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I’m staring out at Central Park, trying to believe I was in Dover just one hour ago. The police executed their search warrant seven days ago. So far, we haven’t learned what they found. Even if Sawgrass’s clean-up left trace evidence behind, it could take weeks for Trap and me to be charged. Up to a month or more.
Guilt—and paparazzi—follow me like persistent wasps.
Klaus Herzog is dead. Jonas and Ansel Herzog are doing their best to destroy the freeport. Eight Sawgrass men have died. Three still lie in the hospital, somewhere between life and death.
All that loss, all that destruction, just because of me. Every night I consider confessing to the police, but I’ve promised Trap I’ll play his game.
Our lawyers have advised us to be patient. To wait. That no news is good news.
But Trap isn’t good at patience. This morning, he announced we were going to New York. When I asked what I should take, he told me I could bring my phone, if I wanted. Everything else was waiting in the penthouse.
And he wasn’t lying.
A dress hangs in the master bedroom closet. Its emerald silk is perfect for my skin tone. The tailored bodice has darts that accommodate my curves. A slit half-way up my thigh makes it easy for me to walk. The dress is dramatic and daring and sexier than anything else I own.
It’s also tighter across the rear than any other dress in my wardrobe. Even the fine line of a thong would show. So I know I’m going commando which—I have to admit—makes me a little excited.
It makes Trap excited too. I can feel that as I step into his arms to thank him for his generosity. I’m about to make a joke about the hard, hot length pressing against my thigh when the doorbell rings.
“You’re expecting something?” I ask as he glances at his watch.
“Just some groceries from Citarella,” he says. “I figured we might not want to go out for breakfast.”
The heat in his look melts something deep inside me. Forget about breakfast. I don’t want to go out for dinner—even if that means never getting to wear the incredible grass-green dress in public.
He comes in for another kiss, short and sweet as the doorbell rings again. “We’ve got a couple of hours before our dinner reservation. Why don’t you go relax in a bath?” he says. “I had Martha Gallagher send something special, along with the dress.”
I can’t keep myself from stealing one last peck before I let him answer the door. While he’s talking to the delivery guy, I head into the bathroom.
A silver canister sits on the counter.Costa Brazil, the container says.Sal de Banho. I pry open the lid and take a deep breath. The crystals inside smell like wildflowers and sunshine.
I slip off the dress and fill the tub with hot water. Slipping beneath the surface, I let the luxury bath salts melt my muscles. My skin feels slick, like the rough outer layer has been charmed away. I don’t deserve any of this, but I feel like I’m floating, like I’m sleeping on a cloud.
I must actually fall asleep, because Trap’s knock startles me. “Sorry to disturb you, Princess,” he says, without opening the door. “We need to leave in forty-five minutes.”
“You still won’t say where we’re going?” I call.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Reluctantly, I pull the plug, wrapping myself in a thick bath sheet as the lukewarm water drains away. I find that Martha’s magic has extended to cosmetics. A silver bag on the counter contains lipstick and blush, along with a tube of coal-black mascara and matching liner.
There’s some sort of gel for my hair too. Finally, after weeks of growing it out, I have enough to style, at least a little. I roll the mousse between my palms and then transfer the moisture to my hair. The strands look tousled, like I just stepped out of the shower.
I go light with the other cosmetics; it’s been so long since I’ve worn them. I’m a little astonished when I gaze at myself in the mirror. I look smart. Sophisticated. The type of woman who takes a Lear jet to Manhattan and then accepts gifts from her billionaire lover in his penthouse apartment.
My forty-five minutes are almost gone. I hurry into my dress. Find the shoes Martha delivered—four-inch stilettos with straps that buckle around each ankle. They’re as terrifying as they are gorgeous.
Trap is standing by the window in the living room, enjoying the same view of Central Park that captured me when we arrived at this perfect hideaway. He’s wearing a black suit with a snow-white shirt that reflects brilliantly in the window. His narrow black tie has a tiny silver stripe.
“Alix,” he breathes when he turns toward me.
For just a moment, I forget everything hanging over our heads. I see only the hunger in his eyes, a grasping, greedy need. I see pride there as well, pure delight that I’m wearing his gifts. He holds up a single finger, spinning it in a slow circle.
Giving in to his command, I turn so he can study me from all sides. I hear his breath catch, and a completely unexpected blush heats my cheeks.
“Beautiful,” he says, his throat closing over the word. I watch him shake himself back to full awareness. He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I tell myself my belly swoops because the elevator runs so fast, taking us to the ground floor. I’m lying.
