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He spins me around, then slaps my hand away. I jump as his finger glides against my skin, from my lower abdomen to the valley between my breasts. The zipper snags—of course it does, the uniform’s the same size no matter how you wear it.
The silence builds, then is abruptly interrupted. “Fuck.”
His fingers trace the swell of my breast, catching me momentarily off guard. I missed his touch … but then again, I built him up to be someone he’s not.
My dirty secret.
Not this dangerous, coldhearted killer.
I pull away.
“Leave the zipper exactly where it is.” With the material gaping open and my breasts on display.
It’s a step up from parading around naked.
“You going to hand me a feather duster next?” I demand, shaking off the warmth of his fingers against my skin. “You kidnapped me to become part of your cleaning staff?”
“Something like that.” Sarcasm drips from his tone.
“You can’t keep me here.”
“No?” He arches an eyebrow. Then he’s on me. Grasping my hips and lifting me, turning and depositing me onto his desk, pushing me down so I sprawl back across it. The uniform rides up, exposing my lower half.
Plastic packaging crackles, and then he clamps a cuff around my ankle and locks it in place with a key.
“What the hell is that?”
His eyes narrow, disliking my language. “A tracking device. You can move freely around the villa. Use the gym, the pool … library … whatever amenities you want. But at all times, I’ll know where to find you.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“Be grateful you’re still alive.” With that, he stalks from the room.
Leaving me struggling to reconcile the man I barely knew, with this monster I don’t recognize at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My father’s girlfriend hid her dysfunction well. In public, they were the perfect couple. Deeply in love after a whirlwind romance. The envy of their social circle. In private, they never bickered. Why would they, when my father doted on her and never denied her anything? Jewelry. Flashy cars. A fancy new house with a small indoor arboretum, which impressed the dinner guests but cost a fortune to maintain. My father counted every penny when my mother was alive. I guess she got her revenge when the medical bills for her cancer treatments continued coming in even after she’d passed away.
I swallow hard, wondering if they’ve reunited in heaven, if she’s forgiven him for his weakness, for introducing that murderess into our lives.
How did I not see the warning signs? Or is my inability to recognize liars my kryptonite?
Dad’s girlfriend.
Ciro.
Him.
Except I didn’t know anything about him. He kept me naive and unaware of just who he was. I was trapped into wanting him by this blistering energy between us, my innocent submissiveness enraptured by his cold, domineering nature.
I should never have invited him home.
Only once did his stonelike demeanor crack, that morning inside my apartment before the explosion, right after I confided what happened to my father. He lost his shit, punching a hole into my apartment’s drywall. What sparked the violent display is anyone’s guess. But for the briefest of moments, I believed that, in some profound way and on some deeper level, he cared.
The emotional connection I yearned for is there now, isn’t it? He hates me, and I hate him.
A movement in a window that overlooks the small immaculately groomed garden I’m standing in catches my attention, and a chill runs up my spine. I glance up in time to witness a curtain falling into place.
