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Oh. So, these peopleareon Rio’s payroll, not just casual hires. Is there anyone in the whole of Boston who isn’t?
The hairdresser bends and murmurs in my ear, “Be very careful, dear. This world is not one you can escape from once you’re in it.”
An icy shiver traverses my body, and I don’t seem able to move of my own volition after that. Except when each of them asks me to do something, and I will myself to pretend I’m not frozen with fear.
Drop my head forward, lift my fingers, close one eye while they try out a different set of fake lashes. Stand up and strip off to my underwear so they can check that the small alterations they’ve completed on the chosen dress actually make the garment fit properly.
Someone hands me a plate of food at one point and tells me to eat. I do, but afterward, I have no idea what was on the plate.
Eventually, they all seem satisfied and file out of my suite, promising to return early tomorrow in time for the real event.
I’m left alone, standing in the middle of the floor, with my perfectly manicured, French-tipped nails, my new and supposedly much improved hairdo, and rage beginning to boil deep down inside me—rage that burns away the frozen feeling and stops the terror from rising.
I feed the rage with everything I have inside me. My hands clench, the new nails digging into my palms.
A pair of strappy sandals sits on the couch, left behind by one of the dressers.
I pick up one of the ivory-colored heels, hefting it in my hand. “Fuck them all!”
Then I turn and throw it straight at the large mirror above the fireplace. The shoe hits and splinters the mirror into fragments which rain down all over the floor.
Seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror? Couldn’t get any worse than my current situation, surely?
“Temper, temper, Bianca.” The smooth, deep voice comes from behind me, and I whirl to find Rio standing just inside the door.
His arms are folded across his chest as he leans against the wall in a casual pose. A derisive smirk decorates his face.
Without thinking, I grab up the second shoe and hurl it at him, screaming in his direction. “Bastard! I fuckinghateyou! Let me leave, you fucking—”
“Enough!” He pushes off the wall in an instant, ducking as the shoe sails over his shoulder.
And then he comes at me. Fast.
I try to turn and run, but he grabs my arms before I can swivel. My momentum, and his, carries us, and I stumble back and fall onto the couch with Rio landing on top of me.
His weight crushes the air out of my chest, and our limbs tangle up together.
I can’t draw in breath at all, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I kick and struggle underneath him, huffing to get air and growling anything I manage to inhale straight back out again. I have no idea what has taken over me, except to know deep down that this must be how it feels to reach the end of your tolerance.
His expression, livid to start with, slowly morphs into amusement, and then something else altogether.
Desire.
I read it deep behind his normally deadpan eyes as he stares down at me, and I still, suddenly aware of the huge erection pressing against my belly.
Oh, hell. Did my wriggling and cursing cause that?
He shifts his weight slightly, and it becomes easier to breathe, but he doesn’t climb off me.
Instead, he settles more comfortably, until the hardness of his arousal presses into my mound, placing pressure directly on my clit and effectively pinning me beneath him.
I am unable to move, because if I do, I will rub on him, inciting the sensations between my legs to escalate, and I don’t want that at all.
“Your passion is fiery, more so than I expected,” he says, the puff of his breath caressing my lips. “It’s a turn-on.”
“It’s not passion.” I study his firm chin, his angular cheeks, and note the way his mouth has a cruel yet sensual cast. I look anywhere but at his eyes. Those dark, desire-filled eyes. “It’s anger.”
His lip curves up at one corner, and I can’t help myself. I raise my gaze to his.
