by Eva Charles
I don’t need her skittish. It’s the last thing I want. But a little fear is healthy. Instilling a sense of it in her would go a long way in helping to keep my promise to her father. I’ll enjoy the hell out of it too.
I might be a monster, but I’m not a liar. The thought of her uneasy, quivering in her high heels, has my cock pressing against my zipper. I want her apprehensive. Wet. Conflicted. Gooseflesh dotting her flawless skin. Every time she bites her lip, every hard swallow, every shiver—I’ll relish all of it.
Every morsel of her discomfort, every bite of shame, is mine.
When it comes down to it, I’m not much different from my father.
18
Daniela
After what feels like an eternity, Antonio moves within inches of me and runs a callused thumb over my mouth, parting my lips.
“Be careful what you ask for, Princesa. Because there’s nothing more I’d like right now than to punish you.”
His eyes are pitch black, and his buttery timbre doesn’t conceal the warning in his voice. Even with the fire a few feet away, and a cashmere wrap covering my shoulders, I shiver.
And he doesn’t miss it.
There’s a glitter in his eyes. Not a warm shimmer, but the glint of an icicle hanging from the eaves of a charming Victorian. It’s magical, until it snaps and pierces your chest.
He drops his hand from my mouth, and I draw a ragged breath.
“Besides, I did punish you,” he says with some complacency. “You have a sassy mouth, but a soft heart. You feel bad about Victor now, but tomorrow when you see the dark circles under his eyes, you’ll feel even worse.”
What an ass.
Victor rolls a cart in with our dinner, sparing me from responding in a way guaranteed to buy more trouble.
Antonio gestures to a chair and remains standing until I’m seated. The good manners are all for show, but I’m not impressed. With the right training, any dog can learn a clever trick.
As Victor transfers the dishes and fusses with the table, I have a little time to think some more about how to get out of this mess.
While showering, I went through the options. None of them good—at least not in the short term.
Plotting an escape might take weeks, maybe longer. Since I know nothing about his timeline, we could be married before an opportunity presents itself.
I can play along with his marriage plans until I gain his trust, and then beg him to send Isabel and Valentina money. It could work, but it’s too soon to know. Plus, it’ll take time to convince him that I’m fully on board—unless I expedite the process by having sex with him. Ugh.
My last option is to simply offer to trade sex for money for Isabel. Double ugh. Besides, I doubt Antonio needs to barter to find a woman to have sex with him. But you need to try. Maybe, but not yet.
As revolting as it sounds right now, if we marry, I’ll end up having sex with him anyway. I have no illusions about it. Why shouldn’t it be on my terms? Women have used this ploy successfully throughout history—men too. I glance at the red imprint on my arm, and my stomach churns. This isn’t how I expected my life to turn out.
I’m not proud of toying with prostitution—that’s essentially what it is—but I don’t see a better alternative. Even if Isabel can sell what’s left of the jewelry, it won’t keep a roof over their heads for long. They’re going to need money to live—to eat. They’re in the US because of me. I made the choice to flee six years ago, against Isabel’s better judgment. I’m responsible for them.
I need to proceed on all fronts. I don’t have enough time to let things play out.
It could be worse, Daniela. He could be a stranger. An unattractive stranger who smells of stale booze and hasn’t seen a dentist in years.
I glance at his unshaven jaw, then to the way his sleeves are rolled to just below the elbows, the white, crisp cotton hugging his sun-kissed forearms.
How many times have you dreamed about his hands on you—his mouth? Too many to count.
When he reaches for the bottle of wine, the cords in his forearms contract, and I feel the tug of arousal, taunting me. I don’t want sex with him. I don’t. My brain doesn’t, anyway. My traitorous body is another matter entirely.
The struggle between what my brain knows and what my body craves—what it’s always craved—is making me dizzy. It’s been that way since—forever, it seems. Since my mother died, anyway. Before that, my brain and body worked in tandem. They both wanted the same thing. Him. Only him.
What could you possibly have known about sexual desire?
I might not have known it by that name, but I knew about the longing. The tingling between my legs that came on at night, when I lay in my bed and fantasized about him kissing me. The ache that could only be soothed with friction. I knew all about those things. They were my dirty little secrets.
You were a child. The same age as Valentina.
But what about all the dreams and the fantasies that came later? What about last year? Or last month, when you woke up panting after dreaming about him, wanting nothing more than to slide your fingers into your pussy, even though Valentina was asleep in the bed a few feet away? You weren’t a child then.
It’s only when I remember Valentina that good sense prevails—at least for now.
I can’t just do nothing. What if I can’t escape? What if I’m stuck here forever? I need to do something. It’s honestly that simple.
“You need to eat,” Antonio says gently. “Starving yourself isn’t going to do you any good. You need a clear head. Otherwise you’ll start making bad decisions. That would be unfortunate.”
He doesn’t say unfortunate for you, but it’s implied.
