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Jeanne
"Let me the F out of here."Can’t even let yourself say the f-word aloud when you’ve been kidnapped, eh?Goddam politeness that’s been drilled into me since childhood. To be honest, it's selective politeness. Ma was unequivocal that no occasion, no matter how frustrating, warrants saying that specific four-letter word aloud. But then, I doubt she was ever held against her will.
On the bright side, I haven’t seen any more of my captor; not since he held something sweet-smelling to my face. Ether, I’m guessing. I was walking home from the bus stop in Palermo, and even though it was past ten p.m., there was still a smattering of people on the road—enough for me to feel safe. That was until someone darted out from behind a telephone booth—yep, they still have them in Italy— I’m fairly certain he was wearing a mask. I seem to recall a black mask, a thick neck, large shoulders, and the man was overweight, and definitely not very tall. I tried to yell, but whatever was in that handkerchief got into my blood stream with just one inhalation. I blacked out and woke up here with a headache.
That was two days ago. At least, I think it’s been two days because the light pouring in from the skylight has shown me the passage of two nights.Goddamn, I am not spending another day cooped up in here.
Food is delivered twice a day. There’s a small, attached bathroom with running water—no hot water, though—so I've managed to wash myself the best I can; it also means I’m not dehydrated. But what I wouldn't give for a proper shower. Also, I need to get out of here. If I don’t, I'm going to miss my first performance as the lead actress inBeauty and the Beastopening in two days in Palermo.
I bang my fists against the door again. "Let me out, you… you… Twerp."Is that the best insult I can come up with? Who even uses twerp anymore? I do, that’s who.I’m sure I heard Sister Mary use it once when she didn't know I was eavesdropping on her conversation with a fellow nun at the convent school where I was educated.An education, by the way, which has not prepared me for the situation I currently find myself in. I hammer on the door again. My wrists ache, and the edges of my palms protest. One of my nails is chipped. Argh, I stare at it. Hate when that happens.
"Nails are the windows to your soul." That was the mantra my mother lived by. We never had much money, but it didn’t stop my ma from making sure I always had well-manicured nails. No nail polish because… nuns. But that hadn't stopped her from carting me off to the nail salon on the least pretext. And when we didn't have money for the salon, we took turns pampering each other. All of which seems so far away now, locked up as I am in this room.
At least my captors didn’t tie my arms or legs. I should be thankful for that. And of course, there’s a bed in the room, with a mattress that doesn’t smell too funky. On the other hand, there isn’t much room in this space for walking. And there’s nothing else to do.
"Let me out of here... Please!" I wince.Really? You had to add please at the end?
I bring my fist down on the door, when it’s wrenched open and a man is shoved in my direction. A big man. A big, tall man. So tall, I have to crane my neck all the way back to try to make out his features. His bulk collides with me. The scent of dark chocolate and coffee, laced with some masculine scent that screams ‘man,’ fills my senses.
"Hey—" My voice is cut off when the man begins to slump into me. The full weight of his body pushes me down. My knees begin to give way. Whoever pushed him in here gives him another shove. Of course, I take the brunt of his weight, and both of us go tumbling down. I manage to wriggle out of his way in time to avoid being completely crushed. The door to the room is slammed shut.
"Come back!" I pull my arm out from under the behemoth, leap toward the door and hammer my fists on it. "Let me out of here. You can’t do this. You can’t keep me locked in here without any explanation. There are people looking for me, you nincompoops. What do you gain by keeping me in here? Let me out, and I promise, I won't go to the police when I get out of here." My voice cracks a little, and I pause. There’s no one out there listening to me. Whoever shoved the man in here is gone—
Oh, wait. They shoved someone else in here… In my already tiny room. I turn to find the monster of a guy still hasn’t moved. Not good; this is not good. I step over his feet and walk over to stand near his face. His cheek is pushed into the floor. I prod his massive shoulder with the tip of my boot. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even stir.
"Hey, mister," my voice echoes in the space. "Hey!" I prod him with a little more force. Same response. Is he breathing? Yes, I can hear it now. I sink down on one knee and touch his shoulder. When there’s no movement, I touch his hair. It’s soft, springy. I run my fingers through the thick strands, and a weird heat trickles up my spine.Umm, no, it’s just hair.So what if it seems to belong to a head attached to a particularly impressive torso. The man’s black jacket clings to his shoulders, stretches across a broad back that tapers down to a narrow waist. His shirt—his black, silk, button-down shirt— has been pulled up, due to the fall, and a narrow strip of skin is visible above the waistband of his dark pants. I reach for the strip of skin, then pull back.Eh, stop it. What are you doing, touching this guy without his permission, anyway?
