The first gift was a beautiful gold necklace with a teardrop diamond pendant. I was tempted . . . so goddamn tempted to blast the thing into the sea. I managed to restrain myself. Instead, I threw the box at Rafael’s head that evening before taking my seat at the desk. He didn’t even comment on it. Just caught the necklace and put it away in his pocket.
The next morning—a new velvet box. Slightly larger, containing a matching set of sapphire earrings and a bracelet. I left it by his wine glass before making my way through the office door. Our sex was angry, but we didn’t say a word.
Day three—another necklace. Rose gold this time, with a huge round diamond solitaire. A gorgeous, classical look. I shoved it into his hand for good measure. He took it without complaint. Pants pocket, and it was out of sight.
A wristwatch on day four. Solid gold and covered in diamonds. On day five, a “full house” designer set—earrings, necklace, bracelet, and even a brooch, all in a diamond-covered jewelry case. On day six, a fucking tiara!
Every night, I returned his gift without a thank you. And each time, Rafael just put it away. Not a word. Not an indignant sound. Just a set of instructions on my next task.
And then, sex.
Epic. Raw. Sex.
Which neither of us talks about.
I push the covers away and sit up in bed. What will it be today? Another watch? Another necklace? One that’s half my weight in gold and precious gems?
Sighing, I lift the lid on the gift box.
And stare at the contents, unable to breathe.
A delicate white gold chain—a rather simple design—with a small pendant in the shape of a lily of the valley. Polished stems suspend the brilliant-cut diamonds on the flower drops, and marquise gemstones line the leaves.
Gingerly, I stroke the glistening shape with the tip of my finger, while warmth spreads through my chest. This looks delicate and expensive, but nowhere near the other extravagant gifts.
It’s the only one that speaks directly to me. It’s the only one that acknowledges us. Not his wealth.
As I take the chain out of the box, a yellow sticky note falls from the underside of the satiny cushion. It flutters to the floor and lands face down. Bending, I collect the note, turning it around to see what it is.
A drawing of me. Naked. My hair loose around my face. Around my neck, the lily of the valley necklace.
I stare at the note in my hand, then look at the necklace in the other. After eyeing that elegant pendant for a long, long time, I unclasp the chain and put it around my neck.
* * *
The clatter and clang of the cutlery echo through the otherwise silent kitchen. I ignore the looks of concern the maids are throwing in my direction and pull out another drawer to add its contents to the growing pile of utensils already on the counter.
I’ll need at least half an hour to sort everything. Maybe even an hour, if I go slow. After I’m done, I’ll have to find something else to occupy my time or I’ll fucking flip trying to deal with a tangle of emotions that have me all tied up.
I’m wrapped in a thick fog of uncertainty where only blurry, distorted shapes are visible. The guilt is suffocating. I feel like a hypocrite for sleeping with my kidnapper and loving every second of it. For enjoying each moment I spend with him and missing him when he’s not here. I’m just so fucking confused by everything. His feelings. My own. Am I truly in love with Rafael, or is it just Stockholm syndrome? Would I feel the same if he wasn’t forcing me to stay? Hell if I know. I can’t trust my heart, can’t make any sense of my thoughts, can’t be positive about my emotions until I get out of this haze. Rafael is the shroud that consumes me.
And him? Does he have true feelings for me, or is it simply a twisted need to possess an elusive prey that would not blindly succumb to the gilded cage he offered? All that fucking jewelry . . . I have no intention of spelling it out for him, letting him know that I don’t need his fancy trinkets. He’s a smart man, and if he truly cares for me, he should realize it on his own—I don’t want his expensive gifts. I want freedom. And I want him to never again wave the threat to my family as some goddamn flag in front of my face.
I look down, eyes zeroing in on the lily of the valley pendant around my neck. Maybe he’s coming to his senses at last.
“Miss?” One of the maids touches my shoulder. “Otto is here. He has a package for you.”
I look up from the line of forks I’m making, sorting them by size. “What kind of package?”
“It’s from the boss,” Otto says as he approaches the kitchen island and sets a large rectangular box on the counter. The Albini’s gold logo is prominently displayed on the top.
I open the lid and shift the white tissue paper, revealing an abundance of golden silk and lace.
The dress I’d tried on when Rafael took me shopping.
“Boss said he’ll come to get you around eight,” Otto adds.
“Get me?”
“For cocktails.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And if I’m not interested in having cocktails with him?”
“He mentioned you may feel this way. And instructed me to tell you that, if you decline, he won’t be allowing you to make any more phone calls.”
Biting the side of my cheek, I slam the lid shut and push the box away. I’ve got forks to sort instead of dealing with this nonsense.
Coming to his senses, my ass.
How is it possible to like the man and yet want to strangle him at the same time?
“Fuck,” I groan as I take off my button-down to inspect the cut. Shallow but rather long, it’s a diagonal gash across the ribs on the left side of my torso. Still bleeding. In need of cleaning and a good dressing. Seeking the first aid kit, I open the medicine cabinet above the sink.
A street fight. I can’t believe that I got into a fucking street fight because of a woman. It was just a random group of stupid drunk punks throwing bottles at the wall of an alley. I could have just passed them, but no. I stopped the car and then got into a meaningless fistfight with four young idiots just so I could ease some of my frustration.
The reason for my frustration? A tiny little Russian princess who has been pretending that there’s nothing going on between us. I went along with her request not to discuss what is happening in my bedroom because I thought that fucking her would be enough. It’s not. I don’t want her to simply be my nightly fuck. I want our banter. The teasing. Those awful doodles. I want all that and more. But she is still insisting on fixing my IT systems as fast as possible. So she can leave.
