How Beauty Loved the Beast

How Beauty Loved the Beast - By Jax Garren

Chapter One

Grant Barrett wrinkled his nose as he shoved the pretty little redhead down the hallway toward his office. She’d had the nerve to try sneaking into the chemical plant he supervised, probably to do some destructive mischief or thieving. Somehow she’d made it past the fence before attempting to tiptoe by the bench where he took his smoke break every day at five. He’d recognized her immediately and seized her. Petty crime was clearly not her forte.

The question remained whether apprehending Jolie Benoit, daughter of media baron Reginald Benoit, one of the world’s most powerful men, would be an annoyance...or a coup.

Jolie trembled, eyes darting fearfully about. Grant kept a firm hold on her elbow as he marched her down cement walkways deep into the inner reaches of the plant. She was a beautiful thing, just a few years into her twenties with a figure that was more than easy on the eyes.

He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze back up where it belonged. “A soft girl like you doesn’t belong in a harsh place like this. I recommend you leave the larceny to the more seasoned criminals in that rabble you’ve aligned with.” Though born into the good life, Jolie had deserted her family to dance in a burlesque company and hang out with anarchists. If Reginald was less of a pompous ass, Grant might feel sorry for him. But as Reginald was not merely an ass but a power-mongering bull, he didn’t feel the least twinge.

Jolie’s voice quivered as she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

He couldn’t help another glance at the red lace and lush curves revealed by the deep V of her blouse. Of all the things to wear for breaking and entering. “To my office, dear.” Where he would be alone with Reginald Benoit’s daughter.

Come to think of it, having her here was definitely a coup.

He unlocked and opened the door to his private sanctum in the heart of the plant and escorted her inside. “Sit.”

She rubbed nervous hands on her jeans and sat in one of the plush chairs by his desk, head bowed as she peered about the room like a trapped rabbit. But there were no exits, other than the one he stood in front of.

“Don’t think about trying something. We’ve passed enough locks even that scarred brute hiding from the law with you people couldn’t get in here.”

Her head jerked up with more force than he expected from her demeanor. “A couple of locks wouldn’t stop Hauk from finding me.”

Was that pride in her voice? Grant crossed his arms and frowned. “A beast who murdered seven of his fellow soldiers before going AWOL and joining up with anarchists? I don’t think loyalty is his strong suit.” Although rumor had it the felon had taken a particular interest in the redhead. Not that Grant could blame him. As far as Jolie had fallen, though, it still surprised him that she might reciprocate the feeling. Burned from head to foot in a fire of his own causing, ex-Staff Sergeant Wesley Haukon was not only vicious but frighteningly hideous.

Her gaze sank to the floor, and she shifted uncomfortably. Ah. Her words were nothing but bluster. He should’ve known.

She meekly submitted to a pat-down, a not altogether unpleasant experience on his part. Her pockets held a phone, a tube of lipstick and a set of car keys. The girl had tried to break into his plant without a single weapon. He set her belongings on his desk and turned back to her.

“What are you going to do with me?” Big green eyes peered up at him, pleading, and he couldn’t quite tamp the surge of lust her utter helplessness inspired.

He leaned his hip against the arm of his chair and shoved his hands into his pockets, determined to think, not feel. She posed a reasonable question. He couldn’t hang on to her indefinitely; he needed a plan.

Jolie clenched her fists, ice-blue chipped nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. She visibly gathered her courage, trying to appear oh-so-brave as her eyes ventured to his then hastened away. Her voice nearly choked as she said, “My father—”

He raised an eyebrow, and she stopped, clearly understanding who was in control here. “Your father doesn’t know you’re here. Yet. He and I have differences of opinion on how a few things in The Order should be run. And then you showed up on my turf. All alone.”

The Order of Ananke, a philanthropy both he and Reginald belonged to, had a two-fold mission. They served humanity by secretly bringing her industries and government under a central control. Most people were too lazy or too stupid to make democracy effective, so Ananke gave them a semblance of one and pulled the strings behind the scenes. Fossil fuels, pharmaceuticals, military might, the news, even the food chain had men from Ananke at the helm, working to serve a human race that was falling apart from failed experiments in public education, social equality and “free will”—whatever that meant.

Misplaced faith in free will, that was the crux of the world’s most pressing problems. Ananke was the Goddess of Destiny, Goddess of hard choices and Fate. Free will was an illusion men believed in to make them sleep better at night.

This was the second and most important mission of The Order, to recognize the true will of Her, of Ananke, and to bring it about. Life on earth would improve for everyone as more people accepted the will of Fate and followed Destiny without a fight. The Order of Ananke was here to show humanity the way of truth.

But Reginald Benoit wasn’t a real believer. He believed in the power The Order wielded but sought to use Her like a tool. Grant could picture in his memory Reginald and other men like him attending rituals with empty disdain for the meaning beneath them. They went through the motions out of habit or social pressure, all while thinking more of their cigars and the beds of their mistresses than cowering in awe and gratitude before their Goddess.

