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Or is it Alessa herself?
Despite the peril, heat flickers through me at the thought of seeing her again. God help me, but the prospect is almost more paralyzing than the danger I'm in.
Before I can processthatdisturbing reaction, the vehicle slows and pulls a hard left. The paved road gives way to gravel that crackles under the tires. We must be nearing our destination, an isolated place if the lack of ambient sound is any indication. Fear and anticipation coil tighter in my gut.
After a few more turns, the vehicle eases to a stop. Doors open and close up front. Heavy footsteps crunch on gravel, coming around to my side. When the doors open, male hands haul me out none too gently.
I'm still blindfolded, but the fresh air tells me we're outside. A large hand grips my arm as I'm steered forward. My heels catch on uneven ground, and then I'm swung up and over a broad shoulder, the air rushing out of me as I dangle upside down. Gravel underfoot again, and then the quiet creak of a door opening. We seem to be going down some stairs, and the air changes, opening up with traces of lemon and beeswax.
Polish. Wood polish. What the…
My apprehension deepens. Whatever awaits me, someone has gone to great lengths to transport me here, and it's not some dockside warehouse.
To my relief, I'm set upright again, and then hands grasp my shoulders, guiding me down into a cushioned chair. In short order I'm secured tight to it, wrists and ankles freed before quickly bound again to the arms and legs of the chair.
And finally, the blindfold is ripped away.
I squint against the sudden brightness, though the light is still dim. When my vision adjusts, my breath catches. I'm in a large room, stone-walled, seated on—no, tied to—a heavy chair. But that's not the most alarming thing. No, the alarming thing here is that I'm in some sort of bunker, with a wall of screens on one side—all off, at the moment—hooked up to two humming computers. On the far wall there's a row of well-stocked bookcases, and to my left, there's…
Well, it looks almost like a living room, with leather couches and an armchair, and a well-stocked bar.
But most worryingly of all, Johnny "the Gentleman" de Luca stands over me looking supremely unconcerned for a man who just kidnapped a federal agent.
I meet Johnny's impassive gaze and lift my chin. Amusement flickers in his dark eyes. "Special Agent Miller. I think you're smart enough to guess why you're here."
My throat tightens. Of course I know. This is about his daughter.
His eyes slide sideways, and I follow them despite myself. At the side of the room is a tray, set on a side table, and on that tray is an array of…
Ofinstruments. Knives. Scalpels. A hammer. And pliers and—
But before my hysteria can really rise up, we both turn our attention to the stairs, hearing the clack of high heels coming down them. I can hear but not see as the door swings open behind me, but I smell her perfume before I see her.
And I know her voice.
"It's okay, Daddy. I'll take it from here."
She comes around to stand in front of me, her eyes washing over me, burning with emerald fire.
As Johnny bows out, Alessa prowls towards me. Her sheer blouse and lean black trousers hint at the sensual temptress within, but her expression is harder than diamonds. She halts just out of reach, staring down at me with impossible hauteur.
The power balance could not be clearer.
"NatalieMiller," she says with contempt, once the door has closed behind her father. "Well. Here we are again. Although this time you don't seem to have the upper hand." Alessa circles slowly, trailing a red-tipped finger over the chair. "How quickly fortune's wheel turns. One day you're flying high, the next..." She shrugs, red lips curving in a feline smile. "Why, the next, you're tied up at another woman's mercy."
Her husky voice shivers over me, mingling menace and temptation. She's enjoying this, repaying humiliation with humiliation. Part of me understands her anger, her need for vengeance.
But the darkest part of me simply aches to touch her again.
Alessa stills behind me, breath stirring my hair. "Nothing to say? I expected groveling for your life. Or at least some witty repartee." Her tone is mocking. "No crafty lies to soften me up? You played your role so convincingly before."
Anger burns through me. She wants a response? Fine.
"I did what was needed to do my job, Alessa." I twist to meet her piercing gaze. "But that doesn't mean I'm not sorry about it."
Something dangerous flashes in her stare. "Sorry about it?" Her laughter sounds like shredded glass. "Which parts, specifically, are you sorry about? Tell me, Natalie—was it screwing me senseless? Is that what you're sorry about? Was it putting that lying mouth on my clit and making me come? Or do you only regret what I did for you? The multiple orgasms got a little too much?"
Rage whites out my vision. "That's not what I meant," I snarl, straining against the restraints.
