He moved to cup my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasted so sharply with the intensity radiating from him. “I can't let anything happen to you. Do you understand that? I can't.”
Something in his voice silenced the retort that had been forming on my lips. This wasn't just about control or protection. The naked fear in his eyes told a different story, one that made my heart constrict painfully in my chest.
“Okay,” I whispered, reaching up to cover one of his hands with my own. “I won't go anywhere alone.”
The relief that washed over his face was so incredibly profound. “Thank you.”
His mouth crashed to mine in a kiss that felt like drowning and being saved all at once. Tongue sweeping inside, he claimed me with a desperation that set every nerve ending alight. I responded instinctively, my body arching into his, hands clutching at his shoulders as if I might float away without his anchoring weight.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine. “Let me take you home.”
I nodded, suddenly exhausted by the whiplash of emotions that had crashed through me in the span of minutes. “Okay. But you need a shower first.” I wrinkled my nose, injecting a teasing note to break the tension. “You stink.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips and that hint of dimple I'd grown addicted to made a brief appearance. “Brat.”
As we gathered my things and headed for the door, Rafe's hand found the small of my back, a warm, steady pressure that felt both protective and possessive. The fear that had gripped me at the mention of the stalker was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but now it was tempered by the knowledge that I wasn't facing this alone anymore.
For better or worse, Rafe and I were in this together. And something told me that whoever was watching me had no idea what they'd unleashed by threatening what Rafael de Luca considered his.
Chapter 27
Rafe
My father's voice droned on about quarterly projections and client satisfaction metrics, but my mind had drifted a thousand miles from the sleek mahogany boardroom table. Two weeks since the last threatening note had appeared at our door. Two weeks of newly-installed motion sensors, security upgrades, and Mac's investigation turning up nothing. Two weeks of cataloguing the subtle ways fear had crept into our lives like an unwelcome shadow.
"—the Goldmans are threatening to pull their business," my father continued, his voice slicing through my wandering thoughts. "Are you even listening, Rafael?"
Straightening in my chair, I forced my focus back to the conference room where Vittorio de Luca sat at the opposite end of the table, immaculate in his custom Armani and radiating that particular blend of disappointment and disdain I'd grown up with.
"The Goldmans aren't going anywhere," I said, plucking a random detail from earlier in the conversation. "They've beenthreatening to leave for the past three years over every perceived slight. It's posturing."
My father's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps if you devoted more attention to our clients' concerns and less to whatever domestic drama you've entangled yourself in, you'd understand the gravity of the situation."
I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips. Thedomestic dramawas a stalker who had escalated from cryptic notes to explicit threats, who knew details of our private life that no one should have access to. But explaining that to my father would be pointless.
Instead, I let my mind drift to Mac’s last visit two night ago.
"The motion sensors are picking up any movement?" he’d asked as he’d paced perimeter of our living room.
"Every slight shift," I'd confirmed. "Separate alerts for each room, direct to my phone. The cameras record continuously. I've upgraded the locks, added a security detail downstairs, and installed glass-break sensors on all windows."
"Good.” Mac had nodded. “He'll have to be fucking determined to get past all that." He hadn't said what we were both thinking—that someone who had been stalking Cecelia this long, with this level of obsession, might indeed be that determined.
So far, the investigation had yielded frustratingly little. The notes were typed on expensive but common paper, available in any high-end stationery store. The roses came from a wholesaler that supplied half the florists in Manhattan. The blood-red paint was a standard acrylic, sold in art supply stores throughout the city. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses who remembered seeing anyone suspicious. A professional ghost, or just someone very, very careful.
"Rafael."
My father's sharp tone yanked me back to the present. "When do you plan to annul this foolish marriage of yours?" he asked. "The Hastings family called again yesterday. They're eager to begin planning an engagement party."
My jaw tightened. "There won't be an engagement party."
"Don't be ridiculous," my father scoffed. "We had an understanding. This business with the Vegas wedding was your childish rebellion, fine. I've given you time to get it out of your system. But the Hastings merger—"
"It's not a merger," I interrupted. "I'm not a subsidiary you can offload to the highest bidder."
His nostrils flared, the only visible sign that I'd struck a nerve. "The alliance between our families would secure Orologio's position for generations. The Hastings connections alone—"
"Are not worth my future," I finished for him.
