His head, too? He couldn’t be serious. “Silver linings...aren’t they just magical?”
“Crack all the jokes you want, but I guarantee the only thing that has kept you alive all these years is that those people don’t know you exist. If that veil of protection is gone, then welcome to your new fucking life.” He pointed to himself.
No. No way.
“You can’t really expect me to believe all this crap?” Not that Santi—shit—Paolo had actually told me anything other than I was in danger and my father wasn’t who I thought.
“Believe anything you like. Just don’t get in the way of my job,” he said without emotion.
Crap. So this is what it all came down to? I would get no answers, but I’d get to choose either doing everything he told me, leaving my life behind, and going into hiding; or refusing to listen to him and taking the risk that he was full of shit about me being dead in a few days. Those were my choices? Really? Really?
“Pull over,” I demanded.
“What?”
“I said pull over! I’m going to be sick.”
He pulled into a narrow turnout, and I exited the vehicle, bolting for a stand of tall pines. I leaned into one, attempting to eject the burning knots, but there was nothing to throw up since I hadn’t eaten. My last meal had been before the party the previous evening. That didn’t stop my stomach, however, from trying to relinquish the pit of despair inside.
“You okay?” Paolo appeared from behind, gripping my shoulders.
I turned and looked up at him. His thick layer of black stubble made his lips stand out as if being presented on a silver platter. And the whites of his dark eyes, though slightly red, likely from a lack of sleep, still captivated me. Something fierce lurked inside his gaze, a sort of dissonance and anger—stubbornness that spoke volumes about who he really was.
He stared down at me and brushed a few strands of hair from my face, but then quickly dropped his hand. “You look hungry.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Maybe getting a little food in you will settle your stomach.”
He walked back toward the road, and I followed, carefully stepping over fallen branches until I reached the SUV.
Once inside, I noticed that Paolo’s eyes were locked on the empty road ahead. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He snapped out of it. “Nothing. Was just thinking.”
“About?” I asked.
He blew out a breath. “I’m sure we won’t hear from your father for a few days, maybe a week.”
“A week?” I asked, my tone mildly panicked.
“Afraid of being alone with me for that long?” His eyes dropped to my chest but promptly returned to my face.
I felt the tremor return to my stomach, but it wasn’t fear. “Maybe.”
“Good answer.”
Why had he said that? Did he want me to be afraid of him?
“Okaaay,” I sighed. “Any thoughts on how my dad is going to contact us if we don’t have phones?”
“Don’t worry,” he grumbled. “We have our ways.”
I wasn’t sure what their “ways” were, but I had no choice now but to hope this would be over quickly.
An hour later, Paolo stopped at a small mom-and-pop convenience store to pick up supplies—food, toothbrushes, soap, etc. At the checkout, he pulled a huge wad of cash from his jeans, and, naturally, I stared. I’d never seen so much money. And while my eyes were down there, and my mind was a complete mess, they stopped to stare at his other wad.
“Eh-hem,” he said.
My head snapped up. Oh my God. I looked away and followed him to the car, embarrassed as hell that I’d been caught ogling his crotch.
“Where are we going?” I wanted to push my thoughts to a less uncomfortable place.
“There’s a cabin just up the road. There are no phones or Internet, so there’s no risk of you contacting someone you shouldn’t in a moment of weakness.”
He knew me too well.
~ ~ ~
Not long after the pit stop, we turned down a narrow dirt road that was lined with tall pine trees and led us to a rickety gate with a padlock. It looked like the scene of a horror movie waiting to happen. Once deeper inside the property, however, the quaint two-story cabin came into view. It was dark brown with a pitched roof and a large porch.
“Are we safe here?” I asked, thinking not only about the humans, but the animals, too.
“Nothing to be afraid of, except not listening to me.” He smiled warmly, as if to comfort me. I guessed that we were now in familiar territory, since Paolo felt more at ease. It instantly showed because “Robot Paolo” had retreated.
The interior of the cabin, though kind of dark from the wood-paneled walls and plank wood floors, was cozy with a rustic charm—large, overstuffed plaid couch, wood burning stove, neatly folded quilts, and antique ski gear on the walls. The living room had a small dining table off in the corner, and a large open doorway separated it from the small kitchen area.
Paolo unloaded the grocery bags into the cupboards and fridge while I stood in the living room, checking out his collection of books on the mantel. Homer’s Odyssey, Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises...
Pride and Prejudice?
“Whose place is this?” I asked.
“Mine. I come here when I need to decompress.”
A man who decompresses with Austen and Hemingway? I wasn’t certain how to reconcile that thought, so I didn’t try.
“So you live in California then?” I asked, also thinking how odd that would be. Of all the photos of all the men in the world I could’ve picked, I chose a guy who worked for my dad and lived in my state.
“I spend most of my time in California, when I’m not working,” he replied.
Must be fate.
Idiot.
“So they won’t find us here?” I asked. Whoever “they” were.
He glanced at me through the large doorway, with an irritated twitch in his eyes.
“Sorry.” I held up my palms. “Didn’t mean to doubt you, mighty one.”
