on my lips, and smell the light scent of aftershave on his skin. Face to face, his eyes scan mine, silently pleading to have mercy, bearing his soul to the pain he’s endured. I can’t tear myself away, entirely fixed on him. He has me, I’ll do anything he wants as long as he looks at me like this. Like I alone can save his entire world.