I am almost satisfied with it.
Renzo returns. "I'll speak to the cook," he says. "Have her meals handled properly going forward."
I nod and tap ash from the cigarette.
Renzo makes a sound that isn't quite a response. I glance at him. I noticed the guards when I carried her through the corridor. Inotice most things as a matter of practice but I noticed this with instant attention that tightened something in my chest.
My men are not undisciplined. But they are also not saints and she is, as Renzo had put it with understatement, memorable.
"Get her clothes," I tell him. "Whatever she needs. Toiletries, appropriate things." I pause. "She'll be moved to my quarters. The room adjoining mine."
Renzo looks at me. He doesn't ask.
"I'll handle it," he answers, and he is gone.
I finish the cigarette and remain where I am in the doorway.
She breathes against the pillow, dark hair loose around her face, the two small moles beneath her eye catching the low light of the room. The blazer she had arrived in is draped over the chair in the corner, still clean across the shoulders, slightly ruined at the hem.
I push off the doorframe and cross to the chair beside the bed and sit, resting my elbows on my knees, and I look at her.
"You're stuck with me for now, princess," I say quietly.
She doesn't stir.
The IV drips at its steady pace and the room stays quiet and I remain where I am longer than I need to and eventually I stand and straighten my jacket and walk out.
Chapter Six
Nathalie
"What's your name?" I ask the maid who just brought me food. She doesn't look up. She collects the plate and the glass and the folded napkin and she moves toward the door.
"I'm Nathalie," I add.
The door closes and I turn back to the window.
Three days in this room and I have learned the view by heart. The city below does its thing regardless, indifferent to the fact that I am watching it from behind glass I can't open. Cars and light and the distant suggestion of music from somewhere I can't reach. I press two fingers against the pane and feel it and wonder, not for the first time today, whether Alana has called. Whether Gerald has noticed my absence. Whether anyone has looked at the chair I usually occupy in the campaign office and thought to ask where I am.
I know the answer. I have known it for three days. I just keep asking the question because stopping feels like admitting something I'm not ready to admit.
The room is comfortable. That is almost the worst thing about it. A proper bed, clean clothes in my size that appeared folded on the chair on the first morning, books on the shelf, and food three times a day. I have eaten and slept and read and stared at the ceiling and tried every surface and drawer and fixture for anything that might be useful.
Nothing.
The windows don't open. The door is locked from the outside. The maids arrive and leave like ghosts, eyes down, mouths shut, and they take the key out with them every single time because whoever arranged this arrangement arranged it carefully.
I have spent three days wondering what he intends to do with me. The green-eyed man with the three-piece suit and the pale gaze. Is he still waiting for my father? Does he expect a ransom? Does he have a plan beyond keeping me fed and comfortable until something happens?
Or is the comfort itself the thing I should be worried about?
I pick up the book I've been reading for the third time today and put it back down.
I need to leave this room. The maid comes in at seven with the evening tray, pasta and bread, and a glass of water, and she shuts the door behind her the way she always does, and stands near it the way she always does, and watches me eat with her eyes somewhere near my left shoulder.
I start eating and I watch her from beneath my lashes. She is small, maybe my height, and she holds the tray under her arm and she is already half turned toward the door, ready to move the moment I put my fork down.
I eat slowly. I take my time. I let her think this is going exactly as it always goes.