I turn my attention back to his head. Thick, dark hair that’s long enough to brush the collar of his jacket. Unruly enough to have fallen over his forehead. The hair at the back of his head is matted with blood. I wince. Did they hit him? They must have, which is probably why he's unconscious. I drag my gaze back to his face, take in his thick eyelashes, strong nose, the square jaw with a stubble that I want to rub my fingers against... High cheekbones, the hollows under them lending definition to his features. My breath catches in my chest. Whoever he is, he’s gorgeous. I would have called him a fallen angel, except his dark beauty is more reminiscent of the devil. He has the kind of good looks that wouldn’t be out of place on the big screen. He could be the star of the next Godfather, if anyone ever decides to reboot the movie franchise; though admittedly, it would take someone with a lot of courage to touch cinematic history. I reach for the strand of hair that’s fallen over his forehead and push it back. That’s when his eyelids snap open.
Bright blue eyes. Like the sky at the peak of summer. Like water from freshly melted snow. Like freshly-laundered white which is so intense, you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for blue. He reaches out a hand. I scream, scramble back, but he locks his fingers around my ankle and pulls me closer.
"Let me go," I yell.
His grasp tightens. I reach over and try to pry his fingers off, but he doesn’t let go. He continues to stare at my face like he’s unable to tear his gaze away.
My heart slams into my rib cage. My blood thumps so loudly in my ears, I think I’m going to faint. "Please," I gulp, "please let me go." A tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye. It slides down my cheek and plops on his face.
His forehead furrows and he releases his grip on my leg. I scoot back as he raises his arm in my direction.
"Angel," he whispers, "don’t cry." Oh, my god, that voice. Gravelly and sinful and everything wicked ever created. Definitely the devil in disguise. A fire ignites deep inside of me. It zips up my spine, down the length of my arms. I reach out to touch him, when his eyelids flutter down again, and his arm falls by his side.
The tension drains out of my shoulders. I stay there panting for a few seconds, then lower my hand and ease away from him until my back connects with the wall.
I take in his face, eyes now closed again, the way his dark eyelashes sweep down until the tips seem to sweep his cheekbones. That patrician nose I noticed earlier, the thick upper lip, the pouty lower one, the square jaw of his that hints at the power coiled under his skin. Even unconscious, the man exudes a raw power that thrums around him, that draws my attention, a presence that seems to suck all of the oxygen in the room, leaving me lightheaded.
I hope he didn’t hurt himself when he fell. I hope the blood on the back of his head is superficial. Was he drugged, like me? Is that why he’s out cold? It would have taken more than one man to overpower him, more like a crowd of them to take him down, given his size. Did he resist them as they hauled him here? Did he fight before they finally managed to overwhelm him?
And why is he dressed so formally? Was he at a wedding or a party or… Does he always dress like this? It wouldn’t surprise me if he does. The look suits him. Not that formal clothes can disguise the brute he is. In those few moments when he stared at me with those disconcerting blue eyes, it was clear that nothing can cage this man for long.
I watch him for a few more seconds, but he doesn’t stir. Guess I’ll have to leave him on the floor. No way am I going to be able to move him. And after the last time I touched him, when he snapped his eyes open so suddenly... Well, let’s just say, I’m not going to risk that again. I guess I could cover him up with a sheet, at least.
I rise to my feet, then shuffle alongside the wall, clinging to it as I make my way around him. When I reach the bed, I pull the cover from it, then walk over and drape it over him. I step back until the backs of my knees hit the bed, then sit down on it. I watch him for a few more seconds, until a yawn surprises me. Tiredness drags at the edge of my conscious mind. I lay down facing him, back to the wall, and bring my knees up to my chest. I fold my arms over them, and watch the back of his head until I fall asleep.
The next time I open my eyes, it’s to meet that piercing blue gaze of his. No… Not completely blue. There are specks of grey, almost black, around his pupils. I part my lips to scream, and he clamps his palm across my mouth. I raise my hand, and he grabs my wrist and wrenches it over my head. My heart pounds in my ribcage, and my pulse-rate goes through the roof. Fear twists my guts, and my breath locks in my chest. What is he doing? Why is he trying to restrain me? If he thinks I’m going to give up without a fight, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. I bring my knee up, intent on kicking him, when he drops onto the bed, on top of me.
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