“I told you they would find you. Your sculpture at the Grand. Your art. It was only a matter of time.”
“You said that already. Except you could have warned me there. I would have run.”
“And your sister? Should she uproot her life? Her husband?”
I press my lips together, obstinate. I’m aware that it would have been awful for her, that whatever he does to me is probably worth sparing her, but I would have liked the choice.
“Her baby?”
I stumble at the word, only saved from tripping by his strong arms. “What?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No, I—” I had been distracted lately, though. Distancing myself so she wouldn’t find out about Shane and worry. “God, how do you know?”
He lifts a shoulder. “My people are thorough. Other people are thorough too. She wouldn’t have been safe there. Those people wouldn’t care that she’s married to someone else, not if they could use her.”
Panic claws at my throat. “Then she won’t be safe there now. You have to let me warn her.”
“You’re here now. We’ve announced our engagement in public. If anyone were to try anything, they’d go after you.”
I shiver at his words. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“I already told you, I won’t let anyone else touch you.”
Except you’ll touch me, even if I say no. “You don’t know for sure she’ll be safe. I have to warn her.”
He says nothing.
“And she’ll be so worried about me. I need to at least let her know that I’m okay. Please.” I’m begging, which is a bad position to be in. Of course, I’m already completely under his control.
He shakes his head. “There’s more going on than I can tell you. Warning your sister would put everything at risk.”
“Not warning her is already putting her at risk.”
His hold tightens on me. “I’m going to keep you safe, I promise you that. And I’m doing my best to leave her out of this. That has to be enough for you, bella. Don’t ask me for more. Not now.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Clara?”
I look up from where I’m rubbing my feet, flushed with guilt and embarrassment. At least until I see who it is. Juliette looks genuinely excited to see me, her brown eyes warm. I need a friendly face after the coldness of Giovanni’s words and the sordid curiosity of the other guests.
I stand without my shoes and give her a hug. “Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you.”
She squeezes back. “So grown up, little Clara.”
Making a face, I point to the shoes. “Not grown up enough for those. My feet are on fire.”
Her laugh lightens my mood. She was always more Honor’s friend than mine, being two years older than me. But she was always kind. Her father was the consigliere before his death, which gave her and her mother enough status to remain in the family, despite their poverty due to his gambling debts.
“Well, let’s sit down,” she says kindly. “You can tell me where you’ve been, all the things you’ve seen. I still haven’t left Nevada.”
“Oh, we didn’t do much traveling.” And I’m not sure how much I should really share. Talking about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing just leads to the fact that I didn’t want to leave.
“And what about Honor? Is she okay?” Concern shines in Juliette’s eyes.
“She’s fine,” I assure her. And apparently pregnant. I ache to hug my sister, to ask how she’s doing, to offer her a shoulder rub or whatever it is pregnant women need.
Instead I’m just adding to her stress by disappearing.
And despite what Giovanni said, I’m not content to do nothing and hope she’s okay. Maybe kidnapping me has diverted the attention, but what if it hasn’t? It’s not a risk I can live with. I know that her husband, Kip, will keep her safe—he’s a force to be reckoned with in his own right. He protected her when our father found us once. And he takes security measures more than most men would.
But he doesn’t know about the imminent potential threat to her. He’ll know I’m missing but not who took me. And the ease with which Giovanni found me, stalked me, and kidnapped me from my own bed proves the danger is real.
“Juliette, I need your help.”
Her dark brows lower. “What’s wrong?”
I drop my voice, glancing behind me. The corridor is empty. I left Giovanni’s side under the guise of using the restroom, but I turned left instead of right. There are some benefits to having grown up in this mansion. So I’ve been hiding on a plush bench that sits right outside the conservatory. Luckily it’s also far enough away from the party to make this request.
“I need you to get a message to Honor.”
She looks around, understanding the covert nature of my request. “I’m guessing she’s not coming to the wedding tomorrow?”
I huffed a laugh. “Not hardly. Wait…did you say tomorrow?”
She bites her lip, looking conflicted. “Oh no. I worried it was something like this.”
“The wedding is tomorrow?”
Worry floods her brown eyes. “I mean, I knew you wanted to get away from all this, but I remembered you had a thing with Giovanni. I’d hoped that meant this marriage was…”—her voice falls to a whisper—“real.”
“He drugged me while I was sleeping. I woke up in the back of a limo.”
Pain washes over her expression, but not surprise. The family is too messed up to be shocked that something like this happens. “Oh my God, Clara. Do you need to get out?”
“Unless you have a small army I don’t know about, you can’t get me out.” And it would be dangerous for her to try, considering how heavily guarded this place is. Her position in the family is already tenuous without a protector. “But if you can get a message to Honor, at least she’ll know I’m alive.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Of course I will. Tell me how.”
I open my mouth to rattle off her cell phone number, the first number on the tip of my tongue. Except what if someone is looking for Honor, and Juliette tells them how to find her? They were friends, but a lot can change in eight years. Giovanni is living proof of that.
