I realize I don't actually know the client's name. The appointment was set up through a third party, which isn't unusual for high-end properties. Rich people value their privacy.
"Red."
The voice makes me freeze. Low, accented, impossibly familiar. I turn slowly, my heart already hammering against my ribs, and come face-to-face with the man who's been haunting my dreams for five weeks.
Dante stands in the living room like he owns it—which, apparently, he does. Black slacks, white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal those strong forearms I remember too well. He looks like sex and sin. Every rational thought in my head scatters like leaves in a hurricane.
"Welcome home, Red," he says.
There's something possessive in his tone that makes my skin prickle. I can’t think straight. All of my senses are on overload.
Wait—did he just say welcome home?
"Home?" I take a step backward, my professional composure cracking. "I'm sorry, there's been some mistake. I'm here about a listing?—"
"No mistake." He moves closer. Like a predator who's never been prey. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
This is wrong. All of this is wrong. I grab for my briefcase. My phone. Help. "I need to leave. There's obviously been some confusion?—"
I snatch up the briefcase and make it out into the foyer. I reach for the elevator button, but nothing happens. Press it again, harder. Still nothing.
"You're not going anywhere," Dante says, his voice calm and lethal.
My blood turns to ice. "What did you do?"
"Took precautions."
I spin to face him, anger cutting through the fear. "Precautions? Are you insane? You can't just trap people in your apartment!"
"My apartment, my rules."
The casual arrogance in his tone makes me want to scream. "This is kidnapping! I came here for a business meeting, not whatever sick game you're playing."
"Business meeting." He almost smiles. "In a way, that's exactly what this is."
Nothing about this makes sense. I managed to get my phone out of my briefcase, but there's no signal. Of course there's no signal—he's thought of everything.
"Let me out," I demand, trying to keep my voice steady. "Right now."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Red."
"Stop calling me that!" The words explode out of me. "My name is Hannah, and you don't get to use pet names after you disappeared like a coward!"
Something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe, or something deeper. But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Hannah," he says. The way he says my name makes my knees weak despite everything. "You're collateral for your father's debt."
I stare at him. "What?" My hand almost goes to my stomach. Almost. Collateral. If he only knew.
"Your father owes me money. A significant amount. Until he pays it back, you stay here."
"My father—" I shake my head violently. "You're insane. My dad's an accountant. He doesn't have debts to people like you."
"People like me?"
The dangerous edge in his voice should scare me. Instead, it sends heat flooding through my veins. I hate myself for it.
"I don't know what you are," I say, "but I know you're not Kevin the accountant. The penthouse suite, the way you just punched that guy, the way you're acting now—none of this is normal."
