by Howes, Ann
My head is yanked back at the same time two calloused fingers pinch my nostrils. As I open my mouth to breathe, a cold, bitter liquid is poured into it, then my jaw is slammed shut. If I want to breath I have to swallow.
I buck and thrash until the fingers let go, allowing me to suck in lungfuls of foul, cigarette air. Gagging, but grateful to be breathing again, I yell, “What did you give me?”
“Shh, shh, shh.” The man, definitely not Dean, whispers in my ear in a thick Russian accent. “Don’t panic.”
Don’t panic? Are you fucking kidding me? I squirm in his arms and his forearm tightens around my neck.
“Don’t panic, won’t grab tits.”
Did he say tits?
He won’t grab my tits?
Not what I wanted to hear, but it works. Since I definitely don’t want my tits grabbed I stop squirming.
“Da. Good girly.”
Calm down.
Don’t get tits grabbed.
I repeat this to myself over and over, until a few minutes later, I’m groggy. Soon after that, it all goes black again.
* * *
The next time my eyes open, it’s daylight. My head throbs and the thing I believe is my mouth feels like I swallowed a roll of paper towels. Worse, my vision is double and blurry.
I blink until it finally clears enough and realize I’m in a room with a large window, set in a wall made of logs. It’s eerily quiet. No traffic noises or rumbles of construction. Nothing at all to indicate I’m still in the city.
It’s then that I remember my joyride in a van that smelled like an ashtray in a dirty garage. Except the only thing that smells like an ashtray now, is me.
I push myself into a sitting position and press my fingers to my temples, waiting for the wooziness and nausea to pass. At least the shackles are gone and I can move my arms and legs.
Where in hell am I?
Doing a sweep of the room I search for something, anything that looks familiar. Nothing does. Not the four-poster king-sized bed nor the plush duvet or even the shaggy brown carpet.
Not a damn thing.
Okay.
Use your noodle and keep calm.
Dropping my feet over the side, I stand and grab the bedpost for support until the world stops spinning and my legs begin to cooperate. Lack of saliva forces me to constantly swallow, not that it does me any good.
Need water, and soon.
On the bedside table, underneath a tiffany-style lamp, is a bottle. My first impulse is to gulp it, but as I crack the seal, I remember they drugged me with something in liquid form. And the asshole threatened to grab my tits. What the fuck is that all about?
I squint at the bottle through one eye and squeeze, making sure there’s no minuscule holes which would indicate a syringe. It seems intact, but I don’t trust my vision and decide against it. I’m not taking any chances yet, not unless I have to.
There’s an open door off to the side of the room and I can just make out a sink and a toilet. With one wobbly step at a time, I inch my way towards it.
The distance is short, but it takes longer than it should.
When a dizzy spell hits me, I hold onto the doorframe and wait for the starbursts behind my eyelids to fade.
Inside the bathroom, a beautiful, though blurry, claw-foot tub is situated in front of a window with a view of a lake ringed with elegant fuzzy pines. Far below, the ground is blanketed with snow.
By the looks of the scenery and lack of oxygen, I’m guessing we’re somewhere high up in the mountains. Very fucking high.
Shit.
Dean mentioned a house in Tahoe. This must be it. But where in Tahoe? North Shore…South Lake?
Think.
Or was it somewhere more obscure? Ugh! Even thinking hurts. First problem I need to deal with is getting water.
The faucet’s a little tight and after a yank, a few dribbles of rusty colored water trickle out…then nothing. If I had the energy I’d stamp my foot, but I glare at it instead. Willing, daring it to work. Does God really hate me this much?
No, no, don’t think like that. I’m not going to let this beat me. Then, I hear a low grumbling in the pipe. A couple of airy bursts followed by a splattering and finally, a rusty colored stream gushes out.
A (very) dry sob catches in my throat.
When it runs clear I capture some in my hands, sucking in small sips and taking care not to compound the jack-hammering in my head with a brain freeze. After a few minutes, my head begins to clear, and stops pounding as hard.
