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***
There’s a knock on the bedroom door at exactly five minutes to eight. Good thing, too, since I’ve been wondering how I’m supposed to find the dining room in this maze of a house.
Rather than go to the door, I call out, “Yes?” My voice sounds so much stronger than I feel.
“Boss wants me to bring you down to dinner.” It’s not the errand boy. This guy sounds like the one who was supposed to be watching over me downstairs.
“I’ll be right with you.” Meanwhile, my hands are shaking as I run them over the front of the tight black dress I found in the closet. I can’t bring myself to mull over the question of how so many different outfits in so many different styles happened to end up in there—shoes, too. How many girls have slept in this room? And why?
Nope. Can’t get into it now. I have to keep myself together. A deep breath calms my shaking hands.
“We gotta go. Now.” Another knock, louder this time. “Boss don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Oh, I’m so surprised by that. What a revelation. “I’m coming.” I smooth my hair down next. The hairbrush sitting on the vanity looked new enough, no hairs in it or anything else. Just about everything in the bathroom looked new. Even a box of tampons, unopened beneath the sink. What the hell kind of situation is he running around here?
I drape my hair over one shoulder, arranging it on my chest before crossing the room on trembling legs and opening the door. Yes, my guard is the same from earlier, and he looks about as happy to be leading me around as he did before.
This time, though, his eyes flick over me in a way I’ve come to recognize. I’ve felt that look more times than I even want to count. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing baggy sweats and my hair’s three days from its last wash. Men are pigs in general.
I lift my chin. “You’re in such a big hurry? Let’s go.” He grumbles under his breath before leading me down the hall. His legs are longer than mine, lengthening his stride. I almost have to trot to keep up.
It’s strange to me, a house this big with only staff and bodyguards running around. And Luca. There’s no sign of any family. I doubt family would be okay with him keeping a sex slave here, anyway. Then again, how would I know? There’s that closet up there, just full of clothes. Somebody must’ve worn them.
The table in the dining room could seat twelve, but only two places are set. Luca’s at the head, while my place is at his right. My stomach’s rumbling thanks to my only meal today being a muffin and coffee from the café next to the bookstore, and the platter of roast chicken smells incredible, but the sight of my host waiting in his chair threatens to steal my appetite.
If I’m going to win here, I have to eat. I’ll force myself if need be.
“You’re late.” He looks me up and down before lifting a shoulder. “Though you look a hell of a lot better than you did earlier. I can forgive this transgression.”
Who does he think he is? I hope he insists on acting this way, I really do, because he comes off a hell of a lot less threatening. “Am I supposed to thank you?”
“It might be a start.” He nods toward my chair. “Sit. Eat. I don’t need another sick girl on my hands today.”
Yes, what an inconvenience that would be. I have to bite my tongue while taking my seat and spreading a napkin across my lap. But I can’t do it for long. “Who’s the other sick girl?”
“One of my other employees. She was hurt last night.” He shakes himself a little, out of nowhere. “Not that it’s any of your business.” So he didn’t plan on telling me. Interesting. It feels like the kind of information to tuck away in my head, even if I’m not sure yet of exactly why it matters. Sometimes, he says more than he means to.
Why not see if I can get him to spill more? “Why are there so many things in that closet? Who else lives here?”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t remember granting you the freedom to ask questions.”
“I didn’t know I needed permission to be curious.”
“You do.” He picks up a serving fork and spears a piece of chicken which he drops on my plate. “Eat.”
“I want to know.”
“I don’t care.” He picks up a bowl filled with roasted potatoes and spoons some out for himself before plopping the bowl in front of me. “Just eat. I don’t have all night to sit here answering questions.”
“Do you kill the girls who stay here with you?”
“For fuck’s sake.” He bangs against the table with the side of his fist and I wince when the silverware and glasses jingle. “Eat your goddamn dinner. I have a lot on my mind tonight, Delilah. I’m not in the mood for games.”
Think, think. He’s off-balance right now, where I want him—but the idea is to get him on my side. Shake him up, make his heart pound a little, then mess with his head. My sister and I rarely gossiped about her escort days, mostly because I didn’t want to hear about it. But that’s one tip I’ll never forget, her trick for dealing with clients who walked into their “date” in a bad mood.
Though she usually acted all seductive to get their blood pounding. She didn’t piss them off. Can I be seductive? Can I force myself to seduce this evil prick?
I have to focus on the physical. Nothing more. When I do that, I remember how hot he is. Gorgeous, built like a god. Those eyes of his, the way they dig into me. I could stare into those eyes for hours if they lived in the head of a man with a soul.
