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He looks up and his face crinkles with amusement. “I’ve seen worse. Apology accepted, consider it forgotten,” he says, pouring me a glass of red wine, then pulling out the lasagna, and placing the breadsticks into the oven in its place.
“Aren’t you going to have a glass?” I ask, gesturing to the bottle on the counter.
He shakes his head. “On duty, have to protect a little wildcat from the mafia,” he says, winking at me. His phone beeps and he glances at the incoming message and smiles widely.
“Is that Prez or Matt or whoever the hell he is? Is he okay?” I ask.
“He’s going to be,” he says, looking up at me.
“Are the guys that left bringing him back here, too?” I ask, all of a sudden feeling warm at the thought of seeing him again. The way he looked at me with those steely grey eyes and just the thought of his lean well-muscled body chained beside me, talking to me, giving me hope, calling me princess, the raw power of him overtaking those men. I clench my thighs and take another sip of my wine, wishing he would walk right through that door right now.
“Sorry wildcat, not tonight,” he says and I try not to show my disappointment. Maybe I felt a connection that wasn’t there, but he did say he was going to find me and I feel myself flush at the memory of his comments, so wicked and naughty that I had to clench my thighs to stem the wetness.
I eat the meal placed in front of me, relishing in each ricotta and mozzarella laden bite of lasagna. I’m so hungry and it’s so good and so gooey. I finish it before I have even touched my salad and the man across from me laughs.
“I thought you weren’t hungry,” he says, grinning at me as he finishes his lasagna, bites into a breadstick, and gets up to throw two more pieces into the microwave.
“A gentleman wouldn’t remind me. It’s so good! Who in the world cooks like this?”
“One question at a time. First, I’ve never been labeled as such, quite the opposite, in fact. Two, Gaby is like a second mom to all of us. She keeps us stocked up and has a staff ensure wherever we are we don’t starve,” he says, grinning.
“So what’s your name big guy,” I say, and he smiles.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he says.
“Ha-ha, funny man. That’s so cliché. Seriously, you kidnap me, take me to some rich home that’s supposed to be a safe house, ply me with wine and food, but can’t even tell me your name?” I shake my head. “Not so cool.”
His eyes soften before he walks to the refrigerator and pulls a pie plate out of it. “Tiramisu cheesecake. There’s no way you want to pass this up,” he says, separating two pieces onto small plates.
“I am so full,” I say, laughing as I scoop the sauce left on my plate with the last piece of my breadstick.
“I’m telling you. If you pass this up, you’re missing the best dessert you’ll ever get a chance to eat. Gaby’s family recipe. At least take a bite,” he says, sliding the plate over to me.
“Will you tell me your name?” I ask, sliding my fork into the gooey mess.
He nods. “I go by Nate,” he says as I groan with delight at the decadent dessert.
“Easy woman. You keep moaning like that and someone’s going to think I’m giving you more than dessert!”
“Hmm. I can’t help it, it’s so good,” I say, but after a few bites of the rich dessert I push it toward him. “You finish it. I think I’m going to be in a food coma,” I say and his eyes light up with amusement.
“Do you think I could take that shower before I fall asleep?”
“Upstairs, first bedroom down the hall is the guest room and it has an adjoining bathroom. You’ll find a few things laid out for you. Hopefully something fits.”
The wine and all the food are starting to make me drowsy. “Thank you very much for all that you guys did for me and Prez. I still don’t know what’s going on exactly, but I appreciate how comfortable you’ve made me feel tonight,” I say, heading down the hall to my room.
“You’re welcome, wildcat.”
I lock the door to my bedroom and head into the bathroom and lock that, too. It’s not like I think he’s going to come bursting into my room, but still. The shower spray is heavenly and I take my time, washing my hair and relishing in the scented moisturizing soap as I lather my body and rinse under the pelting rain. I finally drag myself out of the shower, pat dry and snuggle into the long purple cashmere robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, blow dry my hair and brush my teeth with whats been laid out on the vanity. I am emotionally and physically exhausted and grateful for the comforts of a real bed. I snuggle in under the luxuriously silky sheets, relishing in the softness of the pillow and pull the light down blanket over the top of me.
I am just beginning to drift when I hear the faint sounds of someone rattling my door lock. I tense, but slide out of bed quickly. He won’t catch me like some docile little woman that he can take advantage of. I quietly get to the side of the door and wait. When he enters, I plan to take him by surprise, but I continue to wait, long drawn out moments, watching the door handle intently and listening for any faint sound outside the door, but still nothing.
I finally decide to use the element of surprise instead, and quietly reach for the handle and turn it, meaning to wrench it open quickly, but it doesn’t budge. The realization hits me fast and hard. I’ve been locked in. I am a prisoner.
4
MATT
