Making a break for it now might be her only chance, but she did wish she’d had some more time to prepare and regain her strength. Upstairs, Bruno’s bedroom door was locked as was the other bedroom and Dax’s room held no sign of exit either; the walk-in closet was locked too. One of the men had to be carrying the key on them or they were hidden somewhere that she would never find them.

If she couldn’t get out of the house then she’d never be able to get into the car that stood outside, not without finding the keys. Without transport of her own, her captors would catch up to her pretty quickly. In her time undressing Dax and tidying up she had never seen keys. Finding out where they were kept became her next goal, and for that she’d have to get closer to the man who shared her bed.

Finding Dax was a piece of cake, he was where he always was, downstairs. Admitting to herself that the concept of going back into that basement voluntarily was distasteful, she bolstered her gumption and headed for the door. She would never be able to win Dax’s sympathy or assistance if she allowed him to maintain distance, so she had to step into his world, into his personal space, which she knew would be out of his comfort zone.

But if she could show him that she was human, and that this detached behaviour was unacceptable, there was a chance that Dax would be willing to set her free or help her escape. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Bruno wasn’t ever going to be a man who might consider doing that for her.

Descending the stairs into the basement, she could hear the thump of fists hitting leather and the occasional sniff or breath coming from a man. When she went lower, she paused at the vision he made. Wearing nothing but black shorts and black straps on his hands, she watched Dax throw one punch and then another, he stayed loose, keeping his hands near his face and his elbows in close to his body. The sheen of sweat across his back and arms made her think about how his skin had felt under her fingertips in the shower when water cascaded over both of their naked bodies.

His fist flew out and made contact with the black punching bag that hung from the ceiling at the head of the basement gym, then he slid back in an expert manoeuvre and threw another two punches, one with each hand in quick succession. The rough callouses and intersecting scars on his knuckles and hands made sense now. She’d noticed them when they were together in bed, but hadn’t asked about their origin, now she didn’t need to.

He sensed her and stopped his training to straighten up. Tensing to turn, he glared over his shoulder at her figure on the darkened stairway. Still, the blue of those eyes shot agony into her, because such a pure colour wasn’t meant to be so impersonal, yet in him it was.

His eyes were like icebergs on the sea, powerful and formidable, but also lonely, isolated out on the ocean without a place to connect with or to call home. Drifting out on the open water epitomised Dax, and she realised then her own life had been much the same way – out there and alone. She wondered if she was as hard as he was, or if she wasn’t, what he’d been through to make him so disconnected.

‘Where’s Bruno?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping,’ she replied, continuing down the stairs and toward him.

He began to unfasten the hand straps from his hands. ‘And you’re still here?’

‘I couldn’t get out. The door is locked.’

‘No one ever taught you how to pick a lock?’

She shook her head. ‘But I’m up for a lesson if you want to give me one.’

‘I don’t have the patience to be a teacher,’ he said, tossing the straps to the bench beside him then stretching out his fingers.

‘Did you used to be a boxer?’ she asked him, taking one of his hands. She held it open in front of her chest and began to massage his knuckles.

‘Boxing is too disciplined,’ he mumbled, watching her fingers working on his. ‘My sport is less regimented.’

‘What is your sport?’

‘I’m an underground fighter,’ he said, fascinated, or perhaps perplexed, by what she was doing.

‘Like in basements and cellars?’ she teased.

‘Like on the underground circuit,’ he said, and withdrew his hand from hers. ‘I’ve been doing it since I was eight. I don’t need to be pampered through it.’

‘Maybe I want to pamper,’ she said, taking his other hand to give it equal treatment. ‘How does it work? Underground fighting?’

‘Two guys in the ring and no weapons,’ he said.

‘There’s a ring?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘It depends on the venue. Some places make a business out of it, sometimes it’s a barn with a wooden fence, or just a line drawn in the sand.’

‘Fitting,’ she said. ‘So what are the rules?’

‘I told you. Two guys, no weapons, and you don’t hit a guy when he’s down.’

‘That’s it?’ Her massaging stalled. ‘Anything goes?’

He nodded. ‘Anything at all.’

‘So they could gouge out your eyes or bite off an ear or something?’

‘If they ever got close enough to do that then yeah,’ he said with a flippant, yet smug, smile. Leaving her side, he retrieved his hand wraps to tuck them into the back of his shorts.

‘Since you were eight, huh?’ she asked.

‘Yep.’

Crossing to the punching bag, she smoothed her hands over the leather. ‘Is this how you keep yourself so calm?’ she asked. ‘You take out all of your emotions on the punching bag?’

When he didn’t respond, she twisted around to rest her back on the punching bag, spreading her hands against it at her sides after her arms curled against it. ‘I guess,’ he said, and took one step toward her.

‘Is that why my anger turns you on? Because you don’t know how to be open like that, to experience that kind of emotion?’

‘I know anger,’ he said, coming closer still. ‘I know hurt and isolation. I know revenge and retribution.’ He came so close that his body made contact with hers. ‘I know fear and misery. I know respect and I know loyalty.’

‘What about compassion?’

He shook his head. ‘Weakness.’

‘And forgiveness? Do you know that?’ He shook his head, but brought up his hands to pull the ties from her hair, tugging on her locks in the process, sending a hiss through her teeth. ‘Do you know leniency? Or pity?’

‘No. But I know shame and rage.’

‘What about love? Do you know that?’

‘Never heard of it,’ he said, taking a fistful of her hair he yanked back her head and planted his mouth down on hers.

The squeal of her refusal was lost in the grip of her hands on his neck, and if this bag had been able to support their weight she may have leapt into his arms here. As it was, her fingertips skimmed down the bulge of his shoulders to his elbows, but when she tried to urge him away he took her waist and lifted her off the floor, holding her body to his.

‘Dax,’ she whispered. His mouth trailed to her neck and the press of his lips to the artery pulsing beneath them made her weak legs wobble. For stability she locked her ankles at the small of his back. ‘I came down here to talk.’

‘Talk isn’t what I need from you.’

The word “need” sent a sluice of ice through her torso. It was possibly just a slip of the tongue, but in the second she heard it she wanted him to mean it and that scared her. No man had ever needed her and she’d never needed them. Her role in seducing Dax was meant to be manipulation, she was meant to make friends, to make him want her freedom. Bringing need into the equation was a totally different thing.

‘Take my cock out of my shorts,’ he said. In a show of strength, he locked one arm around her waist, holding her up with only that arm so he could free his other hand to unwrap her breasts from her bikini, and untie the strings on her hips.

‘I am not a part of your work out, stranger.’

‘You are today, or I’m a part of yours.’

Seating himself on the inclined weight bench, he leaned back and nodded downwards. ‘If you make me do it you’ll get yourself a spanking when we’re through, and I’ve got weapons down here.’