Even if she wanted to remain loyal, she might not have much choice. I have to tread carefully here.
Instead I give her Candy’s phone number. She’ll relay the message to Honor, but it won’t be trackable. And unlike the sweet bungalow my sister and her husband live in, Candy lives in an upscale fortified townhome with 24-7 security guards already in place. As soon as she gets the call, she’ll tell her husband, Ivan, who will lock the place down tighter than Fort Knox.
“Honor doesn’t have a phone,” I lie. I feel a little guilty about that, about not trusting a friend, but I’ve been burned too badly. This place is toxic. The family changes people. We may not be born evil, but we turn that way if we stay.
Juliette types the number into her phone, then tucks it away. “I’ll do it tonight.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, meaning it. I’m still hoping she’s being honest. And this way Honor will know what happened to me. She’ll still worry, but at least she’ll know to protect herself too.
A slight sound makes me jump.
Giovanni turns the corner, his expression severe. Shit. Did he hear me? I scan his eyes, trying to find some hint of what he’s thinking. But he’s like a monolith, dark and forbidding and completely inscrutable. He comes closer. His broad shoulders block the light, and I blink at the contrast.
“Hello, Juliette.” His tone is cordial but the meaning plain. It’s a dismissal.
She gives him a nervous smile, already standing to leave. “Hello. And congratulations.” He nods, but she’s already making her excuses. “I think I should find my mother. But it was great to see you again, Clara.”
Then she’s gone.
Giovanni’s tone doesn’t change as he asks, “What is she doing tonight?”
Shit shit shit. “Something blue,” I blurt o
ut. “For the wedding. Which is tomorrow, by the way. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Something blue?”
“You know, something borrowed, something blue. It’s for good luck.” And this marriage will need all the help it can get. He looks dubious, so I move to distract him. “Take a walk with me?”
He glances into the dark opening of the conservatory. “At night.”
I really don’t need him thinking too hard about what I said to Juliette. “It could be romantic.”
His eyes narrow. “You seem awfully comfortable with the wedding.”
This is the problem with your kidnapper being your first love. He knows me too well. “Of course I’m not comfortable. I’m getting married tomorrow. Against my will. Who would be comfortable with that?” Stop babbling, Clara. “I’m actually really pissed at you.”
My face flames with embarrassment, fear tinged with affection. I used to get this way around him, talking too much because I had a crush. Now I’m talking too much for an entirely different reason. It feels a little bit the same, though. Enough that I head straight to the center of the conservatory where it’s dark and quiet, hoping he doesn’t follow me. I leave my shoes in a sad pile beside the bench, running barefoot.
He does follow me, of course.
I hear his footsteps behind me and speed up.
There are short walls built into the space with ivy and moss grown around them. The air is thick with moisture and sweetness and earth. I breathe it in deeply, take the earth into my body. Being locked up in a room without access to sunlight, to dirt. I’ve always hated it. Always fought it.
And here I am again, grateful for even the taste of freedom.
Chapter Fifteen
All the paths lead to the middle of the space, where a three-tiered fountain pours water from a pineapple at the top. Except when I reach the middle, it’s gone. As far as I can tell, the walls and the plants are exactly how I left them. But the fountain is missing. In its place is a large plot of bare ground.
The heat of Giovanni’s body is a gentle caress at my back, letting me know I’m caught.
I could keep running, but I’m mesmerized by the flat circle of dirt. So much about this mansion remained the same. Even things I would think a man would prefer to change, to make himself more comfortable, to decorate to his tastes. It’s almost as if it’s been preserved like a museum.
Except for this. “Where did it go?”
He doesn’t pretend not to know. “I didn’t like it.”
My room, the same. My father’s office, the same. The ballroom with its parquet floor and orchestral booth, the same. “Not a fan of pineapples?”
“Maybe you can sculpt something for it.”
The soft, almost diffident way he offers it makes my voice catch. This is real. The wedding tomorrow that I still can’t quite comprehend. Giovanni standing behind me. This life he thinks we’ll build together. All of it is made real by his hesitant offer to let me sculpt something for the mansion. In this he is totally unlike my father, who dismissed my work as a child’s scribbles.
“You would let me?”
“I would love it,” he says, his voice hoarse.
A shiver runs over my skin. Could I really make a marriage out of this? Could I really accept the life I’d always fought because I had no other choice? Part of me wants to forget about the drugs and the limo. To pretend like I’m here because I want to be here. The other part of me knows that a man holding power over a woman can never be a partnership. I would always be his prisoner.
I take a small step to the side, skirting the patch of empty earth. The brick walkway is cold under my feet. “What would I sculpt?”
The beads on my dress catch the faint light, shimmering like the drops of water on leaves. I feel a little bit unearthly, the way I’m shining in the dark. A little bit beautiful, the way he can’t seem to stop looking at me.
He remains where I left him. “Anything.”
Something gnaws at me, the question of why that one random thing offended him enough to remove it. “But not a pineapple?”
A pause. “If you like.”