Reginald had the audacity to believe their success rested on the work of men and not the grace of Her. But didn’t this frail little girl cowering in Grant’s office just prove his faith was right? Fate had blessed him because of his devotion to Her.

As if on cue, the girl licked her glossed lips. “Surely...we can work something out.” She eyed him under thick lashes and leaned forward, further revealing the soft and plentiful beauty beneath her shirt.

Grant wasn’t in the habit of pressuring women into bed with him, but this one was a burlesque dancer. She stripped for men all the time. Why not for him? If she was a present from his Goddess, it couldn’t be wrong.

He stood straighter, enjoying the view of looking down at a beautiful, helpless, quivering woman. A woman who could have had power over him if she’d stayed with her father and followed the right path instead of philandering with anarchists. He smiled. “I think we can work something out.”

Slowly she stood. Her hands went to her hair and pulled out the combs securing it into a tight pile at the nape of her neck. She shook her head, and red curls tumbled around her shoulders, bringing with them the scent of citrus.

Reginald’s daughter was truly and exceptionally gorgeous.

She gulped, as if steadying herself, then reached for him, slipping a hand around his neck.

So easy, he didn’t even have to make a demand. As if it was Fated to be. His smile grew. Oh, it would be so nice to use Reginald Benoit’s lovely daughter however he liked.

A sting at his neck took him by surprise. “Wha...” His knees went weak, trembling and then unable to support him. They gave out. He reached for his desk. It was too far away, and he fell.

The girl caught him and lowered him to the floor.

“What did—what did—”

“It’s okay, Grant,” she said in a businesslike voice. Where was her fear? “It’s a sedative. I haven’t poisoned you, although I’m starting to think you deserve it.”

His vision blurred as her hands raced across his body, not to pleasure him, but to...rifle through his pockets?

She retrieved her lipstick. “Brayden? I’m in.”

She was talking to her lipstick? No, it had come apart. She’d hidden a communication device inside the tube.

“Yup, his office. He did exactly what I said he’d do.”

She snatched his badge and his keys, and the world faded to black.

* * *

Jolie shook her head as she retracted the needle hidden in her hair comb and plugged her iPhone into Grant’s computer. Because men were predictable idiots, the first mission she’d planned herself was going like a charm. She wasn’t sure if that made her more stoked by her success or depressed on principle. She executed a script on her phone that would crack any passcodes and download Grant’s emails and document folders. As the cracker script started, she dragged him behind his desk, just in case anybody peeked inside, and moved to the file cabinet behind her.

Before long it became obvious the paper file she was seeking, the one that proved ChemCorps had been lying to the FDA regarding their toxin reports, was not going to be so easy to locate. It was dangerous work breaking into a plant for a file folder, but this chipping away at Ananke’s control was what the Underlight did. Instead of a violent, Guy Fawkes style insurgency, the Underlight exposed unethical practices of Ananke’s corporate empire and garnered popular support to take down those giants, one news article, one court case, one internet campaign at a time.

Occasionally acquiring proof of misdeeds required a little...reconnaissance. Like breaking into the center of a highly guarded chemical plant.

Jolie studied the room for a likely hiding place for those papers. The opulence Grant Barnett had managed to squeeze into an underground compound was ridiculous. Real oil paintings hung on windowless walls, the floor was large enough for two Persian rugs, and his desk was a Lexington. Jolie had grown up around luxuries like this and could tell the difference between good taste and a show-off.

Grant was definitely the latter.

She toed him with her leather boots. “Where do you keep your secrets, Grant?” Not that he could answer her. That sedative was designed for somebody a lot harder to take down than doughy-cheeked Grant. She glanced around the room. “You’re probably too proud of your cleverness to store them behind a painting.” She frowned at the carpet. “Cellars under the carpet only come in shacks...at least in the movies.” She looked up. “Bingo.”

A Franklin bench, an antique piece that folded from a chair to a stepladder, was stored at an odd angle. “Right beneath the ceiling tile you replaced in a different direction than the rest of them. Nice job.” She flipped the bench to a ladder, climbed up and, as she suspected, found that the ceiling tile removed with ease to reveal a crawlspace.

Inside was an accordion folder. Jolie decided male predictability did have its perks and smiled. Yup, her first mission to take point on was going exactly as planned.

Noise outside. Voices approaching.

She ducked her head for cursing her luck. She glanced over to the desk. Grant was well tucked away and the screensaver had kicked on, hiding the file transfer. In all likelihood, nobody would notice the wrong phone was plugged in.

A knock at the door. “Mr. Barnett? Anderson dropped by and wants to see you. Mr. Barnett?”

The doorknob rattled. Jolie grabbed the edges of the ceiling and pulled. Reinforced. The tile was going to be a tight squeeze, but she thought she could make it. She pulled herself up enough to kick the Franklin stool closed then did a muscle-up into the tiny space, thanking her lucky stars her latest dancing troupe was happy to let her perform as an aerialist. That work gave her good reason to maintain the arm strength it took to climb a rope or dance on a hoop...or pull herself into the ceiling rafters.

