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In other words, the master is too important to run my stupid errands. Fair point. He is a mafia boss who just got released from prison, but I can’t wait around for my fake ID in a dressing gown.
“Do you have a phone?”
She turns around, her lips tightening. “Mr. Montesano doesn’t want you using the landlines in case they’re tapped.”
“What about a cell phone?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Montesano.”
I bite back my sarcasm. “How about some clothes?”
Her gaze softens, and her lips quirk. “Mr. Montesano asked me to provide you with whatever you need. I’ll have something sent over.”
Gasping, I hide my surprise. I was seriously expecting her to drop a hint that Roman wanted me to stay naked.
She slips out of the room, letting the door click shut. I wait for the sound of a key turning in the lock, but there’s nothing more than the soft sound of retreating footsteps.
What the hell made me think Roman would hook up with a complete stranger and then keep her hostage? He probably only brought me upstairs to have some privacy while we fucked.
The answer is simple. No matter how much my therapist tried to help me overcome my trauma, my history of being held captive, combined with my captivity phobia, keeps making me assume the worst.
I slide off the mattress, pad across the room on bare feet, and test the doorknob. When it opens, I glance out into the hallway to find Sofia speaking to a man the size of a gorilla. He gazes at me over her shoulder and winks.
My heart skips a beat, and I jerk back into the room, recognizing him as one of the men who’d leered up at me while I was freaking out on the balcony.
Shit. I’ll never live that down.
I shut the door, walk back to the bed, and pick at an afternoon breakfast of croissants, yogurt, and a fruit salad. After downing the orange juice and coffee, I poke at the waterproof bandages and wonder why the cuts don’t sting.
Maybe whoever tended to my wounds used a local anesthetic?
Bizarre.
I enter a marble-tiled bathroom similar to the one upstairs, and treat myself to the longest, most luxurious shower, using Acqua di Parma toiletries that feel and smell like an entire month’s living expenses, including groceries. It feels so good that I even enjoy a soak in the tub.
The bath oils combined with the warm water relax my muscles and dissolve my intrusive thoughts. I lie back and exhale a long sigh. A girl could get used to this level of pampering, but that would mean being attached to the mafia.
I shake my head. Sex with Roman was mind-blowing, but I’m not crazy enough to get involved with a man whose full-time job is organized crime.
Once I’ve painted Roman’s portrait and gotten my hands on that fake ID, I’ll leave New Alderney and go somewhere Jim won’t ever think of looking.
A knock sounds on the bedroom door. I sit up in the bath and shout, “Hello?”
“It’s Sofia,” says a female voice, “With clothes and a phone.”
By the time I climb out of the bath, slide on a robe, and enter the bedroom, the housekeeper has already gone. Four shopping bags sit on a dresser, along with a smartphone.
My jaw drops. When I asked for clothes, I was expecting her to gather something lying around the mansion, not purchases from a boutique. Roman must have requested these items this morning after I agreed to paint his portrait.
I rifle through the bags, finding lingerie, a leather jacket, fitted pants, pencil skirts, mini dresses, and a selection of either silk or low-cut tops.
There’s even three pairs of Prada shoes in my size.
My stomach drops.
Everything has a designer label I recognize from the fashion district. There’s Armani, Gucci, Versace, and Valentino. Is this going to be another situation like Gallery Lafayette where he deducts the costs from the price of my paintings and I end up in debt?
I walk to the door and look out into the hallway, only to lock gazes with a pair of men chatting against the walls, who turn their attention to me and straighten.