“On top of a fountain?”
“No.” His tone doesn’t invite more questions.
I continue walking the circle, considering the space, considering him. They’re not so different. I want to figure out what to sculpt for the space. The process feels less like creating and more like whittling away, taking away bits of air in my mind until the right shape forms. I’d never actually have sculpted a pineapple on top of a fountain, but it’s curious that he doesn’t want me to.
Giovanni is another puzzle I have to chip away at until I find the shape of him, whittle away at this cold, powerful exterior to find what’s underneath.
“I found your obituary.”
He blinks, faintly startled. “You looked?”
“I loved you, remember?”
The shadows at his neck move as he swallows. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”
“Or I guess it shouldn’t have been written. It wasn’t true.” I’ve come full circle around the plot of dirt. There are paths leading away in multiple directions, walls of black alternating with walls of ivy. It creates a kind of intimacy between us, something even more private than when we’re alone in my room.
“It was true enough for my mother. She wrote it.”
I come to a stop in front of him, heart aching. I never spent much time with his mother, but he talked about her. She was pious and dutiful, the way a good Italian wife should be. Very religious. “She thought you were dead?”
“I was gone for a long time. She didn’t know where.”
I hear the pain in those words, and anger rushes up. “But you would have me disappear from Honor without a trace? So she can put my obituary in the newspaper?”
“It’s better that way,” he says sharply. “Dying is the easy part. Coming back…it hurt her.”
I think she wasn’t the only one hurt. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You were gone for a long time.”
He laughed shortly. “I didn’t go far.”
I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. So steady, so sure. Such a miracle, after believing he was dead. It still feels miraculous, even if I’m not sure I like who survived. “They hurt you.”
The sight of those whip marks are burned into my brain.
“Do you feel sorry for me?” His question is harsh, angry.
Yes, but he wouldn’t want to hear that. “How long?”
“Does it matter?”
“You were gone long enough that your mother believed you were dead. She loved you. She wouldn’t give up in a day. A week. Not without a body to prove it.”
“Three months.”
Everything in me comes to a halt, the world slowing down around me. Three months. I saw those whip marks. They beat him for three months. My stomach clenches, and it takes everything in me not to turn my face to the dirt and throw up. No wonder he’s changed.
With trembling fingers I reach up to trace the shape of his face, to run my fingertips along his clenched jaw. A miracle, not only because he’s alive. He survived three months of torture. God.
And then I don’t care if this makes me weak. For this one moment, I don’t care if he’s my kidnapper. I have to be close to him. I have to touch him.
I push up on my toes, but it’s still not far enough. I have to wind my arms up to pull him down. He comes, barely, lowering enough that I can press my lips to his.
He lets me kiss him, moving my lips over his, the gentlest caress.
A low rumble runs through him. “Don’t,” he says, his lips moving against mine.
I pull back enough to meet his dark, turbulent gaze. “Why not?”
He grasps my arms and gives me a little shake, more meaning than violence. “I’d rather have your hate than your pity.”
I want to hate him. I want to pity him. But I’m afraid that I love him instead, that I n
ever stopped loving him, not even when he died, not even when he came back to life. No matter what happens tomorrow or in the days after, he deserves a kiss from me—a real kiss, as a woman who knows what she wants. Maybe I deserve that too.
So I shake off his hold and reach for him again, pressing my lips to his in unschooled abandoned. As if unable to resist any longer, he groans a refusal before kissing me back. His lips move over mine as if he were part of the shadows around us, reaching every part of me, velvet and sure.
His body pushes against me, insistent, backing me up. Soft dirt cushions my feet, and I know I’ve stepped off the path. A wall curves behind my back, ivy tickling my neck, and I know I’m well and truly trapped. I’m breathing harder now, taking in more of that earth-dampened air.
He looks down at me, his face a mask of shadows. “So beautiful,” he says roughly. “I dreamed of you like this. Dreamed of touching you, tasting you.”
So did I. “Is it like you dreamed it would be?”
Slowly his head shakes. “I haven’t tasted you yet.”
I would ask what he meant, but he shows me instead. He bends his head to nip at my neck. I squirm away from the sting before pressing back for more. He doesn’t give it to me, though. Instead he works his way down my neck with too-light kisses, a brush like the leaves of ivy. It inflames me, making my body burn hotter than I knew it could. For all that I felt grown up at age fifteen, I was still a girl. I’m a woman now, with all the strength and desire that comes with it.
His mouth opens over the exposed skin of my breasts, the soft slope left bare by the dress. Without thought, without intention, I press myself toward him, offering myself, begging. As if to torment me, he pulls away. I moan with frustration, with unsated arousal.
Then he drops to his knees in front of me.
I haven’t tasted you yet.
“Gio?”
“Let me,” he says darkly. “Don’t fight me now, bella. Not about this.”
And it seems he understands about tonight, about this gift I’m giving him, giving myself. It’s a white flag, a temporary truce. We might take up the fight again tomorrow, but for now I won’t fight.
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 68