I head down the hallway and turn on the bathtub. For a moment, I try to imagine Ransome in this tub, his washboard abs glistening in the suds, his scent infusing the steam, filling the bathroom with his pheromones.
Of course, that’s a short-lived fantasy. Ransome doesn’t seem like the bubble bathing type. Still, no reasonIcan’t indulge.
While the tub fills, I go into the shower. The soaps are fancy, with sleek, modern bottles bearing brand names I can’t pronounce. I grab all of them and empty their contents into the running water, smirking diabolically while the bubbles climb to the brim. It’s a bit overkill, but after what he did, I will gladly give myself a bladder infection just to prove a point.
While the tub continues to fill, I walk into his room. It is pristine, not a thread of the Persian rug out of place. So I jump on the bed. The mattress is pillow top but firm and it hardly budges. The frame, however, is pine and the support beams underneath make a creaking groan.
Did I break his bed that probably cost more than West Elm? Maybe. Do I care? Nope.
I go through his closet and rip every shirt from the hanger, letting them all fall to the floor. I mismatch his shoes, tear apart his bookshelves, and then head to the kitchen. My lips are still glossed in a layer of red lipstick from last night (“lasted through my kidnapping” is one hell of a testimonial forCoverGirl),so I pull every single glass from the cabinet, kissing the rim of each one.
I look around at the destruction and for a split second, I wonder if I went too far. This is the man, after all, that I have spent the last several months of my life idolizing. Not in ashrine-in-the-closetsort of way, but I have taken care of Ransome’s wants and needs. Not a fiber of his suits is ever unpressed. Not a drop of his coffee is too hot or too cold. And how am I repaid? With crashed dates and baseless accusations. So no, I don’t think I’ve gone too far. I think it’s all just right.
After talking myself down, I strip and hop into the bath that may or may not have sloshed onto the floor.
When he gets home, Ransome Rozanov can kiss my soapy ass.
15
RANSOME
Keeping a girl hostage in my penthouse is not exactly legal. Not that that’s ever stopped me before.
Amara isn’t my first prisoner and she won’t be my last. Nor is her imprisonment my first felony. With the way my days have gone recently, I’ll probably be cutting out a guy’s tongue or putting a bullet in someone’s knee by the end of the week. Locking the door on her is the least of my latest sins.
But I have no intention or desire to hurt Amara Parker. If I did, I would have dealt with her last night, in the warehouse, not the comfort of my own home.
As it stands, that little act of mercy is making my life harder. Knowing that she’s in my house right now, alone and afraid, has made focusing on work today very difficult. So when I get a call from Ivan, the security guard I posted outside my front door, I answer on the first ring.
“It’s your hostage, sir,” he begins.
I don’t like the unevenness in his voice. “I told you if there was an emergency?—”
“No emergency, sir. I think she’s fine. The penthouse, though, might be another story.”
My mood shifts from concerned to pissed. “What did she do?”
“She’s going apeshit, sir. Sounds expensive.”
I hang up without another word and march out of the office.
When Ivan sees me coming, he practically leaps out of the way. I punch the security code in the door and kick it open.
Like he said it would be, my shit is everywhere. Cushions ripped from the couch, dishes everywhere, clothes everywhere. My bed is a wreck, the curtains hanging lopsided. The only thing I don’t see is Amara.
Then I smell it.
Bathwater.
I stalk over to the bathroom and bash the door open. But Amara, who is acting like my bathroom is some kind of five-star spa, doesn’t even jump. She simply looks up at me with only her eyes as if I am the one inconveniencing her.
“Do you feel good about yourself?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning against the door jam.
“I feel pretty good right now, thanks for asking.”
The blood in my veins heats up a notch. Then?—
“How about you?” she drawls lazily. “How are you feeling keeping your personal assistant hostage in your penthouse? Does it make you feel powerful? In control? I bet you get off on shit like this…”