The first thought to enter my mind is Gianni’s gotta be looking for me, right?
Would he even know where to begin?
Well, that’s depressing.
Need to stay calm if I have any chance of getting out of here.
Don’t get tits grabbed.
Back in the bedroom, I check the door. No surprise, it’s locked and so is the window, which is thick and double-paned, making it difficult to break without a tool of some kind. And since it seems I’m on the second floor, it’s a long drop from here. Certainly wouldn’t help if I broke something on the way down. The weather’s clear, so that’s good, but I can’t tell the time, the sun being out of my line of vision.
Gotta be something I can use as a weapon or a tool. I search everywhere: in the closet, under the bed, in the medicine cabinet and the desk under the window.
Nothing.
Not even a ballpoint pen.
It’s when I jiggle the window I hear a key turning and spin around to face the door as it opens. Dean steps in, folds his arms and leans against the doorframe.
Here we go.
His lips curve and the damn dimple in his left cheek I found so attractive appears.
“Hello, beautiful.”
Except for the minor fact he’s a psycho, the man isn’t a dog. Thick, straight blonde hair and gray eyes. Good thing I prefer real dogs to him.
“Happy to see me?”
Not exactly doing cartwheels here.
“Why am I here, Dean?” I’m sure the pulse beating in my neck is a dead giveaway, but I act cool while he crosses the floor like a cat. I’d forgotten how good he looks when he wants to.
Fucking kidnapping asshole.
“You okay?”
No, I’m not okay! Jeez.
“Don’t know, Dean. Am I?”
He chuckles. “Always with the attitude. That’s what turns me on about you.”
Fuck. Maybe I should tone it down and play the simpering little house mouse.
“Sit with me,” he says, parking himself in the middle of the bed.
“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”
“Please, Shelley.” A head movement indicates where he wants me. “Sit.”
Probably not the best time to piss him off.
So.
I comply, choosing the corner furthest away from him.
“Come closer.” His voice carries a tinge of regret but I don’t trust it. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You did hurt me, remember?” I whisper. “You left me lying in an alley like a piece of garbage.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice and eyes are soft. Except for the fucking madness I know is lying behind that look, he’s so damn convincing. “I fucked up when I hit you. You didn’t deserve that.”
I swallow.
He moves closer and reaches for my hand. It takes everything in me, but I resist the impulse to yank it back. Suppressing the shudder that wants to run through my body while he caresses the tips of my fingers, then turns it over and examines the scrapes on my palms.
“I sensed you were going to break up with me and...I didn’t want to lose you. So when you smiled at that waiter, I lost it.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“I thought we could start over, spend some time together. Get to know each other again.”
“You kidnapped me, Dean. That’s not a good start to starting over.”
His fingers tense. Shit. I have to watch my to
ne. I refuse to show fear, but I can’t antagonize him either.
“Let me make it up to you,” he says, lacing my fingers with his. “I want to show you I can be what you need. I can give you everything you want.”
“What do you think I need?”
“You need me.”
“Okay.” Sighing, I close my eyes for a moment. “I forgive you,” I say, digging deep for any sweetness left in me.
“You do?” The line between his brows deepens.
I nod. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”
“That makes me happy, baby.”
“But if you really want to start over, you need to let me go.”
“I can’t do that,” he whispers.
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust you. Maybe you’re playing me. For this to work, I need you to understand you belong to me. Only way I know how to make you understand is to keep you here until you do.”
Fuck.
I didn’t really think asking him was going to work, did I? But still…fuck!
He raises my hands to his lips, kisses the tips before letting them go. “You smell like Boris’s van. Fucking moron never cleans it. Take a bath, relax, then we’ll talk more.”
He stands, his crotch only a foot away from my face and I have to fight the impulse to either lean back or head butt him. Perhaps if I let him think he’s making progress, he’ll get sloppy, give me a chance to escape.
