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Did Gio put this together for me? And whereisGio anyway?
Hopping off the bed, I explore the penthouse suite in a way I hadn’t bothered last night. This place must cost at least a grand a night, with exquisite art on the walls and perfectly polished furniture everywhere you look. The carpet beneath my bare feet is lush and chandeliers sparkle above my head.
First, I check the bathroom and then wander into the living area and kitchen. The curtains have been drawn, blocking out the desert sunshine. Gio must’ve closed them at sunrise when I’d fallen asleep and he’d placed me in the bed.
I stop in my tracks as I come across the front door. With no Gio around, was I free to go?
I sure as hell am going to try. I rush toward the door, undoing the bolts and latch. The second I yank it open and move to run into the hall, I collide with well over two hundred pounds of brawn.
It’s the André the Giant lookalike. The one Gio called Louis. He’s standing right outside the door. Probably by Gio’s orders to make sure I don’t escape while he’s away.
“Do you need something, Miss Carter?” he asks in a testy tone.
“Uh…no. By the way, sorry about hitting you in the groin. I was kind of panicking.”
The corner of his lip quirks. “Just make sure you control your knee next time.”
“Right. Won’t happen again. Sorry to disturb you.”
I step back inside like a child in a timeout and close the door.
Just grrrrreat. I’m trapped. Gio really has no intention of letting me go. My stomach sinks as I come to terms with the fact I’m a dead woman walking.
It’s official: he’s going to kill me.
I plod back into the bedroom and collapse in the armchair by the glass wall. I’m not sure how long I sit and stew in my thoughts, butThe Price Is Rightends andTheYoung and the Restlesscomes on. Ironically enough, both shows have titles that describe my life in the last twenty-four hours.
The lock in the front door clicks and someone walks in. I don’t budge an inch as a second later Gio strolls into the bedroom in another well-tailored ensemble. He’s forgone the suit jacket and is wearing a crisp black dress shirt and slate-gray pants. HisGQvibe is disrupted by his disturbingly bloody knuckles. Fresh blood too.
He cocks a brow at the sight of me, like I’m the weird one with fresh blood on my knuckles. “How’s this morning been? Did you get some sleep?”
“Is there a reason you have blood on your hands?”
“None that concern you,” he answers. His bright blue eyes gleam looking at me. He really does enjoy driving me crazy. “What can I say? This morning has been a rough day at work.”
“I bet someone’s face paid for it.”
“Sounds like you’re a gambling woman.”
He unfastens his watch. Also different from last night. It’s smooth and stainless, making a heavy chinking noise when he drops it onto the dresser. Something tells me it costs more than I make in several paychecks like everything else he wears.
When he realizes I’m not going to say anything else, he switches topics as if it’s no consequence at all. “I’ll be in the shower.”
As my brows scrunch together and I move to protest, he disappears into the bathroom. For the next fifteen minutes, I sit and stew about the fact that not only am I held captive, any protests don’t faze him at all! Last night when I’d staged my first one, refusing to go to sleep, he’d simply sat down in the living area and made phone calls ’til I eventuallydiddoze off.
Bastard.
The instant the shower stops, I march into the bathroom. He’s left the door open. Steam floats around me, fogging up the mirror.
“Blood all washed off now that you’ve showered?” I ask as he towels off. Then I lift my arm and sniff myself. “Speaking of, I should probably shower…if that’s allowed.”
He wraps the towel around his waist. “It’s allowed, Falynn. You’re not a hostage.”
“No, I just can’t go anywhere or do anything.”
“That’s in your best interest.”
“How so?”
