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Anton’s jaw clenches, the muscle feathering. “Everything you do concerns me, Scarlett.” His hands slide down to grip my hips, fingers flexing against my skin. “Tell me what this ‘business’ is.”
Irritation spikes and I shove against his chest, relishing the firmness of muscle and heat under my palms. “I don’t answer to you, Anton.”
His eyes blaze. “Yes you do! I take care of things here.”
Bastard!
“I can take care of myself!” I scoff, shaking off his hands. Anger wars with desire, my heart pounding as I step out of his reach.
“Scarlett,” he says, his voice gruff, “Why are we still fighting this same war?”
I feel my resentment surge. It’s been weeks that I’ve been here. He can’t seriously think this can go on forever.
“Listen, Anton,” I try to reason with him. “I’ve cooperated with you. Played your ridiculous game, but I’ve had enough. Do you honestly think you can keep me locked up for eternity?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Holy shit!
This man is impossible!
“Well, you can’t!” I snap back. “I need to get to town. It’s important.”
“If you need a new phone, Luka will arrange it.” He rocks back on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest…his bare, sweat-slicked chest. I feel my mouth go dry and snap my eyes away.
“That won’t… No. I need to go in myself,” I counter. The scent of fresh perspiration and rampant testosterone are making me giddy. But there’s no way I’m going to let him get to me again.
Hold it together, Scarlett!
“No.” His answer is as simple as before. And just as maddening.
“Why the fuck not?” I rail. “It’s not like I’m going to go bolting off or anything.”
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why should I believe that?”
“Because…because I need the money, that’s why.” I’m growing increasingly frustrated. “Who else would be crazy enough to fork out three grand a week for a damned nanny?”
“That’s not a convincing argument,” he says.
For God’s sake!
“Look, how about I leave my stuff behind?” I try to negotiate. “My passport – that should do it, right? You’ll be sure that I’ll come back if I give that to you.”
“No,” he says again. I want to stomp my foot.
God, he’s infuriating.
“What, then?” I press. “What can I do to change your mind?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. His arms are still crossed. Thick, sinewy arms. There’s a swirl of dark ink that highlights one huge bicep. It trails over his chest and twirls up to just below his throat. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it before, but I was probably too mad with lust to pay much attention.
I’m paying attention now.
Stop it, Scarlett.
I rip my eyes away.
“You can’t keep me prisoner here,” I insist for what feels like the thousandth time.
