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I feel rather than hear his almost silent chuckle as he moves his lips to my temple, and his breath warms me there, too.
He knows, as well as I do, that my grimace was not because I hate his touch.
But because I don’t.
10
“… she felt the energy between them shift, like a serpent circling back on itself, swallowing itself whole, anger and passion feeding off one another.”
Sylvain Reynard
Bianca
Rio leavesme alone for the next few days, but in some ways that is worse, not better, because I remain on tenterhooks, not knowing when or where he will surface and decide to strike.
My hope that someone will have reported me missing and the police will already be searching for me after the abduction is short-lived.
Francine delivered me breakfast in my room the morning after I met Rossi and threw a parting shot over her shoulder as she left.
“Do not think that anyone has missed you, Bianca. Our family has a long reach, and loose ends are already tied. You could stay here in this compound for the next two years, and no one would question your whereabouts.”
Then she left, leaving me alone to ponder what the hell she meant byloose ends are tied.
Friends, neighbors, and work colleagues silenced…How? With money? Threats? More bullets?
I keep reliving that moment I was shoved in the trunk of the car, and hearing thepop, pop, popof a gun. Imagining Dave and Shelley lying on the pavement, bleeding out in front of the workplace we all love so much. My limbs tremble every time the terrible images flicker to life in my head.
And in the silence of my suite, my hatred of Rio grows.
I decide to demand answers of him when he returns, but of course, he does no such thing.
It’s like he knows I’m brewing for a fight and wants to avoid the possibility of that at all costs before our wedding day arrives.
The day of our wedding.Tomorrow.
My stomach clenches at the realization that this time tomorrow, Gregorio Agosti will be my husband. And if I refuse to go along with the marriage charade, others will suffer the consequences.
Will ours be a marriage in name only? A business transaction? Or will he expect more? Will he expect me to share his bed, give him my body as well as my inheritance?
My insides wobble at the thought, but I don’t have time to dwell on what that means. A whole army of women have surrounded me since midmorning, measuring my body and my feet, holding up swatches of fabric that have already been crafted into magnificent bridal dresses, trying on shoes, and color-matching cosmetics against my skin, lips, and eyes.
At one point I am shoved down into a chair and, while the fabric and dress people fuss on the other side of the room, a hairdresser steps up and begins to snip at the ends of my hair in what she mutters is “a well-overdue tidy-up.” In front of me, a nail technician using a portable table soaks my nails in readiness for some kind of manicure process.
The technician calls it dipping powder and tuts over the state of my hands. “You look like you’ve had years of hard manual labor, hon,” she says, shaking her head. “What have you been doing?”
I can’t be bothered trying to explain that long and expensively manicured nails do not usually work well in a rescue shelter for animals. “I’ve never had a manicure.”
“Obviously. Well, we’ll need to do tips, too,” she says. “French style?”
“Do whatever you want.”
I try not to take out my frustration on these service providers. It’s not their fault the man who hired them for this sham event is a monster. But I can’t help probing just a little. Testing out every possibility for escape, no matter how futile it may seem.
“While you finish that hand, would you mind if I borrow your phone just to make a quick call?” I ask. “I seem to have misplaced mine.”
At my question, all sound and activity in the room ceases as if a switch has been flicked.
The technician’s eyes narrow as she stares at me, then she dips her head over my hand. “Not happening.”