“If you’d like me to eat,” I say casually, “maybe we could have dinner without any more threats. Otherwise my stomach won’t be able to tolerate food.”
I smooth my napkin in my lap without looking at him. The suggestion wasn’t snarky, but I’m sure it won’t sit well with him.
19
Daniela
“Do you have everything you need upstairs?” he asks, after a few minutes of silence. While he never agreed to stop the threats, the question and his tone make me think he might have taken my request to heart.
“Yes.” In some ways, much more than I need. In other ways, I’m missing important pieces.
“In a day or two, you’ll have access to a credit card and a bank account. You should feel free to order anything you need—although you can use it for whatever you’d like. It’s not limited to necessities.”
“An allowance. How civilized.” I didn’t mean to say the last part. The last thing I want right now is to goad him.
He takes a drink of wine and places the glass on the table carefully.
“It’s not an allowance. Allowances are for children. You’re not a child. There’s no limit on what you’re permitted to spend—although I would expect that you would consult me before making a substantial purchase.”
I don’t ask him to clarify substantial, because I don’t intend on making any purchases. I’m sure the card and bank account will be monitored, so they’re of little use in hatching a plan.
“The house is lovely,” I say, changing the subject to something more neutral.
He seems taken aback by the compliment.
“I mean it. It’s stunning.”
He nods and picks up his fork. “A house this size is always a work in progress, and we’re still renovating, but the bulk of the work is finished.”
His features are softer, his expression less severe. For a few seconds, he resembles the Antonio who saved me from the mean boys growing up. This version of him is less intimidating, more approachable. That Antonio might have insisted we honor a betrothal contract, but he would have never allowed Isabel and Valentina to become destitute.
“I love the turrets,” I add, hoping to keep his intensity at bay for a little while longer. I need a break from being anxious.
“Have you been up to the top?�
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I nod. “I got the VIP tour of the house. The view is spectacular.”
The corners of his mouth curl. “You should see it during a storm.”
There was a cyclone raging inside me at that time, but that’s not what he means.
“Victor only took me to the one with the gym. Do you use the others?”
“I keep a racing simulator in one, and the other two are empty. You’re welcome to use them if you need some extra space.”
I don’t plan on being here long enough to need more space. “You still race?”
“Not as often as I’d like, but I keep a car and a pit crew at the ready. The simulator keeps my skills sharp.”
With all his responsibilities, I’m surprised he’d take the risk. “Even with sharp skills, racing is a dangerous sport.”
“With any luck, it’ll make you a young widow.”
I gasp softly. So softly I’m not sure he noticed—although he doesn’t miss much. His tone was too glib, as though some part of him doesn’t care if he lives or dies. It’s unsettling. Even with all I have at stake, I don’t want my freedom that way.
“I won’t pretend that I want to be here. Or that I want to marry you. But I certainly don’t want you to die to stop the marriage from happening.”
He cocks his head, as if waiting for me to say more.
“For most of my life, I didn’t see you as the enemy,” I add softly. “I don’t wish you dead.” Not yet, anyway. Hopefully not ever.
Antonio pours us each more wine. “Your heart’s too soft, Daniela.”
“I’m tougher than you think. Under the right circumstances, I could put a bullet in a man’s head.”
He glances at me, and a small smile plays on his lips. “A bullet in a man’s head, just like that.”
Go ahead, underestimate me. That can only work to my advantage.
“Believe what you want to believe.”
He chuckles. “You’re adorable, Princesa. Do you even know how to fire a gun?”
No. My bravado is going to seem even more ridiculous now. But there are circumstances under which I could fire a bullet—or take one. But I’m not sharing those with him.
“I’ve never fired a gun,” I confess reluctantly.
He nods. “At some point, you should learn to handle one. I don’t intend on you ever needing to use a weapon, but I’m not a fool. Once we’re married . . .”
Antonio looks down at his plate while taking a forkful of rice. He never completes the thought. He doesn’t need to. I can finish it for him. Once we’re married, you become the best way for my enemies to hurt me. Although, in this case, humiliate is a better substitute for hurt. For him to be hurt, he’d have to care about me.
That’s what happened with my parents. They were angry at my mother, but they killed her to destroy my father, whom they despised. In many ways, it worked. He was never quite the same without her.
Antonio’s features have darkened again, and he seems to have pulled away. Having him emotionally unavailable isn’t helpful to my plan.
“Don’t worry about teaching me to use a gun,” I quip with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Even if you force me to marry you, I won’t kill you in your sleep. Food poisoning’s not off the table, though.”
A ghost of a smile plays on his lips, but it doesn’t materialize into anything real.
“I’m not afraid of dying in a racing accident,” he admits, taking a drink of wine. “I use the simulator to stay on top of my game because I hate to lose.”
Of course. Better to die than lose.
I liked it better when we were discussing the fairy-tale turrets. I’ve had enough of death talk. Besides, I’m more likely to win him over if he’s not in a sullen mood.
“As nice as this house is, it seems awfully big for one person. Don’t you get lonely here?” Like a real person—the kind with a heart and soul.