I went to explore a bit but there wasn’t much to see. There was a loft-style bedroom upstairs. Downstairs had a bath, another small bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room.
“I didn’t take you as a cabin man, Paolo,” I called out, coming down the stairs.
“I am a man of many mysteries.” He came out of the kitchen with a hand towel over his shoulder. “Such as, I love to cook.”
“Italian food?” I asked.
“How did you guess?” He went back to his cooking, and I watched him from the doorway.
“I have my ways,” I responded jokingly.
He laughed and uncorked a bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass.
“What other mysteries can you share?” I asked.
He gave it a moment of thought. “I grew up in a very small town in Italy. Moved to the States for college.”
“What did you study?” I asked.
“International Relations.”
“So how did you meet my dad?”
“Mr. Dane recruited me. But it wasn’t for my IR knowledge; it was for my political connections—my family is fairly…well known. It didn’t hurt that I have a passion for technology and am an expert marksman.”
“Military training?” I asked.
“My grandfather was big on hunting. He took me to shoot game every summer.”
I cringed. That did not sound appealing, but I wasn’t about to complain about the being handy with a gun thing.
“Of course,” he added, “I’ve had much more training now.”
He dumped a bag of dry pasta into a pot of boiling water, and I watched his back as he stirred. The way his insanely broad shoulders moved and stretched under his T-shirt and the way his back tapered down into a tight waist caught my eye. I couldn’t help but admire his perfect male form.
“Are you staring at my ass again?” he asked.
Oh God. How embarrassing.
I cleared my throat. “How did you know?”
“I can see your reflection in my glass right there.” He nodded toward his wine on the counter.
“Ah. Well…”
He turned with a stern look on his face. “Dakota, I need to be clear with you. I’m not having sex with you.”
I blinked. Was he for real? It wasn’t like I had been coming on to him. And if he thought I had been, why did he insist on addressing it with such an “in your face” approach? He’d said almost the exact same thing back when he’d been my high school “boyfriend,” and it was just as weird then as it was now. What was his deal?
Maybe he wants to clear the air. After all, you woke up this morning with your hand wrapped around his penis and you have sexual fantasies about him almost every night.
Damn it. Could he tell I was sexually attracted to him? If yes, did he understand that it was despite my better judgment? I was only human and, whether I liked it or not, the man was, in fact, the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen. That didn’t mean that I liked his personality or wanted to throw myself at him. I was smarter than lust.
“It’s normal,” he said, “to develop feelings for someone who protects you in a dangerous situation.”
“I looked at your ass,” I barked. “I did not ask you to sleep with me.”
“I realize that, but you might. We’re going to be here for a week, and I don’t want you to misinterpret my intentions. I’m here to protect you. Not get you into bed. This is work. Nothing else.”
“You know what? I think you’re the one who sounds worried. What? Afraid you’ll throw yourself at me in a moment of weakness?” I asked, half-serious, half not.
His gaze was frigid. “I know how to handle myself on the job.”
Job. Job. Yes, that was an excellent reminder of why I should shoo away any lustful thoughts from my mind. I was nothing but an assignment he’d move on from once this was over.
“Well,” I said in a suggestive tone just to mess with him, letting my eyes roam over his body, “I’ll be the judge of how well you handle yourself.”
“Dakota, I’m serious. There can’t be any of that between us.”
“Oh my God. I was kidding. I’m surprised that your giant ego actually fits inside that head. How did you manage to squeeze it all in?” I snagged the bottle off the counter.
“Where are you going with that?”
“Outside,” I answered, marching to the front porch.
“You’re underage.”
I held up my middle finger, but I’d already turned the corner so he couldn’t see.
“I saw that!” he said.
Damn it! The guy was like a goddamned spider with eyes stuck all over his giant fat head!
“I can see your reflection in the windshield of the truck,” he added.
Of course, it was parked out front.
I dusted off the rocking chair on the porch and took a sip from the bottle. It was actually quite nice. I’d never tried red wine, but the sweetness mixed with a tart aftertaste was perrrty yummy.
The screen door creaked and Paolo appeared with two glasses.
“I sense you are new to drinking wine. It tastes better with one of these.”
“Har, har.” I took the glass and filled it halfway.
He leaned against the rail, directly in front of me. “I am sorry about my bluntness. You must think I am a heartless asshole.” It was funny how his Italian accent sounded so thick now. Was this the real Paolo?
I didn’t reply, but took a sip from my glass instead.
“Okay,” he said. “You win. I will fuck you. But only if you don’t tell your father.”
“What?” I snapped my head in his direction, finding a giant grin stretched across his face. “Funny.” Actually, it sort of was. I started to laugh. Laughing felt good.
He tilted his head. “You have a lovely smile.”
“Are you flirting with me? Because if you are, it won’t work. I’m not sleeping with you.”
He laughed, and it was a deep, sexy, habit-forming laugh.
I couldn’t look away—wouldn’t have been able to even if a bear had popped out of the woods wearing a hula skirt. “You have a n—n—nice laugh, too.” I sipped my wine to unstick that glob in my throat.
