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I don’t know who Bernice is and don’t want to either. I’m sure she’s another staff who kisses his ass, but I’ll throw any dig I can his way because I will not make this easy for him. I don’t want new things, I don’t want my old things delivered, all I want is to go home.
I turn to him, placing my hands on my hips. He’s already proved he has ridiculous self-control, not only in the bedroom but with my sharp tongue. The fact he can ignore my jabs so easily annoys me to no end. Which is probably why he does it.
There is no doubt in my mind he thinks I’ll be the quiet, submissive girl I was on Saturday. Well, he’s got another thing coming. Vincenzo Bramante is going to see a side of me he’ll wish he never met.
When he doesn’t respond to my comment about this Bernice chick, I keep going.
“Do I get clothing until then, or will I be forced to stay naked?” I lift my chin. “I can parade around the house like this for everyone to see. Is that your goal? You want everyone to see me naked?”
Without pulling his eyes away, he undoes the top button of his black dress shirt. He slowly works his way down, that dark gaze still on me. The muscle in his jaw ticks, and his forearms flex. I hate—hate—that this somehow seems intimate. That it has my stomach fluttering and images of his tattooed and scarred chest filling my brain.
No, Jordan. No! You will not let this man’s good looks make you blind to what he’s doing! Think with your head!
I fight the urge to clench my thighs together and push thoughts of Saturday night away. I want to slam the door in his face, tell him to screw off and keep his shirt.
But I don’t want anyone else seeing me naked, despite what I said.
When the last button is undone, he untucks the rest of his shirt from his slacks—I’m so grateful he has an undershirt on. He shrugs out of his button-down, my gaze pausing on his thick biceps and the way the hem of the t-shirt sleeves stick to him like glue. I shake out of it, snatch the shirt from his hand when he offers it, quickly put it on, and button it up.
Manners dictate I say thank you, regardless of my mood, but fuck him.
It takes less than a second for his scent to hit my nose. Another second for the soft fabric to remind me of the shirt I wore of his at the club.
Is this the same one?
No, Jordan! Stop it. Stop. It.
But the heat of his body is still lingering in the fabric, seeping into my skin.
I hadn’t realized I was cold until this very moment.
When I look up at Enzo, he’s watching me carefully. My throat tightens and I’m hit with a wave of emotion I’m too weak to fight off.
“Why are you doing this?” I choke out.
He sighs a low sound and speaks even lower.
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy, Jordan. If you want to be pissed at someone, be pissed at your father. He got you into this mess, not me.”
He turns on his heel and leaves.
He goes all the way down the hall and turns into a room past the stairs on the right, closing the door loudly behind him.
I take a deep, shaky breath, and step into my room, closing the door behind me.
I wish I could speak to my father to figure out what’s going on. What could he have done to get me into this mess? Get us into this mess, since he’s in it too—apparently.
Though, from the looks of it, I’m the only one suffering. What does he get? Nothing. He’s probably at home, living it up as he always does. He’s free. Wearing his own clothes, in his own bed. How is that comparable to this? It’s not. Not even close. I’d rather switch places. He can come here and marry Enzo; I’ll go home and wallow in the fact I screwed up my life and lost my daughter.
I huff out a humorless laugh. I can’t begin to imagine living with myself if that were the case. I’d never give up my child. Never. And thinking about the fact my father did so easily? Well, it hurts too much to think about it, so I don’t.
I wipe my eyes, blink a few times to get rid of the tears that have formed, and head to the bathroom.
The first room is a large closet with space on either side for clothes. There are shelves, drawers, and bars filled with wooden hangers. A floor to ceiling mirror takes up half of one wall beside the bathroom door, and there isn’t a single speck on it.
I flip on the light for the bathroom and step inside. It’s spacious and bright. The tub is big enough to fit three people comfortably, with large jets and a panel that looks like it should control a spaceship. I think of Enzo doing something so simple as taking a bath and it makes me laugh. Do assholes take baths? Pretty sure they don’t. The man probably maims and murders for pleasure.
Maybe if I hadn’t gone to the party on Saturday, given in to my rebellious side, this wouldn’t be happening.
