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19
Karma
The packed day, as it turned out to be, was Michael taking me shopping in Palermo. We’d taken a motorboat across to the big island which Michael had piloted, then he had guided me to a gleaming red Maserati that had been parked not far from the pier. He’d told me to snap on my seatbelt before roaring out. A half hour later, we’d walked into this gorgeous boutique… Which had been closed off for the pleasure of the Capo, as the woman who ran the place had informed us.
She’d taken me inside, to a large changing room, complete with a sprawling couch, a large mirror that took up one wall, and next to it, a changing cubicle, where I now stand. I run my fingers down the pale green dress that dips modestly in the front, plunges at the back, and flows in an 'A' line to just below my knees. It’s all right, I guess. The cut is awesome, the fabric is beautiful, but the color is all wrong. I blow out a breath.
How weird that he’d offered to take me shopping anyway, and after I’d been so grumpy about the earlier pink dress I’d had to wear. There hadn’t been many options in terms of color in the closet. It was either the cream-colored dress…or the beige skirt with the matching top, or the pink pant-suit—no seriously, it was a pink pantsuit—more suited to my sister Summer’s tastes, really. I hunch my shoulders.
How is Summer, anyway? Is she enjoying her married life with her new husband? Has she missed me yet? Even if she does, I have no way of knowing, considering Alphahole had commandeered my phone. Most likely, he is putting up a good front with her, probably answering her text messages with enough alacrity that she doesn’t suspect a thing.
Anyway, why would she miss me? I have always been the annoying, younger sibling who was critical of her innocent, trusting ways. She’s older than me, but I’ve often felt more worldly-wise than her, more cynical… In many ways, I am darker than her. My tastes have always run to the extremes, while Summer is all pink roses and glittery unicorns and shit. I bow my head. A hot sensation stabs at my chest.
Shit, now I am feeling sorry for myself. I mean, things aren’t that bad. I am standing here, trying on a dress that costs… I search for a price tag and realize there isn’t one on the dress. Hmm, so it’s that kind of a place. Not that I blame them. The dresses are exquisite and I am the first to not begrudge an artiste the value of their creations… It’s just, this really is not my style. I take in the shimmering, silvery green of the dress. Guess the color's not too bad. I blow out a breath, then turn, just as Michael steps through the door that separates the changing cubicle from the rest of the room.
"What are you doing here?" I frown.
He drags his gaze down my face, my chest, the skirt of the dress, to my feet, still clad in the pink ballet flats—ugh!— that I had found in the closet at my room—I mean, the room at the place where he’s holding me captive.
He raises his gaze to my face and those deep blue eyes gleam. "I came to check if you were okay."
"You mean, you came to check that your little captive hadn’t escaped?"
"You couldn’t escape me, even if you tried."
"Is that a challenge?" I set my jaw. "I could leave anytime I want."
He laughs, "The lies we tell ourselves."
"Better small lies than big ones."
The smile drops from his face. "I told you I am sorry for what I did yesterday."
"What did you do earlier?"
"You know what I mean," he says through gritted teeth, "I am trying to be nice."
"This is you being nice?" I scoff. "Please, save it for Clarissa—"
"Larissa."
"Whatever," I snap. "Like I care what her stupid name is."
"Jealous, Beauty?" He smirks and my traitorous pussy instantly throbs. Gah! Enough, already.
"I am not jealous." I draw myself up to my full height, which still means I have to tilt my head back, way back, to meet his indigo gaze. "In fact, I think you can shag her day and night and I wouldn’t care."
"Hmm." His grin widens, "I think you’re lying."
"Oh, go to hell." I turn, face my reflection in the mirror, then gasp. He’s right behind me.
He holds my gaze in the mirror, then runs his finger down my spine. I shiver and his lips curl. "Don’t you like it?" he rumbles.
"It’ll do, I suppose."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Well, firstly, I am not sure what I am doing here shopping for clothes. Secondly, even if I did decide to accept them from you, this is not my style."