“I’ll bring you clean clothes,” Dean continues. “We’ll eat after, you must be hungry.” He smiles that crooked smile, the one that finally got me to go out with him and struts into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear water running and fragrant jasmine-scented steam floats through the door.
I do want a bath. Who knows how long I’ll be here and with this stink on me, I’m grossing myself out. Besides, it’ll give me time to think and get a plan together.
He disappears out of the bedroom for a few seconds, then returns with a small suitcase, an apple and a can of Coke. I take the fruit from him and examine it for needle marks.
He rolls his eyes but seems mildly amused. “It’s not drugged, Shelley. I want you lucid when we talk.”
I peek at him through my lashes, determine he’s telling the truth, well as much as he can anyway, and take a small bite.
“Would you mind if I have some privacy?” I say between mouthfuls. “I mean, this is still kinda new…”
“Let me wash your hair.” His eyes bore into mine. “I can tell your hands are still tender.”
Oh God. Really? The thought of his hands on me makes me lose my appetite. I place the half-eaten apple next to the tub.
“Dean, please, I have…to use the bathroom.”
“Ah, of course,” he says, reaching into a whitewashed antique armoire in the corner of the bathroom. He drops a couple towels onto a wicker chair next to the tub. “I suppose some things need to remain a mystery.”
Mystery, my ass.
I mean, I can’t forget this is the man who planted a spy cam in my bathroom. So I fake a smile, making sure it reaches my eyes. I got a game to play. I wish I had Ziggy. I’d plug a couple in his ass. But she’s two hundred odd miles west, assuming I’m in Tahoe.
“I’ll come back in ten minutes.”
This time I don’t smile. Don’t want to overdo it. He knows me well enough that I’m not some simpering little wench. I’m a daughter of the mafia, for shit’s sake.
And now that the initial shock of being kidnapped has worn off, I’m mostly pissed. And mentally prepared. If he hits me again, I’ll fight back. It may not do me any good, but I’ll fight anyway.
“I’d really prefer to do this alone. You want us to start over, you need to give me some space to sort out my head.”
He’s silent for a beat then he sighs. “Okay.” He traces a thumb across my jaw. “I’ll do that…for you.” Then dipping his head, he kisses me on my lips. “Don’t be long. I missed you and can’t wait to catch up.”
Somehow, I hide the revulsion moving through me at his touch. After he leaves and shuts the bedroom door, I resist swiping my hand over my lips, erasing his kiss. Just in case there’re cameras, but I’m not going to waste my energy on looking for them. He wants a show, I’ll give him one. Just not the one he’s expecting.
I strip quickly, dropping my soiled clothes on the bathroom floor. The sting between my legs as I hit the perfumed water reminds me how quickly things can change.
I finally have a moment so beautiful, so profound it will stay with me for the rest of my life. However long (or short) that may be. Something I’ve wanted forever, with the man I’ve loved forever. Something to hang on to. I have no doubt Dean’s going to try to kill me. If I die here, at least I’ll have had that.
A small sob escapes me, but that’s all I allow myself. Though I’m freaking out on the inside, I can’t show it. I need to focus. What would my dad or Billy do if they were in my place? What would Gianni do?
Use what you got.
But what do I have? No tools and no weapons. All I have is me, so me it’s going to have to be. I stay below the surface, but keep my knees above to spare the Band-Aids, and blow bubbles out my mouth until I run out of oxygen.
And come to terms with knowing there may be things I have to do. Disgusting things, in order to keep Dean calm. If I want to survive this, and I really do want to survive this, even if it’s just to see Gianni one more time. I may as well make my peace with it now. Stay alive long enough for them to find me or find a way to get out of here.
I lie back and sip the Coke.
Think.
Before the water turns cool, I let it out and step out of the tub. I wrap one of the big, fluffy white towels around my body, the other around my head and dump out the bag Dean brought in and stare at what’s on the bed.
