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8
Karma
The domed ceiling far above the bed has an ornate pattern. How old is this building? From the outside, it had a baroque architecture… The kind I’ve seen in magazines. It was beautiful. Does he own it? He must. Just like he owns the private jet we’d flown in that had landed on the private airstrip on the other side of the island.
He’d stalked off the flight and driven off in a car. His men had directed us to the second car. There had been two more following us as our little procession had made its way here.
Is this the only building on the island? Where is this island, anyway? Somewhere in Italy, given the language his men had been speaking. Michael himself, though, spoke with an odd accent, something between American and Italian.
Michael, huh? As if knowing his name means I know anything about him? He is, clearly, Mafia… If he hadn’t given himself away when I had mentioned my father…the proceedings after that had given away his identity. I stand up and stretch.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I glance around the room, but there’s no one. A shiver runs down my spine. I wrap my arms around my waist, take stock of my surroundings. There’s a closet in the corner, an old-fashioned dressing table pushed up against one wall. Beyond that, a door. I walk to it, push it, and step inside a bathroom that’s spacious enough to have a clawed bathtub in the center. Beyond that, a large window allows light inside. On the other side is a sink. I walk over, catch my reflection and flinch.
Dirt streaks my face and my hair has bits of… I pull at it—dried leaves? There are towels on a chair nearby. I strip out of my clothes, ignore the bath and walk over to the shower stall at the far corner. The shampoo and the shower gel smell of moonflowers. Whoa! How did he know that this is my preferred scent? I step under the water, which is hot… Thank god.
I let it flow over me, sink into my tired muscles, allow my muscles to unwind. When the hot water runs out. I step out, dry myself, survey my clothes. My sports bra has flecks of blood...his blood. Hmm. I wrap the towel around my torso, cinching it in under my arms. I step out of the bathroom and my breath leaves me.
"What are you doing here?"
Michael turns from the window. The light haloes him, and for a second, the shadows mask the lower part of his face. His blue gaze burns into mine. I flinch. He peruses me from head to toe and his eyes gleam. Then he lowers his eyelashes, jerks his chin toward the bed. A new change of clothes is folded on the bed. "You’re welcome." He smirks.
Fuck you, very much.I snarl low in my throat. "How did you…?" I frown, then turn on him. "You were watching me?"
He tilts his head.
"You…you creep."
"You really do need to get more inventive with your insults, Beauty."
"Stop calling me that."
"Stop trying to resist every step of the way, it’s…annoying."
"What’s annoying is you haunting me, turning up at every corner, insinuating yourself into my life, making it a living hell, taking me away from everything and everyone that—"
"Made you unhappy."
I still. "What are you talking about?"
"You hated your life."
Yes.
"You know nothing about me."
"On the contrary." He drums his fingers on his thigh. "Karma West. Birth name: Karma Rhodes. Born twenty years ago to Charlotte and Adam Rhodes. Mother died when you were a young, leaving you in the care of your father. Who promptly threw himself into his work, then fell into debt. He then abandoned you and your sister to the foster care system, and left the UK to escape the wrath of the Mafia. Your sister made it out of the foster care system when she came of age, then took you on as your legal guardian. Just a few weeks ago, she married Sinclair Sterling, one of the richest men in the UK. You attended their sham wedding… Then drank the night away with your two friends at the pub two streets down from their residence in Primrose Hill. Wanted to go home with a man…but didn’t. Along the way, you also dropped out of a graduate course in fine arts at Goldsmiths, where you had received a full scholarship, instead preferring to spend the days at your pop-up shop in Camden Market where you hawk your wares."
"I don’t hawk. I share my designs," I snap.
"You mean the clothes you sew?"
"They are dress creations that I fashion," I sniff, "and sell under my independent clothing brand."
"What-fucking-ever." He smirks. "That’s…when you are not haunting your local pub or dancing to electronica with fellow goths who pretend to understand you. But really, no one does."
"And you do?"
"You have to admit, I know far more about you than anyone else." He rubs his knuckles across his thigh, and I shiver.
