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I sink deeper into the mattress, letting it absorb my weight. When I was little, I fell off my bike while driving at full speed down the hill. I’ll never forget that feeling while I was lying on the ground. I couldn’t move. I registered the hurt, but I felt more paralyzed than I felt pain. This is the same. And I know from experience when my limbs regain their ability to move, I’ll be worse for it. The adrenaline numbs the intensity. It’s the scrapes and burns that linger.
Angelo returns with a wet facecloth and carefully cleans me. In my semi-lucid state, I’m aware that the only consequence he suffers in the aftermath of our sex is pleasure. I suppose it’s one of the advantages of being a man.
I watch him through my lashes as he discards the cloth on the nightstand and undresses, letting his clothes fall in a heap on the floor. When he’s naked, he lies down beside me. Brushing the hair from my face, he presses a tender kiss on my lips. “Do you need a painkiller? Water?”
I close my eyes. I want nothing from him.
“Come here,” he says, dragging me against him before removing the towel from under my body and pulling the comforter over us.
We’re laying face to face, his breath fanning over my lips. I don’t open my eyes for fear that I’ll cry. I didn’t think it was possible for him to ruin me more than he already has. With every passing moment, I hate him more passionately.
He kisses my temple. “Try to rest. We have a long journey ahead tomorrow.”
When I strain in his grip, trying to roll onto my side, he tightens his arms around me.
“And if you ever point a gun at me again,” he continues in a soft, deep voice, “I’ll do a lot more than come in your ass.”
The threat makes my eyes fly open, but I immediately regret it. His dark gaze burns on my face with so much heat and possession that my heart falters in its beat.
I bite down hard on my tongue, willing myself not to speak, but I’m a damn masochist, because the question tumbles from my lips anyway. “What will you do, Angelo? Definea lot more. Kill me?”
“Kill you?” His smile is brutal even as he traces the seam of my lips with a fingertip. “No,cara. That’s too easy. I’ll shackle you in irons and whip you so hard you’ll beg me to rather take my cock in your ass.”
My chest deflates, the air in my lungs escaping with a gasp, because I believe him. If there’s one thing Angelo Russo taught me, it’s that he never makes idle threats.
“Now, sleep.” He kisses me again. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Rebellious emotions rise inside me. I always knew Angelo could be devious, but he’s even more inhumane and savage now than when we lost our virginity together.
I’m swallowing down my bitterness when a hard knock falls on the door.
Angelo stiffens. “I said I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Sorry, sir.” It sounds like the captain. “We have a problem.”
Cursing, Angelo gets from the bed and pulls on his pants. He makes sure I’m covered up to my chin before he almost yanks the door off its hinges. “Can’t you handle it?”
The captain, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard, shifts his weight. “I’m truly sorry for the interruption.” He makes a point of not looking at me even though Angelo blocks the view with his body. “The gendarmerie is here. They want to come aboard and search the yacht.”
Angelo mutters a string of curses as he picks his shirt up from the floor. His voice is strained. “I’ll be right there.”
The captain doesn’t budge.
“Was there anything else?” Angelo asks, fitting the shirt with jerky movements.
“They asked to see Mrs. Russo.” He dares a glance in my direction, but at the growl that reverberates in Angelo’s chest, he lowers his gaze. “Apparently, they need to ask her some questions.”
ChapterThirty
Angelo
The set of my jaw is hard as I walk down the bridge to the marina. A man in a gendarmerie uniform and parka jacket waits at the bottom, standing with his feet wide apart. A team of five men hover behind him, flaunting their weapons.
I recognize his bulky frame and tufts of blond hair. Lieutenant Lavigne is in charge of drug trafficking investigations. Not my domain.
My smile is dismissive. “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Russo.” He smirks. “Welcome back to Marseille.” He glances over my shoulder at the yacht. “Arriving or going?”
