Wishing I had a voodoo doll with me so I could jab my frustrations into it, I turn to the bookshelves to check out his selections.
Philosophy. Biographies. Sun Tzu’sThe Art of Warand Niccolò Machiavelli’sThe Prince.
Figures. The dealer of secrets gets his education from the greatest strategists in history.
I pull out a book I’ve seen before but haven’t read.
Dale Carnegie’sHow to Win Friends & Influence People.
I scoff and mutter, “Like he needs to make friends, the manipulating, emotionless, spineless—”
“Wouldn’t finish that sentenceif I were you.”
I freeze. My breath hitches as the scent of vetiver, smoke, and salt wafts to my nose. Then, a column of heat appears at my back.
My heart twists and jumps like it’s competing in the Olympic qualifiers.
Clearing my throat, I stuff the book back on the shelf and turn around.
My voice deserts me.
Elias,myhusband, is standing fresh from exercising, his half-naked, glistening body inches away from me, a towel curled around his neck.
Fires ignite on my skin, heat suffusing my face.
My feet stumble, my back plastering against the shelves for support.
Muscles. Endless stretches of sinewy muscle.
And ink. Ivy, vines, roses coiling up his arms, swirling over his chest. A lone Chinese character sits above his right pec—old, inked deep. It must be meaningful.
Sweat drips down his body, writhing a sultry path down his broad chest, the grooves of his abs, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his low-slung gray sweatpants.
Then there’s the heavy bulge appearing to grow by the second.
My lungs try but fail to retain oxygen. My fingers grip the hem of my shirt.
Anything other than pouncing on this virile man in front of me.
“A deviant,” he rasps.
“Wh-What?”
I snap my gaze up, meeting his intense eyes—pupils invading the green of his irises. A droplet of sweat drips from his dark hair, trailing down the bridge of his nose to his full lips. His shadow looms over me, trapping me in a purgatory of wicked temptations.
“You want freedom, but you don’t follow the rules,” he murmurs, his gaze snared on my lips. “Now, how can this partnership work out?”
He dips his tongue out. Like he’s hungry. Famished for something.
My core clenches.
Then his words register.
“Partnership!” Fury chases up my spine like a blast of frigid water, cooling whatever lapse of sanity just transpired. “Ifthisis your ideaof partnership—locking me up inside a spooky mansion like some Victorian heroine—think again.”
His eyes flare. He shifts, the scary scar on his cheek twisting under the dim light.
“What we have is not a partnership. It’s a kidnapping. And if you think I’m going to sit around and let you bulldoze me, you’ve got another thing coming.”
