Dakar. A year ago, seventeen-year-old Deangelo Alinari hadn’t had a clue it even existed, but now, standing among the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk outside the American Embassy, Kyle Aspen felt like the African city could become home.

As he walked out of the building, his passport and official documents safely tucked away in his duffle bag, he exhaled his first relieved breath in what felt like years. He still had a long way to go in terms of settling into his new life — finding a job and a permanent residence, for example — but at least he felt free of his family’s clutches. They’d never think to look for him in Dakar of all places.

Leaving the United States had been one of the hardest decisions of his young life, but Deangelo had felt he’d had no other choice. Changing his name was just one countermeasure against being found by his uncle, Giacomo Alinari; as much as he’d hated to give up his name, he’d known it was necessary.

That night, lying on sheets that scratched his skin if he moved even the slightest bit, he closed his eyes and remembered.
( Read more... )

Kathleen Carrington frowned as she studied the bold, black lines standing out against olive skin, still reddened from the tattoo artist's needle gun. "An angel, Kyle? Do you really think that's wise? Why don't you just send up a smoke signal? 'Hey guys, I'm right here, why don't you come and get me?'"

The twenty-year-old young man whose tattoo she'd been criticizing snorted as he pulled his shirt back up to cover his freshly inked shoulder blade. "I think my face does a good enough job of that, Kathleen. Besides, nobody's going to see the tattoo unless I want them to, and I'm choosy about my clients." He buttoned his burgundy shirt, then tucked it into his pants.

"Well, I did offer to pay for plastic surgery," she said, pouring them both two fingers of bourbon. "Honestly, what's the point of running away if you're just going to hide in plain sight — and badly, at that."

Kyle adjusted his cuffs and smiled, accepting the glass she offered him. "It's been three years, Kathleen. If they haven't found me by now, they're not going to."

Kathleen chuckled. "Do you honestly think they don't know you're here, Kyle? Giacomo Alinari is one of the most powerful men in Las Vegas. He practically runs this town, in spite of what the mayor thinks; there's very little that escapes that man's attention. He knows, Kyle."

Kyle took a long sip of his drink, stalling the need for a reply. He knew she was right; he was foolish to think that he could sever all ties with his family by a simple name change, but the last three years had convinced him that maybe, just maybe he was getting away with it.

He lowered his glass, running his tongue along his bottom lip to catch the lingering flavor of the alcohol. "Well, he hasn't stormed the casino, demanding I return to the family home, so I guess he doesn't care."

Kathleen scoffed, shaking her head. "Oh, he cares; it just suits him best to have you here, Kyle." Her gaze dropped down to his right shoulder. "Or should I start calling you Deangelo again?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, considering her words. "Kyle's just fine. What do you mean 'it suits him best?'"

Kathleen drained her glass in one gulp and set the glass aside. "Here, you're out of trouble, and he knows where to find you if he needs you." She crossed the short distance from the bar to where Kyle stood, leaning against the back of the couch, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, jerking him close and kissing him hard.

He couldn't focus on the kiss though; his blood had run cold the moment she'd said 'if he needs you,' and the words echoed through his head, killing any enjoyment he might've gotten from the kiss. Even when she ran her lips under his earlobe, catching that spot that rarely failed to set his insides burning with desire.

He tilted his head back, letting her trail her kisses over his neck, but it did nothing to quell his panic. "If he needs me for what?"

Kathleen made an annoyed noise and pushed him back toward the bedroom door, her fingers already undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Don't worry about it." She shoved his shirt down his arms, her teeth leaving marks on his collarbone as she nipped him, then she pushed him onto the bed, ignoring his hiss of pain as the sheets scratched against his tattoo.

Twelve years later, that question still haunted him, and he feared the day he'd get it answered.