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She hums as I kiss down her neck. “I definitely can. I have my e-reader app on my phone, so I have access to most of my books. We can light pillar candles and drink some wine.”
“I doubt the vino would taste as good as you do,” I rasp as I bunch up her dress. My hands skate up her thigh until they reach the seam of her panties. I slip a finger underneath, and revel in how warm and wet she feels—for me. Her pussy is all mine.
A knock at the door interrupts us. She steps away from me, righting her dress down and smoothing the wrinkles out. I check the security feed on my phone to find French at the door, in a blue dress shirt and gray chinos. That fucker cockblocked me.
I lick my finger, savoring the taste of her and wishing I’d had more. “We can finish this tonight. Let’s pick up your clothes.”
As soon as French comes into the living room, Maddalena is overjoyed to see him.
“Bonjour,” she coos. “Comment va mon Français préféré?”
“J'ai hâte de voir ma chienne badass préférée!” he sings back, smiling at her like a lunatic with a death wish.
He brings her in for a hug, and my hackles rise. I want to pry French’s fingers off her and break every single one of his knuckles. Smash them with a meat tenderizer Julia Child’s style. When he goes in for the double cheek kiss, I lose my shit and pull him off her.
“That’s enough,” I growl. “Stop touching her.”
“Oooh, you’ve got it bad, my friend.” He laughs, as if I’m amusing to him.
“He really does,” she agrees. “Garrix is so obsessed with me,” she teases.
I pull her into me and whisper into her ear. “Yeah, and my hand is going to be obsessed with turning your ass red later.”
She brattily smirks at me, as if to say fuck around and find out. And find out I will, later tonight.
We hop into French’s Range Rover. I drive with French in the passenger seat and my kitten in the back.
“We’re going to enter Van Auso through the employee entrance, check the collection she selected, and once we finalize it, we’re leaving. I want to minimize our exposure,” I remind them.
“Sounds good. I’m not even going to try anything on.” Maddalena smiles at us. “This should be just enough to hold me over until I can move back into my apartment.”
There’s no reason to start an argument about it now, but she’ll never go back there again. Her home is with me now, at my house. In my bed. Singing in my kitchen and reading in the library I’ll build for her in one of the guest rooms. Eventually, she’ll come to terms with it.
“For some, the clothes make the woman. But you make the clothes, ma cherie,” French coos, waggling his eyebrows at her playfully. “I’m sure everything will look amazing.”
I punch his shoulder and he shouts with pain. “Oh mon Dieu, you’ll ruin my good arm, Garrix. Get a grip,” he grouses as he rubs his arm. “That’s going to bruise.”
“Stop fucking hitting on my woman and you won’t get any more bruises.” He’s lucky I haven’t choked him out yet.
“Guys, calm down, we’re almost there,” Maddalena tries to keep the peace.
Right on schedule, we enter the ridiculously swanky store through the employee door on the side. Bridget, the owner, leads us to a plush looking showroom, with changing rooms off to the side behind a pink curtain. She’s a tall, severe looking woman with long, thick blonde hair. Her all pink outfit matches the shade of pink on the store sign outside. An associate offers Maddalena a flute of champagne.
“No thank you, I’m just here to pick up my order. I’m short on time, so I won’t be trying anything on,” she informs her, her tone all business. It fascinates me how she can switch from a cold blooded shark to a businesswoman within the blink of an eye, all while an aura of danger clings to her.
“We insist you stay, Miss Vettore. You won’t know the feel of the clothes until you try them on. We need to make sure every piece is perfect,” she assures her, as if it’s unfathomable that she leaves in such a rush.
Maddalena is pushing through the rack, taking in every piece and telling the sales associate what to bag up. So far, only one piece wasn’t picked.
“As I said, I’m short on time. Please bag my selections up, and put the charge on my account,” she firmly replies.
Bridget looks worried, and a few beads of sweat gather on her forehead. “Are you sure you don’t want to try anything on in the fitting room?” She’s practically pleading with her this time.
Maddalena pointedly gives the woman the eye and gestures for the associate to continue bagging her purchases. “I’m not sure how firmly or plainly I have to say no. I have no interest in staying here to try them on. Please pack my things so I can leave.”
Bridget seems blatantly distressed now, her face screwed up into an anxious mess. Our gazes connect, and I can tell my little killer thinks something is off when she deliberately scans the showroom we’re sitting in. A sense of foreboding hangs in the air. French must have gotten the same vibe—in the blink of an eye, he draws his gun as a man bursts from behind the curtains. A pelt of bullets spray across the room and I dive on top of Maddalena to shield her from the attack. French charges him, knocking him into a display. They grapple on the floor, but French shoots him clean between the eyes. The man and his semi-automatic drop like a sack of bricks, blood pooling on the Persian rug beneath him.
Maddalena
