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Caught off guard, I can only gape in bewilderment. “That’s a duck,” I state, eyeing the bird, not entirely sure I’m not imagining shit—it’s been some time since I last slept.
“Brilliant observation,” she quips with unmistakable sarcasm.
The duck, oblivious to the unfolding human drama, pecks at Sophie's leg, seeking attention.
Sophie looks down at the duck but keeps me in her peripheral vision and the knife close. “You’re supposed to be in the bath, George,” she tells the duck, a hint of affection in her tone despite the ongoing standoff.
The duck quacks. I have no fucking clue if it understood her. I don’t think it’s the smartest creature, though. It doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the wicked-looking dagger in her hand—a knife that could turn it into dinner with one stroke.
Sophie meanwhile reaches into her pocket with her free hand, pulls out a few pellets of something, and scatters it on the floor for George, who eagerly pecks at the morsels. Duck food, maybe? Who the fuck knows. The duck sure seems happy about it.
Then Sophie turns her attention back to me. “I don’t know what the hell it is you thought you’d accomplish by this intrusion—”
“Therapy,” I blurt out, the idea crystallizing at the moment. My initial plan of forcibly taking her isn’t panning out. I’d underestimated her and didn’t bring anything to drug her with. Something tells me that if I grab this woman as I initially planned to and she fights me, we might end up on the floor, her knife in me… Or my cock in her. Neither of which would do. So therapy it is.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “While I have no doubt you’re in serious need of some help, I somehow doubt you’ve come here—to my home—with an earnest interest in improving your mental and emotional well-being.”
I shrug. I don’t bother denying it, I can’t believe I suggested it myself. “But if someone comes to you for help, are you really going to turn them down?”
“When they show up at my door uninvited and then barge into my house?” She throws her arms out in a broad, encompassing gesture. “You bet your ass I am. That’s creepy stalker territory, Mr. Vitelli.”
She has no idea I’ve gone way beyond that, bugging her phones and all, but I’m still feeling like a fucking altar boy here, considering she should have been bundled into the back of my van right about now. I try reasoning with her.
“Keeping Maria and her daughter safe is on me, and you’re in the way. I can’t have that, but it seems you don’t scare easily, and for some reason I can’t quite figure out yet, I don’t want to hurt you, Sophie Kellan.” I can’t fucking make myself hurt you. “So, I see only one option here.”
Something ghosts through her eyes, a thought or a memory that takes her far away from her living room, but she’s back in a flash.
“And what option is that?” she asks, her tone flippant, but she can’t hide the way her voice cracks on the words. Something I said has touched a nerve, one that has softened her in some way rather than putting her further on the defensive.
“You won’t admit Maria Ricci was your client, much less divulge the extent of what she shared with you. I can’t turn my back on a loose cannon. So… therapy, an assured confidentiality between us.”
Her expression shifts to a frown. “It seems to me that you’re twisting the rules to suit your needs.”
I concede with a nod, “Twisting. Not breaking.”
She stares at me, and though I can tell she’s aware of my every movement, her thoughts seem to turn inward.
After a moment, she mutters to herself, “You’ve come back to haunt me, haven’t you?” Then, more directly to me, “Fine. I’ll be back in Chicago in two days. Make an appointment with my receptionist, and we’ll have your ‘therapy’ session.”
“What do you mean you’ll be back?”
She elaborates with a hint of sarcasm, “Return, come home, re-arrive, travel from point A to point B and back again.”
I shake my head. “No, fiammetta, you’re staying right here. That’s not up for negotiation.”
Her chuckle is light but filled with defiance. “And yet, here we are, with you on the cusp of fucking off my property and me about to get on a plane regardless of your opinion on the subject.”
I heave out a sigh. This isn’t going to work. With every minute I spend with her, the need to hurt her lessens considerably but is replaced by a baser, stronger urge. To shove my cock between those sassy lips and shut her up.
I notice her grip on the knife in her hand hasn’t relented. The way she holds it tells me she knows her way around knives, which is interesting, but I’m more intrigued that she thinks she has a hope in hell against me if I choose to attack. It should be cute—like a chihuahua thinking it could take on a pit bull—but there’s a confidence radiating from her pores that is sexy as hell.
“You do realize I could keep you against your will,” I say with deceptive lightness, the imagination of such control sending a thrill through me.
“You could try.” She counters, “You might even succeed, although not without you getting mortally wounded, by which time a vengeful ghost would be waiting to finish you off. So I’d strongly recommend against it.”
I eye her for a moment, waiting for further explanation. When she doesn’t give it, I prod, “What do you mean?”
With a sigh of exasperation, and a hint of sadness, she reveals, “I’m going to a funeral today, Mr. Vitelli. I need to say goodbye to an old friend.”
