Page 18 of Vow Of Fire

He smirked. “Will you now?”

I glanced at the bedside table, looking for my phone. To my relief I saw it was still lying there where I’d left it, charging.

“Yes. Don’t think I won’t. Just because you’re rich and famous—make that infamous—it doesn’t mean I won’t call the cops on you.”

They weren’t idle threats, either. I meant every word.

His gaze dropped to my chest. “This isn’t the most appropriate location for the kind of discussion I had in mind.”

I glowered at him and pulled the strap onto my shoulder.

“Put some clothes on,” he said coldly.

I knew then that he was going to force me to go with him at gunpoint. He and this mysterious Rocco who was waiting outside. Unless I did something to prevent it.

But what?

And what on earth did Dante Marcelli want with me?

“I’m sure this is just a big misunderstanding,” I reasoned, my eyes shifting to my phone again. If I could make it to the bathroom, I could lock the door and call for help.

“That’s what we need to determine.”

I was just calculating the distance to the bathroom—roughly four steps, if I moved fast—when he said, “You won’t make it, Ophelia.”

I blinked at the way the name of the painting rolled off his lips.

“How did you know I had a copy of that painting above my bed?” I whispered, glancing up at it. “Have you been in my bedroom before?”

His eyes lifted. “Looks like you.”

I swallowed. That was why I had it. The ex-lover who painted it for me thought so too. He’d been travelling through the US, visiting the Met and the Guggenheim and painting in Central Park. We’d had a brief but passionate affair. Until he’d gone back to Paris. He’d sent me the copy he’d done as a gift and it was one of my most treasured possessions.

With Dante’s attention still fixed on the Millais painting, I threw back the covers, grabbed my phone, and lunged for the bathroom.

He was on me in two strides.

A strong arm snaked around my waist and, none too gently, pulled me back, slamming me against his rock-hard body. The force knocked the air out of me.

“Dammit,” I wheezed, breathless.

To make matters worse, my phone fell onto the floor. He kicked it under the bed, out of reach. With a frustrated sob, I tried to wriggle free, but he held me firm.

“Let me go!” I demanded.

“Said you wouldn’t make it,” he growled into my ear. His mouth was so close, I could feel his breath on my neck.

One arm was still wrapped around my waist, the other over my chest, one large hand splayed over my shoulder. The strap of my nightgown had fallen down again, but this time I didn’t care. I had bigger problems. Besides, he’d pinned my arms to my sides.

“Let me go!” I kicked out, my heel connecting with his shin. He didn’t so much as flinch. Bare feet weren’t going to do much damage to this guy.

Dante dragged me back to the bed and threw me down.

Before I had a chance to recover, he leaned over and pinned my wrists above my head, wedging a knee between my thighs. My nightgown was bunched up around my hips, exposing way too much underwear.

Furious and embarrassed, I tried to buck him off, but he was immovable.

“Ugh. What are you made of? Lead?”