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“Where are we going?”
Still nothing.
Even though I figure he must speak some English for him to understand the orders the bald guy gave him, I ask, “Do you speak English?”
Vladimir remains silent. We eventually stop in front of a set of double doors. He opens one of them and finally speaks to me. “Your room.”
I step into a gorgeous vintage bedroom. The four-post bed is queen-size—I’ve never slept on a bed larger than a twin—and has more pillows than I’ve owned in a lifetime. Fancy drapes decorate French doors that open out onto a balcony. There’s a sitting area with a plush sofa and loveseat before a fireplace. Above it hangs another beautiful oil painting, this one of a nude reclined on a bed amidst sumptuous sheets. The style reminds me of Artemisia Gentileschi, an accomplished Baroque painter from the 17th century, except the colors are brighter.
Despite the luxury of the furnishings and decor, the room doesn’t feel ostentatious. In fact, it feels rather cozy.
Vladimir closes the bedroom doors. I open the French doors and step out onto the balcony, which overlooks a stunning huge-ass pool gently lit by underwater lighting. The freeform curves around stones, plants and a hot tub. At the end, two sculptures of ancient Grecian women holding vases pour water into the pool.
Looking straight down, I see that I’m on the second floor, too high for me to jump and make a run for it without risking a twisted ankle. A man—possibly a security guard, given that he’s armed—walks along the portico to the left of the pool.
I sit down on one of the balcony chairs. What am I going to do? WhatcanI do? What’s going to happen to me while I’m here? Rafe had given a deadline of one week. Does that mean I only have seven days to live? My heart starts to beat faster.
I try to think more positively. Seven days till I’m free. That Morelli is going to turn up. It just has to. If Peter still has it somehow, then once Alessandro contacts him, Peter will produce the painting and all will be well.
I hope.
Maybe I should try again to make the case to Rafe that he’d have a better chance of getting the Morelli if I called Peter myself. Getting up, I go back into the room and open the door to the hallway. Vladimir stands in my way.
“I want to speak to Rafe,” I explain and move to step around him, but he blocks me.
“Mr. Lee has not said he wants to speak toyou,” Vladimir returns.
So his English is pretty good. I try to go around the other side of him. “It’s important.”
“You don’t have permission to leave.”
“Can you ask him if I can speak with him?”
“What am I? Hotel concierge? If Mr. Lee wants to speak to you, he will let me know.”
“So your job is to stand here to make sure I don’t leave?” I ask.
“Da.”
Relenting, I close the door. I pace the room and rehash questions I have no answers to. Questions like: what kind of criminal organization am I dealing with and what kind of man is Raphael Lee? Is Alessandro’s assessment of the man correct? Maybe he’s only heard rumors.
Recalling the way Chung beat up Alessandro, I think those rumors might be more truth than not.
Now that some of the shock and horror at seeing blood gushing out of Alessandro has worn off, I remember how Rafe looked at me, as if I were some amoeba under the microscope he was trying to see through. What is it about his eyes that sends prickles through me? I want and don’t want his gaze on me at the same time.
Hearing a faint splash, I walk out onto the balcony. In the pool is a man wearing Speedo-type swim briefs. I marvel at his muscular back and beautiful golden tan, something I could never aspire to, given my Northern European genes. I watch him swim to the far end and return.
It’s Rafe.
He glides through the water effortlessly, then picks up the pace, going hard for several laps before emerging from the pool, water dripping from his jet-black hair. I get a nice view of his pecs and six-pack. He has the body I like in a man: chiseled but not overly beefy, like some overbaked Wellington weighing several hundred pounds. His form is balanced between upper body and lower body, not too tapered at the waist, with smooth lick-able skin.
I should not be drooling over this man—my captor. Someone who plans to kill me in seven days if he doesn’t get what he wants.
Backing away from the balcony, I return inside and sit down on the edge of the bed. I put my head in my hands. What can I say or do to convince Rafe to let me go? Or to let me live?
“Stop thinking too far ahead,” I tell myself.
I think back to Orithyia and the warning sensation I got from her. I don’t always listen to my instincts. I let my head get in the way. But my instincts have usually proven right.
