Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

The DJ transitions into a heavy, thumping techno track. The crowd on the dance floor erupts into a roar.

Adaline turns back to the bar. Her throat is dry from shouting over the music. She reaches out without looking and grabs the glass sitting directly in front of her.

She brings the brightly colored cocktail to her lips and drinks half of it in one gulp. The liquid is overly sweet, masking the taste of the alcohol.

She sets the glass down.

Less than three minutes later, a strange sensation begins at the back of her throat. It starts as a mild tickle, like she swallowed a piece of dust.

Adaline coughs into her fist.

The sensation rapidly escalates into a heavy, unnatural heat that pools in her stomach. It feels like someone has injected liquid fire directly into her veins.

She frowns. She reaches up and tugs at the thin strap of her dress, suddenly feeling incredibly hot. A sheen of feverish sweat breaks out across her collarbones.

She blinks. The flashing neon lights of the pub suddenly stretch into long, blinding streaks of color. Her vision is blurring at the edges. The heavy bass of the music sounds like it is underwater, muffled and distorted.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierces through her alcohol-fuzzed brain.

She looks down at the half-empty glass on the bar.

I've been drugged.

The thought hits her like a freight train. Chet. He bought the drink. He was angry when she rejected him.

Adaline tries to stand up. Her legs feel like they are made of wet sand. Her knees buckle, and she heavily bumps against the edge of the bar.

"Camilla," Adaline tries to say.

The word comes out as a weak, breathless slur. Her tongue feels thick, and her mind is spinning out of control.

Camilla is facing the other way, laughing loudly at something a guy next to her said. She doesn't hear Adaline.

Adaline's chest heaves. Her limbs feel incredibly heavy, yet a terrifying, involuntary wave of arousal begins to cloud her judgment. She knows if she loses consciousness at the bar, whoever drugged her will take her.

Pure survival instinct takes over. She pushes herself off the bar stool. She stumbles blindly away from the dance floor, heading toward the dark corridor at the back of the pub where the VIP rooms and restrooms are located. She needs to find a quiet place to call the police.

She bounces off sweaty bodies. People shove her back, cursing at her, but she cannot hear them. Her lungs are burning. Every breath is a desperate, agonizing struggle.

She reaches the dark corridor. The noise of the club fades slightly.

She leans against the damp brick wall, her chest heaving. She reaches into her small clutch purse with trembling, numb fingers.

Empty.

Her phone is gone. She left it on the bar.

The realization shatters her last shred of hope. Tears of absolute terror spill down her cheeks. Her legs give out completely. She slides down the rough brick wall and collapses onto the sticky floor in front of a closed VIP door.

Darkness edges into her vision. She curls into a ball, gasping for air that won't come.

Meanwhile, at London Heathrow Airport.

The sleek white Gulfstream G650ER touches down on the wet tarmac, its engines roaring as they reverse thrust.

Before the plane even comes to a complete stop, the cabin door opens.

Barron Cooke descends the stairs. He is wearing a long, black wool trench coat over his suit. The London wind whips the hem of his coat, but his posture is rigid, immovable. His face is a mask of terrifying, lethal calm.

Evelyn, his assistant, hurries down the stairs behind him, holding an iPad.

"Sir, we have the location of the pub," Evelyn says, her voice tight with stress. "But Miss Poole's phone has been disconnected. It is going straight to voicemail."

Barron's footsteps halt.

His jaw clenches so hard a muscle ticks visibly beneath his skin. A dark, violent storm brews in his eyes.

He strides toward the waiting black Rolls-Royce Phantom on the tarmac. He yanks the door open himself.

"Soho," Barron orders the driver, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Break every speed limit. Get me there now."

The Rolls-Royce tears out of the airport.

Inside the pub corridor.

Adaline is semi-conscious. Her skin is flushed a deep, feverish pink. A sheen of sweat coats her skin, and she is panting softly, overwhelmed by the potent chemical coursing through her bloodstream.

Footsteps approach.

A man wearing a bartender's uniform-Marco-stops in front of her. He looks down at the girl curled on the floor.

"Hey," Marco says, nudging her leg with his shoe. "You can't sleep here, sweetheart. You're blocking the door."

Adaline feels the touch. Through her oxygen-deprived panic, her brain screams that this is the man who drugged her. He is here to take her.

Adaline's eyes snap open. Driven by pure, adrenaline-fueled terror, she swings her arm wildly.

Her hand connects with Marco's shin. "Get off... don't touch me..." she rasps, her voice barely a whisper.

Marco scowls. "Crazy bitch," he mutters. He reaches down, grabbing Adaline roughly by the upper arm, intending to drag her out the back alley door.

Before his fingers can fully close around her arm, a sound like a bomb going off echoes through the corridor.

The heavy fire door at the end of the hall is suddenly wrenched open with a violent, resounding crash. The metal hinges groan in protest as the lock gives way to forced entry.

Blinding white light from the streetlamps floods the dark corridor.

Standing in the center of the doorway is a towering silhouette.

The man steps into the corridor. The air pressure in the hallway instantly drops. He radiates a terrifying, suffocating aura of absolute violence.

"Take your hands off her," Barron Cooke says.

His voice is not loud, but it cuts through the thumping bass of the club like a razor blade. It is a command from a man who holds the power of life and death.