Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“I lost control before,” he says breathily. “Can you blame me? You’re too beautiful, Bonnie.”
How would Dad feel if he knew about us? He was your best friend.
I don’t say the words.
“Eat with me,” he says. “I promise I’ll be civilized.”
“Are you sure you won’t freak out and march from the room?” I hiss. “You know… like you did before.”
He strokes the hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture shocks me. “That wasn’t what you thought.”
“Oh, and what do I think?”
“You tell me.”
“No.” I tighten my hold on his chest, digging my fingernails against his firm muscles. “You seem to know already.”
“I was worried I would lose control again,” he growls. “When you told me you’re a virgin, it made me want you more.”
“Why?” I ask in disbelief.
“I told you. You belong to me. Now, you really belong to me. No other man has ever touched you. It makes you more special.”
“More valuable? A better commodity?” I snap.
“Are you going to eat with me or not?”
“Couldn’t you force me?”
“I could, but I already told you. I don’t want to force you to do anything.”
He’s sending me so many clashing signals I don’t know what to believe. Then my belly rumbles as if deciding for me.
“Fine,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean any of this is okay.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
I shouldn’t be excited about this. Fluttering butterfly wings shouldn’t dance through my belly. This isn’t—I remind myself forcefully—a date.
But it feels like a date.
We sit in the garden, fires trapped in metal grills flickering and sending their heat across the patio.
Archie sits at our feet, gnawing on a bone as a waiter brings out a tray with two plates, a jug of juice, and two glasses. The attendant looks like one of the security guards, his expression impassive. I won’t be getting any help from him. Do I want help? Do I want to escape?
“Do you do this with all your women?”
Okay, fine, sue me. I kind of like getting a rise out of him.
He snaps his gaze to me, scowling. “There are no other women.”
“That’s exactly what a playboy would say.”
“I hope you like steak,” he grunts, gesturing to the plates.
I look down at the meal—steak with greens, corn, and fries.
“I do,” I say, “but don’t expect me to say thank you.”
“The only thing I expect is you to eat and keep that body nice and curvy for me.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t let him see how much his compliments mean to me because they mean a lot.
I was bullied for my weight in school. Nothing too extreme, just jocks and douches doing their usual mean stuff, but to have this tall, handsome, intense man showing me all this attention… Yeah, it’s a boost to the ego. I can’t deny it.
He cuts into his steak. “What’s your goal, Bonnie?”
“That’s a broad question,” I counter.
He looks at me as if to say, Not everything has to be a fight.
“What do you want to do for work? You seem like a woman with a dream. I knew that the second I saw you. You don’t want to be a maid.”
“Oh, no,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “I’ve always dreamed of being kidnapped and held on a massive estate by the Scottish mafia. Are you kidding?”
He chuckles, and I can’t help but laugh along with him. Our eyes meet, and something happens, a connection, as if we both view the absurdity of the situation. I return to my new favorite word.
Should. It shouldn’t feel like something we can laugh at.
“I thought we had a deal where questions were concerned, huh?” I say.
“Spanking only goes one way, Bonnie.”
I shift in my seat, ignoring the tingling moving over my skin, coiling around my thighs, trying to send me across the table and into his lap.
“I want to be a private detective,” I tell him.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“What?” I say. “Is that really so shocking? Did you expect me to say I wanted to be a baker or something?”
“I’d tell you to relax,” he replies, “but I like it when you get all passionate. Why a private detective?”
“Do you really care?”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “I do.”
Maybe I ought to laugh at this. How can he care when he’s keeping me prisoner, disabling the phones so I can’t call for help?
But I believe him. More fool me.
“If you were friends with dad, you know what happened to my mom.”
He nods seriously. “Yeah, I know. It’s an evil thing. The world’s a terrible place.”
Coming from a mafia boss, this is ridiculous, isn’t it?
When he was spanking me, when we were playing our question game, he said he doesn’t sell drugs. I wonder if that extends to other criminal activities.
“A hit-and-run driver who was never caught. Is it hard to figure out why I’d want to be a private detective? I want to help people. I want to catch the bad guys.”