“I keep an apartment at Huntsman Lodge. It’s where I stay most of the time. When my cousin Rafael came to live with me, I wanted him to have some space outside the city. I bought the house then.”
Years before my father died, I remember hearing that Rafael was living with Antonio. There was all sorts of gossip, including that they were actually brothers instead of cousins. I even heard someone speculate that Antonio was Rafael’s father. It all sounded far-fetched.
“I’d heard Rafael was living with you. Did something happen at your uncle’s house?”
“My uncle is a monster, but you already know that.”
He studies me for a long moment, and my heart pounds harder with each passing second.
“Isn’t that why you left?” he asks, still gauging my reaction. “You were afraid of him.”
Antonio lays his fork at the edge of the plate. He’s expecting a response. If I change the subject or evade the question, I’ll in a sense be saying, Yes, I’m afraid of him. Then there will be follow-up questions and relentless probing. I can’t afford that.
I look straight into his searching eyes. This might be one of the biggest lies I’ve told in my life—and I’ve told many at this point. But as Valentina would say, I need to hit this one out of the park.
“I was alone and afraid of everything, then. Your uncle was but one of many worries. I was worried about you too.” And rightfully so, as it turns out.
I can’t tell whether he believes me or not, but he cuts a bite of beef and doesn’t say a word.
I need to change the subject—anything is safer than follow-up questions. Antonio’s not a fool.
“I was a bit surprised when Cristiano brought me here. I expected you to have taken over your family’s estate.” It’s a bit out of left field, but it’ll do.
“My mother isn’t in Porto often, but it’s her house.” He shrugs. “I have no interest in it.”
“I remember the little playroom under the stairs. Is it still there?”
He shakes his head. “There was a fire. The house burned down to the foundation. I had it rebuilt for my mother so she could start over. But it looks very different.”
“How awful. Was anyone hurt?”
“No.”
“Still, to lose a beautiful house and everything inside that you’ve collected over a lifetime.”
“Nothing was lost. Nothing worth keeping, anyway. Everything of value was moved out before the first ember was lit.”
He set fire to the house he grew up in. Jesus.
20
Daniela
I wrap my shawl tighter around me as he pours us more wine.
What about the house I grew up in? Up until now, I haven’t had the courage to ask. David, the vineyard manager, emailed weekly updates about the property while I was in the US. But I suppose those were all lies too. My stomach twists painfully.
I still don’t quite have the courage to ask about the house, but I have so many other questions.
“The employees at Quinta Rosa do Vale—what happened to them?”
“Anyone who was willing to stand in front of me and sign an NDA was welcome to stay.”
A nondisclosure agreement—how civilized. Although I’m sure it’s not the contract that keeps the employees in line. But having to sign it in front of this man must have put the fear of God into them.
My shoulders tighten at the thought of what he put the employees through. Good people. Honest and loyal. He didn’t have to treat them like they were criminals.
“Do they know you own the property?”
He shakes his head. “Only David. The others know I have an interest in the property. Your father and I met many times at his office in the vineyards. We walked the grounds often, and he introduced me to many of the workers. Everyone assumes I have not only a personal interest in seeing your father’s vineyards thrive, but as the current president of the Douro Port Wine Foundation, I have a professional interest as well.” He glances at me. “Their assumptions are correct. Whether or not I own the vines is beside the point.”
They met at the vineyards. My father kep
t an office there that he went to every day he was well.
I’m not surprised he didn’t destroy the vineyards, but what about the house? I take a sip of wine, letting the alcohol warm my throat. Ask him. I’m not ready.
“Did you sell my horses?”
“Atlas and Zeus have been well cared for. The stable manager stayed on.”
A small sigh of relief escapes into the room. I didn’t think he’d destroy the horses, but this is a man capable of terrible things.
“After we’re married, you’ll have an opportunity to see them.”
The news about the horses gives me hope and a shot of courage.
“My parents’ house—is it still standing?”
When he doesn’t meet my eyes, my stomach clenches. I’m sure the house is gone, with everything in it. If he had no use for his childhood home, he certainly had no use for mine.
After several long, excruciating seconds, he responds. “It’s still standing. At some point, Cristiano will take you there so you can see for yourself.”
My body unclenches, one muscle at a time. It’s almost too good to be true.
I walked away, and I was prepared to sell the house, but it gutted me to do it. The sense of relief is overwhelming.
“You would let me visit the house?” The swing from low to high feels almost euphoric, and before I can catch myself, I blurt out the question like a child might.
Antonio leans across the table and traces the contour of my face with his fingertips. “There’s very little I’m not prepared to give you, Princesa, if you can be trusted.”
With my skin burning from his touch, he lowers his hand and pulls a piece of crust from the bread. “If we’re going to go through with the marriage, and we are,” he says, glancing at me warily, “I want you by my side. I’m not interested in a pet to keep locked in a cage—unless you force my hand. Then you’ll get what you deserve.”