“Oh, I’m so sorry. The heel of my shoe caught the carpet pile,” I apologize to the gentleman whose lap I just stumbled into.
Dark, beautiful eyes stare down at me, holding me captive by their unique beauty. The sable-haired stranger doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His eyes share a lifetime of stories without a word spilling from his lips. After giving myself a few moments to register every unique speckle in his mesmerizing eyes, I snap back to reality. I'm sitting in a stranger’s lap after tumbling into his arms. Can anyone say, “Cliché?!”
“Sorry about the intrusion.”
Cringing at the weakness of my words, I continue with my endeavor of locating a bathroom. Ever since I finished my wine spritzer ten minutes ago, my tummy has been unsettled and my mind woozy. I'd also like to say it's the cause of my inflamed cheeks, but, unfortunately, that isn't the case. The blame for my blemished appearance solely belongs to the handsome stranger eyeballing me as I pace away from him.
My pulse quickens when in the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the dark-haired stranger throwing a casino chip into the middle of a poker table. After gesturing his head to a group of men dressed in black suits lounging at the side of the poker table, he races to catch up with me. His long, efficient strides have him reaching me in three captivating heartbeats.
A jolting spasm rockets up my arm when he places his hand on the crook of my elbow. Muted by my body’s insane reaction to this mysterious stranger’s touch, I allow him to guide me through the vast throng of people milling about the space without a word spilling from my lips. . .
I lift my eyes to Rico. My heart squeezes when I see the same pair of dark, beautiful eyes from my memory staring back at me. “Where did we go?” My weak voice displays the hammering of my heart.
A grin curls on the edge of his lips, sending my heart rate skyrocketing. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen etched on his face. It’s nearly as striking as his dark eyes.
“We went to the bathroom.”
After tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear, he stands from the bed and places me onto my feet. I try to hold in my disappointed groan, but it escapes my lips involuntarily.
"One memory at a time, Kitten," he responds to my whine, believing it was only based on my interest in unraveling my lost memories. It wasn't. The Rico standing before me intrigues me just as much as extracting my lost memories.
My brows scrunch when he strides to the bedroom door, opens it, and gestures with his head for me to leave. “I have some business I need to take care of before we land.”
My heart smashes into my ribs when the first half of our conversation dawns on me.
“You’re not going to do anything to Timothy, are you?” I span the distance between us, my steps shaky, hindered by a pair of wobbly legs.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, Kitten” Rico replies before slapping me on the backside.
His spank is so hard it pushes me into the central section of the private jet. Defying my jello legs, I pivot around to face him. Just like in my memory, his eyes relay his intentions without a word needing to flow from his plump lips.
My mouth twitches, dying to spill the objections my brain is screaming, but no matter how hard I fight, not a word escapes my parched lips. Taking my silence as confirmation I want him to execute revenge on Timothy for drugging me, Rico winks before shutting the bedroom door.
Oh. My. Lord.
What did I just do?
Chapter 10
Guilt consumes the next hour of our trip. Do I believe what Timothy did was wrong? Yes, without a doubt. Do I believe he should be punished for what he did? Yes, more to stop it happening to another woman than anything else. Do I want that punishment issued by a member of the Las Vegas mob? No, not at all.
With my stomach twisted in knots, I stand from my seat and make my way back to the main bedroom of the private jet. My beliefs the past hour have never altered; it has just taken me this long to build up the courage to go against a man who equally frightens and intrigues me. But I need to do this. If I ever want the chance to rescue Rico from the blackness, I can’t let him make heinous decisions no man has the right to make. Timothy will one day meet his maker, but until then, there are legal ways justice can be served.
Not bothering to knock, I enter the room. Rico is sitting back behind the desk, speaking into his cell phone. Even not understanding a word he’s saying, I can tell his temper is short-fused. The veins in his thick biceps are bulging, his jaw is clenched, and his entire composure is screaming blatant fury. My hesitation to approach him only lasts as long as it takes for me to recall Timothy’s youngest son only turned two last month. He's a baby.
Just like earlier, Rico’s eyes follow me as I cross the room to stand in front of him, except this time, his gaze isn’t filled with anger. His eyes are brimming with downright fury. Overlooking the feverish agitation beaming out of him in invisible waves, I remove the cell phone from his grasp, disconnect his call, and throw his phone onto a stack of papers on his desk.
The furious tick impinging his jaw amplifies when I lower onto my knees and peer up into his eyes. “Please, I'm begging you, Enrique. Don’t do this. I may not remember you, but my heart does. It knows there's more to you than this lifestyle. It knows you're a good man. Don’t break its confidence.”
If I thought his eyes were violent before, it's nothing compared to how they look now. I don’t know if his anger originates from me pleading to him on my knees or from the fact I called him Enrique for the first time.
“You're willing to fall to your knees and beg for mercy for the man who drugged you?” he snarls, his voice the most malicious I’ve heard.
With tears welling in my eyes, I nod.
“He was going to rape you, Blaire! Do you understand that?”
“Yes. I'm aware of that,” I reply, nodding. “But he has a wife and three small children—”
