Unshackle (Deliver #7) - Pam Godwin Page 0,3

a few hundred in the world, that hypercar had taken over two years to build by hand. Look at all the carbon fiber. Complete with gull-wing doors, red leather upholstery, and a 720hp AMG Mercedes engine. Un-fucking-real.

He dragged his eyes away only to choke at the sight of the Koenigsegg Agera parked next in the line. Sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. And fast. The rear wing adjusted at the push of a button for optimal speed. Not that it needed the help. It held the production car speed record of 278 mph.

His fingers twitched. Damn. This was the closest he’d ever come to touching one.

Back in Texas, he’d taken up mechanic work to pass the time between vigilante jobs. He’d learned the trade. Self-taught. Motorcycles mostly. But he’d always had a deep appreciation for fast cars.

More Ferraris and Lambos filled his view, forming a glimmering, drool-worthy panorama of rolling works of art. Every hypercar here was worth over a million dollars. Some valued at three to four mil. Whoever owned this collection was a car enthusiast, someone who shared his obsession and had the money to buy the rarest, most expensive models in the world.

There would be other guests on the property, slave buyers like him. But they would’ve been escorted here in the limo, wearing hoods. These cars belonged to someone who could come and go freely.

“If you’re good with a stick, my brother will let you test drive one of his toys around the property.”

The sultry feminine voice turned his head. The click of approaching heels drew his gaze. Long, shapely legs hewed his breath. Sun-kissed skin for miles.

His insides drew taut as he took in the sinuous lines of hips in the simple black dress. Early twenties, brown eyes, black hair, slender build, golden complexion. Exquisite.

She stepped right up to him, too fucking close for someone he didn’t know, and dragged red-painted fingernails along the curve of his bicep. He dug through a swirl of potent perfume and male arousal and found his brain.

“Your brother owns these cars?” Prying her off his arm, he set her away. “Who is he?”

“Marco La Rocha.”

The eldest son. Of course.

According to Hector, he’d fathered four sons and one daughter. While in prison, Tula Gomez saw the paternity test that confirmed her unsavory bloodline. Hector La Rocha was her father. Gomez was her mother’s surname.

So who was this woman?

Dread sloshed through his veins.

“Welcome to Casa de La Rocha, John Smith,” she said with a sensual, south-of-the-border accent. Then she drifted back into his space and hooked an arm around his elbow, turning him toward the main entrance. “Except we both know that’s not your real name, handsome. Perhaps that’s what I’ll call you. Handsome.”

“What do I call you?”

“I… I think…” She touched her chin to her shoulder, peering up at him with a coy smile. “When you turn those arresting green eyes on me, you can call me whatever you want.” She cleared her throat and looked away, guiding him forward. “To everyone else, I’m Vera. Vera Gomez.”

Fuck.

CHAPTER 2

It was no secret that Luke loved women. Graceful legs, voluptuous asses, small tits, pouty lips, skinny, curvy, tall, and petite… He appreciated all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. But more than that, he admired the female inner strength. The stronger her mind and spirit, the more he wanted her.

Lucky for him, women gravitated to him. Because he had a handsome face? A full head of auburn hair? Those were the only good things he’d inherited from the addicts who’d brought him into this world.

Years of dedication in the gym lent him a honed physique and the stamina of a horse. But he lived a dangerous life, had a deplorable past, a crass disposition, and he didn’t know a damn thing about relationships. Unless it involved his voracious libido.

Yeah, that was what he had to offer.

Sex.

Orgasms.

Hours of unadulterated, mutually satisfying pleasure.

He could coax an explosive release from anyone, anywhere, anytime, with only his mouth. A skill that had been ruthlessly enforced upon all Van Quiso’s captives.

But Luke wasn’t here to worship the sexy minx on his arm.

He was going to destroy her.

That made him the best man for this operation. He could separate sentiment from logic, extinguish every ounce of compassion, and get his hands dirty without losing focus.

By the end of this, his hands would be covered in blood.

Vera Gomez’s blood.

She wasn’t enslaved. She wasn’t chained in a cage, beaten into submission, and awaiting an unspeakable fate. Her confident steps escorted him into