Page 14

There’s a reason I bid high and aggressively.

She’s the kind of beautiful you’d put on a glossy pamphlet advertising a trip to Italy. The kind of beautiful that makes men do stupid things.

And I haven’t touched a goddamn woman in years.

I stand her against the door and reach for my pocketknife. As soon as she sees it, she pulls back and tries to kick me. I block her kick and shake my head.

“No,” I snap. “It’s only to cut your ties.”

She stares at me, frozen in place. I slice through the rope. Her wrists swing free, and I catch them on reflex. Her skin is ice-cold. It’s satisfying to feel her thaw under my touch.

“Let’s get this straight. You do not hit me. You do not hurt me. I’m giving you the use of your hands on the assumption that you won’t try to escape, but if you try any of those things I’ve forbidden, I’ll punish you.”

I let her imagination figure out exactly how I’ll do that. I am her owner, by all intents and purposes.

I point to the floor right by the entrance. “Stand right there,” I order.

Her wide, doe-like eyes track me as I draw the gun from my waistband and sweep the entire place. We are on a mission where I can trust no one, especially her.

I check the bathroom, the closets, the exit. Lock the windows, lock the balcony, lock it all down. She stays where I put her.

“Right.” I place my gun on the counter. “Don’t even think about touching my gun. If I know your father, he never let you near one anyway.”

She goes still. “You know my father?”

“Not personally.”

I nod toward the large, overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, flanked by a gunmetal-gray sofa and ottoman.

“Sit.”

She does, but I can tell by the way she sinks into the cushions that it has more to do with exhaustion than with wanting to do what I say. Her small dress rises up her thigh when she sits, and I don’t bother looking away.

Eventually, she’ll realize who I am. That I’m on her side.

But something tells me it might not go over that easily. We’ll need time. We’ll have to build trust.

I grab my fucking suit coat and throw it on the table. I shouldn't rumple it because I might need it. But I hate it. Then I pull off my tie, throwing it on the table next to my suit. I'll need that sooner rather than later… for her.

I make a call on my cell and hit speaker so I can keep undressing. Her eyes track my every movement.

“Yes, sir?”

No need to go on with this accent anymore. It feels comfortable not posing, like wearing an old pair of trousers. “Need you to find groceries. Good variety, proper food, nothing that can be tampered with—still sealed, still boxed.” I lift the edge of the bald cap and peel it off. She watches without blinking when I go from bald to a full head of mussed black hair in about three seconds. Fair play to her.

“It's two in the morning.”

“Aye. City's still out there, though, isn't it?”

She eyes my hair and shakes her head. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Suppose.”

I take out the contacts next. Her brows rise.

“Blue eyes, then.” She’s noting everything.

I shrug off my dress shirt. She watches. I pull the T-shirt over my head, and her breath catches. I feel her eyes move across my skin before she averts her gaze.