Seriously?
My own clothes, but nothing practical, or warm. All the pieces are evening items: miniskirts, halter tops, a sequined tube-top and a short, black cocktail dress. And lingerie from Provocative, where my new friend Terra works. I can’t help wondering if she sold the stuff to Dean. I hope she made a good commission.
But no shoes.
Again.
What is it with men and not packing shoes?
Are the clothes about trying to keep me from escaping or some weird personal Dean thing? Or something worse than that?
Maybe Gianni was wrong and this is about selling me. Maybe he’s going to parade me in front of potential buyers. My chest rises and falls faster than it should, my breath coming in small gasps.
Keep calm.
Don’t panic.
Don’t get tits grabbed.
He said he wanted to talk. Hang on to that. I have to make him believe I want what he wants to buy time. Hopefully Carmine is as good as everyone thinks he is.
When I swipe my dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, the stale cigarette smell makes me gag. Considering the clothing choices Dean’s given me, I’ll want to wear them again.
I run fresh water into the tub, add a dollop of the bath gel, scrub, and rinse my clothes and hang them over the heated towel rack to dry.
Better get dressed. It won’t do to be naked if Dean comes back. The cocktail dress, the least revealing of my choices, falls just above my knees, but it’s longer than the miniskirts he’s packed.
Once my hair is combed and mostly dry, I stick my feet into my Uggs and try the bedroom door handle. I’m surprised when it opens.
Pff.
I guess I can’t go anywhere in the clothes I’m wearing. They’re not chains, but they may as well be. Considering all the snow outside, I’d freeze and besides, I have to figure out where I am before I know where to go.
There’s a wooden staircase just off a landing decorated with gorgeous, Native American rugs and massive windows facing a small lake. This isn’t a cabin. It’s a freaking log mansion, like the ones you see in Aspen belonging to the rich and fabulously famous.
If I were in any other circumstances I’d take t
ime to admire it.
The smell of roasting beef makes my mouth water and I follow my nose and growling stomach down the stairs.
Dean’s stretched out, reading a dog-eared edition of The Stand on a long, white leather sofa in a spacious living room decorated similarly to upstairs. When he sees me coming, he rises. I cringe at how I used to think he was beautiful, now that smile makes my teeth ache. His looks are wasted on him.
“You look lovely…even with the fuzzy boots and the Band-Aids on your knees.”
“You didn’t pack any shoes.” I cross the floor and stop a few feet away from him. “Why is that?”
His chin jerks up. “Shit. I didn’t think about shoes.”
Heh!
His grin turns sheepish as he approaches me. Long fingers circle my wrists, then he jerks me towards him, wrapping his arms around me until I’m flat against his body.
“Ah…now you smell good,” he says burying his nose in my hair. “Like my Shelley again.”
“I have a question.”
“Anything.”
“Why didn’t you take me at Tony’s? Wouldn’t it have been easier than at the house?”
“I wanted to show you that Cadora can’t protect you. Not like I can.”
Holy cow.
Try as I might, I can’t help flinching and I know he felt it, because his arms stiffen around me.
“You should remember that,” he says gruffly. “No one can protect you like I can.”
His fist tightens in my hair at the back of my head and he tugs it until I’m staring into his eyes. They’re no longer soft and then I catch the faint whiff of alcohol.
A thousand times shit.
Please, not vodka. Dean and vodka are a lethal, unhealthy mix. Exhibit A: my face.
“But I don’t want to talk about that. You’re here now and it’s in the past. We’re moving forward.”
Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to ask. My one job is to stay alive long enough for Gianni to find me.
“Okay.” I try a smile, the one I use when I’m in trouble and need to pretty my way out. It works, as most of the hardness leaves his face.
“Let’s eat,” he says and the pressure on my hair relents. “Know you’re hungry.”
My scalp stings but I ignore it and ask, “Did you cook? It smells really good.”
