Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
The moment I walk into the main bedroom, my mouth drops open again and I gape at Mr. Vitale’s personal space.
The bedroom is easily three times the size of mine.
Wow. The man has good taste.
A king-size bed is positioned by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Where the walls are black, the bed covers are a soft cream color. I move closer and trail my fingers over the silk, thinking this is where Mr. Vitale sleeps.
To the left of the bed is a lounge chair covered with black velvet and a small coffee table. A neatly folded newspaper lies on the table, and an image of Mr. Vitale reading the paper while sipping his morning coffee flashes through my mind.
Lucky bastard.
I glance into the bathroom, and my eyebrows fly up when I see stairs leading down to a sunken tub that can rival the best of jacuzzies.
I’d give one of my kidneys for a chance to soak in that baby.
There’s a huge shower that can easily fit five people. The thing even has a bench and a fern in it.
The twin basins are made of black marble, and the round mirrors make me green with envy.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I head to the walk-in closet, and I let out a jealous huff when I see all the space the man has for his clothes.
“God, it’s unfair that someone as grumpy as him gets to live in this beautiful house,” I mutter as I unzip the garment bags. Hanging the suits and making sure nothing is out of place, I continue to rant, “Jesus, he has more shoes than I do.”
Which is saying a lot, as I have an out-of-control shoe addiction.
When I’m done, and every suit is neatly in the closet, I glance at all the sweatpants and T-shirts but don’t notice any jeans.
There’s a display case in the middle of the walk-in closet, and I take a moment to look at Mr. Vitale’s cufflinks, wristwatches, and ties.
Not wanting to be caught snooping, I let my eyes feast on all the beauty as I make my way back to the stairs.
I expected Mr. Vitale’s house to be cold and soulless, but instead, I’m pleasantly surprised.
When I reach the first floor, there’s no sign of the man who opened the door, and unable to suppress my curious nature, I walk toward a living room that’s made up of my wildest fantasies.
The TV takes up an entire wall, and black velvet couches furnish the room. It doesn’t look like they’ve been sat on.
There are ferns that remind me of the plants I saw in Paradiso and a glass table that holds a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid, which I assume is some kind of expensive whiskey.
Movement draws my attention to the expansive windows and sliding doors, and I see a group of men out on the patio.
Instantly, my curiosity is doused, and fear creeps into my bones.
I turn around and rush out of the living room, only to bump into a chest that might as well have been made from steel. As I bounce backward, my hand flies up to rub my bruised nose, and my eyes lock on Mr. Vitale’s narrowed gaze.
Shit.
“Sorry. I was just leaving.”
It’s only then I notice the two men on either side of Mr. Vitale, and forgetting that I was just caught snooping by my boss, my fear of men makes my body tremble.
At the best of times, I can handle dealing one-on-one with a man, but knowing there’s a whole group outside on the patio and three more right in front of me, I panic.
Before Mr. Vitale can comment on why I’m still in his house, I dart around them and run to the front door.
As the solid piece of wood closes behind me, I think I hear Mr. Vitale call my name, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back in there.
Chapter 7
Samantha
My breaths explode over my lips as I rush to the nearest subway, and on my way home, sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle not to have a panic attack.
My fingers grip my handbag tightly, and my shoulders are hunched as I do my best to avoid the other pedestrians on the sidewalk.
When I finally reach the safety of my apartment, I make sure all five locks are in place before sinking down on one of the couches.
I cover my face with trembling hands and try to focus on taking deeper breaths.
Feeling physically ill, my entire body is coated in a fine layer of sweat.
It’s been a while since I had a panic attack, and it opens the floodgates, making the memories escape from where I keep them locked up in the darkest part of my soul.
Unable to move a muscle or make a sound, I can’t even open my eyes. I think I’m lying on my bed.