AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I squeeze my eyes shut to rid myself of it, and when I pop them open again, I squint into the dark room in search of a light switch.
My fingers find one just a few inches from my head, and when I flip it, soft yellow lights flood the space and what I see fills me with confusion.
There’s a black marble vanity with two sinks carved into it. A large shower hugs the corner, and in the middle, there’s a free-standing tub—the type I imagine someone like Marie Antoinette would bathe in.
I’m in a bathroom, not a locker room. A private bathroom.
I step into the center of it, cutting through moist air, heavy with the familiar scent of cedar.
The shower head behind me drips. As I glare at my distorted reflection in the misted-up mirror, my heart slows and a light lust spreads between my thighs. Not only is it a private bathroom, it belongs to Raphael Visconti, and he’s just had a shower in here.
Christ. The thought shouldn’t make my mouth water the way it does. Shouldn’t sweep a thrill through me and tighten my nipples underneath my wet dress. Although I was invited in by the man himself, it feels dangerous to be in here. Too intimate. Like I’ve slipped behind enemy lines and have unprecedented access to what goes on behind.
And of course, it means I can’t help but imagine what he looks like naked.
Trance-like, I slide my fingers through the condensation on the surface of the marble vanity. I ball the corner of a damp towel in my fist. I pick up expensive-looking bottles and skim the French labels attached to them, although I must admit, the French for Dummies book I read a few months ago does little to help me decipher them. Everything is neat and in its place—nothing like my bathroom at home. There’s probably still a damp towel on the floor in my bathroom in Atlantic City.
When I find his aftershave, I bring it to my nose and take a long, deep huff from the nozzle. The scent makes me dizzy, affecting me like a shot of liquor on an empty stomach. I snort in disbelief, mentally scolding myself for being so fucking pathetic.
He’s just a man, for Christ’s sake. Not even one I like. Besides, all men wear aftershave and most of them, save for a few shitty brands they sell at the dollar store, smell pretty nice. Attracting women is literally what they are designed to do, and it’s safe to say I’m not immune to that.
I step away from the counter, if only to clear my head.
Right, I need to stop examining Raphael’s bathroom like it’s a crime scene and get ready.
I shimmy out of my wet dress and bundle it into the sink. Thank god this job has a uniform, because it’s the only smart dress I have.
I run my tights under the hairdryer, momentarily drowning out the boring business chat seeping through the door, then tug out my new uniform from the bag and slip it on.
It’s another dress. A short black one, with wrap-around detail under the bust. Signora Fortuna is embroidered in silver silk on the chest, and I can only assume that’s the name of the yacht.
It’s a cute dress and feels expensive against my skin. Staring at myself in the mirror, however, I realize my hair and makeup are far too dowdy to compliment it. My hair is going to be near-impossible to save without a good wash and blow dry, so I settle for a quick blast of the hairdryer and then bundle it up into a high ponytail. After wiping away the mascara running down my cheeks, I fish out my makeup bag and add a slick of red lipstick and a pair of silver hoops that I’d forgotten I had.
I take a step back and admire the DIY job. A familiar pleasure ripples down my spine; I’ve always enjoyed the process of dressing up. I suppose it’s because it was always a big part of my nightly ritual. I’d take the rollers out of my hair, step out of my robe, and slip on my newest stolen dress. Then I’d slick on some lipstick and spritz some perfume before leaving my shitty apartment and heading to a glossy casino with the intention of hitting men in their pockets.
Le sigh. Those were the days.
After kissing a tissue to remove any excess lipstick, I pause before tossing it in the trash. Something mischievous sparks in me, and instead, I leave it resting on the vanity. I don’t know why I do it, but I know I won’t remove it. In Criminal Psychology for Dummies, there’s a whole chapter on how lots of serial killers, like Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer, would leave calling cards at their crime scenes to taunt police. Well, despite the fact he’s given me a job, I can’t resist the urge to piss off Raphael, even just a little bit. It’s harmless—just a red kiss print on a tissue—but the thought of him coming in here, seeing it among his perfect things, then scowling sends a wave of stupid, silly smugness over me.
I chase the high by looking around for something else to meddle with. My eyes are drawn to the mist on the mirror and with quiet glee, I drag my finger along it.
Still smirking to myself, I bundle my wet clothes into my bag and step toward the door. As my fingers graze over the doorknob, Raphael’s low and slow voice floats through the cracks and touches my chest.
I swallow thickly, not ready to leave the humid room and the intoxicating scent of man that lingers within it.
My gaze falls to the aftershave bottle on the counter. Without thinking, I bring it to my neck and spray its cool contents over the length of my throat. On my wrists. Behind my ears. It sizzles against my warm skin, making me feel breathless.
Why I want to carry a reminder of this man around with me all night, I’m not sure. Perhaps like the kiss print and the artwork on the mirror, it’s just a petty way to one-up him without breaking my vow to keep my head down and be good. It’s another quiet notch of triumphon my belt.
Or perhaps the blow to my head has given me a delayed concussion.
Tucking my belongings under my arm, I steel my spine and enter the boardroom again. Keeping my eyes trained on the shiny floor and clinging to the wall, I pass the table of suits and tune out the dude droning on about shareholder expectations and profit-loss.
A stare burns the nape of my neck and I know it can only belong to one man. As I reach the door, he interrupts the suit’s monologue without so much as an apology.
“Penelope.”
My full name slides across the table and grazes my back. It makes me wince. Not just because the only person to ever call me by my full name was my father, often in a whiny, desperate tone when he wanted me to go to the liquor store to steal him another bottle of Jim Beam, but because it reminds me of hot Sambuca breath and silky threats and soft fingertips grazing my palm.