She curled into a ball, cramming herself into the hidey-hole, and slid the tile back into place, this time going the correct direction.

A moment later the door opened. “Mr. Barnett?” Quiet. Then the woman muttered, “I could’ve sworn I saw you come in here.” More silence.

Jolie sighed. She had a show tonight and was going to be late if this woman didn’t get her ass out of the office so she could climb down with her prize. Although things were about to get a lot tougher if the woman checked behind the desk...

“Mr. Barnett! Grant! Guards!”

Shit. “Plan B, Brayden,” she muttered into the microphone.

“You okay?” her partner in crime asked. “Hauk will kill me if anything happens to—”

“Hauk’s not going to know, because I’m getting out of here.” Somehow.

Wesley Haukon was normally the one the Underlight sent on missions of corporate espionage, but right now he was hidden while he recovered from traumatic injury dealt by these a*sholes. Jolie still burned with rage every time she thought about it. But right now she didn’t have time for anger; she needed to figure out her next move.

If he were here, Hauk, her...boyfriend? Was that the right word? They hadn’t exactly worked those little details out two weeks ago in the hospital, when they’d agreed to start whatever it was they had agreed to start. And since he was in hiding, she hadn’t been able to visit him since to work it out.

Two weeks without her workout buddy and his intense blue eyes and contagious laugh had felt surprisingly interminable.

But if he were here, Hauk, her whatever, would charge down the hall, guns blazing. For all her dancer’s strength, Jolie had nothing on the six-foot-seven, ex-Army Ranger behemoth and his combat skills of doom. So that couldn’t be her plan.

She waited until the woman’s footsteps clacked down the hallway, surely to seek those guards she’d been yelling for. Jolie dropped back down with the folder, replaced the tile, grabbed the phone (it had whatever it had) and glanced out the door before darting down the empty hallway.

She’d memorized the layout of the complex and had a good idea which direction she needed to move in. She rounded the corner, heading for the factory floor. Once there, she had options instead of being stuck in a maze of hallways with—

Guards bearing down on her. Three of them, startled to see her. Unlike the big-wigs of Ananke, they didn’t recognize her, which was good and bad. Good because they didn’t know what she was worth. Bad because (one guard raised a gun) she was dispensable.

Hands of Atropos. The mercenary soldiers of Ananke were the shoot-first-don’t-even-bother-asking-questions type. They got big promises of women, beauty and luxury, plus a fat-ass paycheck, in exchange for undergoing a magical lobotomy that stripped their will and made them mind-slaves to Ananke.

Yeah, magic. Jolie hadn’t believed in it until she’d seen it. Ananke was into some seriously dark shit, specializing in various forms of mind control. There would be no negotiating with Atropos.

Like Hauk had taught her, she dropped to the ground and rolled. Bullets clanged against the wall above her. She kicked off a wall and skidded toward a perpendicular hallway. Out of range, she flipped up to standing and dashed forward. “Map...map...map...” She thought over the map and readjusted her course. She needed a lot of turns to avoid the bullets.

There was a route that would work.

Footsteps pounded behind her as she jerked around corners and sprinted down stretches. The factory floor was close. She could hide in the machinery there. Or if she was lucky...

An oversized door was directly down the hall. She readied Grant’s badge as she ran, slipped it through the reader, and the doors opened before her just as the guards appeared around the corner.

The doors wouldn’t shut in time to stop them.

A chain above her head connected a machine to the ceiling. She ducked to the side where her pursuers couldn’t see, gathered her strength and jumped. The chain was cold under her fingers as she hauled herself up. Loud, too, but the last of the machines were still shutting down, the AC gusted and in general there was enough clanking and whirring and ambient noise that she hoped they wouldn’t notice.

The guards dashed in beneath her and immediately started a search of the ground. Hand over hand, she pulled herself up the chain to the rafters. From here, a maze of beams could take her to a window and then out the side of the building. Brayden had a distraction waiting at the north entrance—Plan B. She checked her phone’s compass for south and headed that way.

She was going to make it. She touched her earphone. “I’ll need that distraction in sixty seconds, my friend.”

“You got it, Red Hots.”

She smiled at the nickname and checked her phone’s clock. With a little hustle, she’d be in time for her show tonight, too, although p-ssy Will-Oh!’s manager, Catrina, was an associate of the Underlight and would forgive her if she missed over a mission.

But Jolie liked dancing, and she didn’t want to let her troupe down.

She glided along the beams of the ceiling toward a window. Hauk would be proud; he couldn’t have done better himself. As soon as he was home from the hospital—please let that be soon—she’d tell him all about it.

And maybe, if she was feeling really brave, they’d discuss that “boyfriend” thing.

Right now, anything seemed possible.