“Can I at least have your number?”
“No. Out.”
She waited until he was out before she threw open the fridge and took out a drink. Grabbing the vodka by the neck, she shuffled back to her room.
Marco was still sitting on her couch, staring at the wall.
____________
Three days later, she was out on a shopping spree with her friends. They were carrying their Chanel bags on Fifth Avenue when a fully tinted Hummer pulled up at the curb, blocking their way. The back door swung open, revealing Achilles’s face, covered in aviators. “Inside.”
One word, and yet it pierced through her breastbone and straight into her heart.
“Tier, do you know this guy?” Rosamund, a supermarket chain heiress, twisted her nose in disapproval.
“Unfortunately. He’s my longtime stalker.” Tierney tossed her bags into the vehicle and climbed inside. “I’ll see you tonight at the gala.”
They were still staring, shell-shocked, with their mouths hanging open, when the Hummer zipped into the busy New York traffic.
“Miss me?” Tierney cooed, plucking out her lip balm and dabbing it to her lips with her pinky.
Achilles texted on his phone, not sparing her a glance.
Even when he sought her out, he didn’t give her proper attention. What kind of stalker was he?
She wanted to scream. Make a scene. The only reason she didn’t was because she didn’t want him to see how deep he burrowed under her skin.
“Whatever you need, it’ll have to be quick. I have a hot date tonight.” She yawned.
“We’ll see about that.”
“You’re not my father.”
“I know.” His eyes were still on his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. “I’m much more involved in your life.”
The rest of the drive was spent silently praying for his early and painful demise. They stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. She’d been there once before, when the Ferrantes attempted to broker a treaty between the Irish and Tatum Blackthorn, a local billionaire.
Achilles got out first and didn’t spare her a glance, even though exiting his monstrous ride in heels was no easy feat.
They ambled inside. The place boasted a vast expanse of wooden floors and exposed brick walls. The only piece of furniture was a flimsy wooden chair.
Tucker Reid was roped to it, gagged and screaming into a red ball.
Her heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. He looked like he’d been beaten so badly, the only reason she recognized him was that he wore the same black dress shirt as three days ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She dropped her shopping bags—which she could not remember why she’d brought with her in the first place—on the floor. “Untie him, you psychopath!”
Ignoring her rage, he strolled deeper into the room. “This the guy who touched you?”
She clamped her mouth shut, something between fear and rage dancing across her skin. She understood—even welcomed—a punch or two to the man who dared touch her. But kidnapping was a step too far.
“Is it him?” Achilles pressed, stopping a few feet from the man.
“Fuck y?—”
“Answer me!” he roared.
She stared at him defiantly in a silent screw you.
