“You weren’t even listening to me, were you?” my brother mutters. He seems to have burned off his rage.
“I got the gist of it,” I tell him. Mainly that I’m a fucking lunatic with a death wish who thinks with my cock.
Maybe he’s not wrong. But in spite of it all, I can feel a low swirl of excitement as I realize that in just a few hours, she’s going to be standing in my home.
Then my pretty little thief is going to learn a lesson or two in good behavior. And I’m going to enjoy every sweet moment of instruction.
Chapter 11
Emma McErlane
The limo pulls to a halt outside a towering building that seems to have been constructed completely of glass and steel. I feel my eyes widen as I look through the tinted window, staring up at it. Reaching high overhead, it glitters in the city nightlights, like some kind of freakish tower that will lead me to another world.
And in a way, that’s exactly what it is. My own world is gone. My father hadn’t even come to see me off when the driver arrived to collect me. My only consolation is that I’ve brought Parker along with me. Seated beside me, he pats my hand now.
“It’s all going to be okay, Miss Em,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of you, dear. You’ll be just fine.”
I swallow hard and give a small nod, not looking at him. I know if he sees the glint of tears in my eyes, it’ll worry him. I’m not the type who gives in to fits of weeping. I don’t think I’ve cried since Mum’s funeral, and I don’t plan to start now.
You can do this, Emma.
I suck in a breath and pull my shoulders back. My throat is dry when I swallow, my head foggy with lack of sleep. Along with more than a hint of fear.
And something tugging in the pit of my belly that I can only describe as anticipation…at the thought of being near him again.
Jesus.
There must be something seriously wrong with me. Abruptly I reach for the door handle and shove the car door open before the driver can open it for me. I step out, not bothering to wait for my bags to be removed from the trunk.
“Let’s get this fucking over with,” I mutter, ignoring the burly man standing at the entrance of the building as I sweep past.
Over with? It’s just beginning…
I swallow again.
Elevator doors swish open as I reach them. I march inside, not looking at the group of men who accompany me in. At least my father had cared enough to send his own security contingent. Bunch of fucking thugs. I turn and fold my arms over my chest, glaring at the closed doors as we’re whisked up the building. I’m in my outfit of choice – torn denims, Doc Martens, and a plain black t-shirt beneath an oversized gray hoodie. The reflection in the mirrored doors makes me look like a rebellious teen, and I half regret the decision not to dress more like a girl.
“Screw it. He can take me or leave me,” I say under my breath.
“Miss Em?” Parker murmurs. I give a shrug. I really have to get out of the habit of thinking out loud. A low ding marks the arrival of our floor, and I stalk out as the doors open. The elevator opens directly into a sprawling penthouse apartment. And if I was expecting some kind of high-end shag-pad, I’m completely wrong.
It’s classy and beautifully appointed. And opulent, too, no doubt about that. The décor seems designed for a person who is clearly tactile. It’s all about rich velvet and wide, sumptuous sofas and strategically placed mirrors that I’m pretty sure have seen their share of debauchery. There’s classical music playing from somewhere, which adds an air of elegance, but I’m not fooled for a second. Absolutely not.
He’s a filthy fucker. Remember that, Emma.
I’m guessing he’s going to have me locked up in this place when he goes back to his “domestic blisters” with his perfect little wife. Probably a sprawling suburban place with a dog and a couple of kids.
The thought makes me scoff. There’s no way Raoul Caraldi would lead a life like that. Poor Mrs. Caraldi is probably set up in some other swish apartment, far enough away for her to never learn about the countless women he takes to his bed…or sofa…or kitchen counter, I imagine.
Unless he’s one of those guys whose wife turns a blind eye to his infidelities. Somehow, that seems more like him.
Bastard.
In the main reception area, there’s a man in a black suit waiting, his hands clasped behind him. Built like a brick wall, when he steps forward as we get out of the elevator, I sense my dad’s guys bristling around me.
“Weapons stay out here,” the man says sharply. His eyes dark and hard.
“You don’t get to—” Murphy, the ginger giant I hate so much, is barking back.