He looked at me, and his smile melted away. His dark eyes bore into me, and the tension between us spiked. A gust of wind hit the treetops at the same moment, as if the gods were warning us both to back off.
“I’d better finish dinner.” He disappeared inside, and I released a breath I’d been unknowingly holding in.
Damn it, Dakota. What’s the matter with you?
Somewhere out there, a group of people wanted to hunt me down and ship my head off in a box to my father. And here I was, getting worked up over the man who saw me as work—a project he’d leave behind once his next assignment came along—whose scruples answered to a higher power (my father), and whose sense of right and wrong were dictated by a world that existed only in the shadows, a world I knew nothing about but had suddenly become a part of.
I took another sip and gazed into the forest, wondering where this story would end.
Can’t be a good place.
CHAPTER TWENTY
After a relatively silent dinner peppered with a few polite comments and smiles (and quite possibly the most exquisite pasta I’d ever sampled—diced onions, mushrooms, and bits of crispy bacon mixed with a creamy sauce, poured over fettuccine), I washed the dishes while Santi—Paolo went outside to do whatever crap international men of mystery did. Set up booby-traps, load guns, let off some steam by killing something large and fury…I didn’t know. But when he came inside shirtless, mopping his brow with his tee, panting and sweating, frankly, I didn’t care.
The plate in my hand went crashing to the floor along with my jaw. Good move, Dakota.
“Let me help you with that.” He grabbed a broom and dustpan from a small closet next to the front door.
I reached for them, and when my hands touched his, he froze.
I tugged the broom handle toward me. “I’ve got it, really.”
He stared for several long moments, giving me a brutally carnal look that made me quiver in my flip-flops.
No. I must be imagining it. He’d clearly said I was a job, and he was off-limits.
I cleared my dry throat. “Did you want to say something?”
He blinked as if I’d broken a magical entrancement. “I…I’m going to take a shower. Thank you for washing dishes.” He sauntered off, and though I was certain he could see my expression reflected in some hidden spoon strategically positioned somewhere in the room, I didn’t care. The goddamned man smelled like fresh sweat. He looked like an indestructible pillar of bulging, blatant masculinity. And when he walked away, all I could see was a towering mass of lust-provoking maleness. All I could think of was how we’d woken up this morning with our legs intertwined, my hand on his abundantly proportioned, hard-as-steel erection.
I sighed. “God save me,” I whispered. “Couldn’t my dad have picked someone old, short, and bald?”
I quickly finished off the dishes and went into the bedroom, hoping to find a large shirt to sleep in. I didn’t think the tiny tee, pair of pink socks, and panties I’d brought with me would do the trick.
I opened the top dresser drawer and found… “Shit! A really, really large automatic handgun…” I picked it up. It looked like the kind of gun Rambo might own. I carefully slid it back, glancing over my shoulder at the bathroom door. Paolo’s deep voice rang out, as he sang something in Italian.
Opera. I couldn’t help but smile. He was so…Italian.
I slid open the next drawer and saw a pink lacy nightie along with some other clothing. I held it up and inspected the garment with curiosity.
“If you need something to sleep in, my T-shirts are one drawer down.”
Paolo stood in the doorway, dripping wet, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His well-defined pecs and biceps wer
e just as astoundingly sinful as the last time I’d seen them, ten minutes ago. At least I thought it was ten minutes. Who knows how long I had been standing there gawking at the nightie?
I placed the nightgown back in the drawer and attempted to hide my emotions. What shocked me most was how much I didn’t want to think about him with someone else. It sparked a raging case of jealousy. But that couldn’t be right, unless Paolo had been correct—that when people are in dangerous situations, they quickly grow attachments to those who protect them.
Quickly? Quickly? I challenged myself. You’ve thought of nothing but him for the last five months.
Okay. Maybe I did feel something slightly deeper than good old-fashioned lust. But I couldn’t say exactly what it was. Not when anger, resentment, and suspicion were thrown into the soup.
But I couldn’t deny I felt jealous, which was plain stupid. Paolo had to be in his early to mid-twenties. He’d probably had quite a few girlfriends. Maybe one in every city. After all, he was an international man of mystery and not some college freshman virgin—a unicorn—like me.
“Thanks,” I said, and found a white T-shirt in the next drawer down.
“You can sleep in this bed. I’ll take the couch down here,” he said.
“What’s wrong with the bed upstairs?” I asked.
“I’ll rest easier down here, closer to you,” was all he offered.
Hadn’t he said we were safe here? If he believed it, then there was no reason for him to be on the couch.
I was about to say something, but realized I didn’t want to push him upstairs. Hell, I wanted him to sleep next to me.
“Okay.” I nodded and headed for the bathroom, avoiding the tempting view as I passed. I didn’t want to see him half-naked. Not when I needed to avoid fueling my irrational feelings for him. Besides—not that I wanted him—he was something I could never have. I’d never be the owner of that negligee. Not in his eyes. I was merely the boss’s daughter. A girl.
Fate Book (a New Adult Novel) Page 13
