I Was Kidnapped, He Married His First Love

The bright midday sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It hit Falon directly in the eyes.

She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Her head pounded with a vicious, throbbing ache, like a massive hangover. Her entire body felt bruised and sore.

She opened her eyes slowly.

She was lying in a massive bed with black sheets. She was alone.

The air in the room smelled like expensive cedar cologne and the heavy, musky scent of sex.

The memories of last night crashed into her brain like a freight train. The warehouse. Jerod's voice. The needle. The rain. The car. The violent, desperate things she had done in this bed.

Falon sat up abruptly. The sheet fell away from her chest.

She looked down at her skin. Her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach-they were covered in dark purple bruises and red fingerprints.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The physical evidence of her complete loss of control made her stomach churn.

She had to get out of here.

She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed. They sank into the thick wool rug. She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and walked into the attached master bathroom.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her makeup was smeared down her cheeks. She looked like a ghost.

She turned on the shower. She stood under the freezing cold water for ten minutes. She scrubbed her skin until it was bright red. She tried to wash away the smell of the stranger. She tried to wash away the lingering humiliation of Jerod leaving her to die.

When she stepped out of the shower, she walked back into the bedroom.

Her ruined Oscar de la Renta gown was gone. It was stuffed into a trash can in the corner.

Sitting neatly at the foot of the bed was a crisp, white men's dress shirt.

Falon had no other choice. She picked it up and put it on. She buttoned it up to her collarbone. The hem barely reached the middle of her thighs.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked barefoot out of the bedroom.

The living room was flooded with sunlight.

A man stood at the kitchen island. He wore tailored dark gray trousers and a black dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms. He was pouring hot water over a coffee filter.

His back was to her, but his posture radiated cold, arrogant authority.

He heard her footsteps. He turned around.

Bell Farrell's dark eyes locked onto her. He slowly dragged his gaze from her wet hair, down the oversized shirt, to her bare legs. A dark, dangerous heat flared in his pupils.

Falon felt a sudden spike of anxiety. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to pull the shirt down lower.

She walked to the opposite side of the marble island.

She saw a new, unopened black leather clutch sitting on the counter. Beside it lay a checkbook and a Montblanc pen, identical to her own brands. She opened the clutch purse. She pulled out the checkbook and the Montblanc pen.

Bell stopped pouring the coffee. He set the kettle down. He crossed his arms and watched her. He looked amused, like he was watching a kitten try to roar.

Falon quickly wrote down a number, her hand stinging as the pen pressed against the bruised, half-healed skin of her palm. She signed her name with a sharp flick of her wrist.

She ripped the check out and slid it across the smooth marble counter.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Falon said. Her voice was cold and professional. "That should cover the damage to your suit, the ride, and your services last night."

Bell stared at the piece of paper.

A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest.

He reached out with his long fingers. He picked up the check.

He looked Falon dead in the eyes and ripped the check in half.

Falon's eyes widened.

He let the pieces flutter down onto the black marble counter.

Bell placed his hands flat on the island. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. His physical presence was suffocating.

"Everyone on Wall Street knows that the one thing Bell Farrell does not need is money," he said softly.

Falon stopped breathing.

Bell Farrell.

The name hit her like a physical blow. Bell Farrell was the ruthless CEO of Farrell Enterprises. He was Jerod's biggest rival. He was the man Jerod hated and feared more than anyone else in the world.

She took a step back. Her spine hit the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator.

"What do you want?" Falon asked. Her voice shook.

Bell walked around the island. He moved with the silent grace of a predator.

He stepped into her personal space. He placed one hand on the fridge beside her head, trapping her.

He leaned down. His warm breath brushed against her ear.

"Since you cannot pay with money," Bell whispered, his tone dripping with dark promise, "you will just have to keep paying me with your body."

A hot wave of humiliation and rage exploded in Falon's chest.

She raised her hand and swung it hard, aiming for his arrogant face.

Bell did not even flinch. He caught her wrist in mid-air.

He twisted her arm smoothly behind her back. He pulled her forward until her chest crashed against his hard torso.

He lowered his head and bit down gently on her earlobe.

"Do not play the innocent victim with me," Bell murmured against her skin. "You were not acting so pure when you were begging me to ruin you last night."

The words were a brutal, precise strike to her pride.

Falon's eyes filled with hot tears. Her body began to tremble.

Bell felt her shaking. He saw the tears pooling in her eyes.

A flash of regret crossed his dark features. He had pushed too hard.

He immediately released her arm and stepped back. His face returned to a cold, unreadable mask.

He walked over to the leather sofa. He picked up a sleek black shopping bag and tossed it onto the glass coffee table.

"Get dressed and get out," Bell ordered. He turned his back to her.

Falon clenched her jaw. She grabbed the bag, spun around, and ran into the guest bedroom. She slammed the door shut behind her.

She leaned against the wood, gasping for air.

In the living room, Bell stood frozen. He raised his hand and violently yanked his collar open. His chest heaved. He stared at his hand, the one that had held her, and clenched it into a fist, angry at himself for the cruel words he'd used to try and chain her to him. His eyes were dark with a violent, consuming obsession.