“Am I making you uncomfortable?” She’s latched on. Mandy’s always had a knack for ferreting out my weaknesses.
I grind my teeth. This was a mistake.
“Red.” She snaps her fingers at me. “Be quick about it. I expect a high level of service at Salinger’s kidnapping resort and spa.”
33
MANDY
So, yeah, I was totally going to bash him over the head with a bottle, though maybe I shouldn’t since he does sign my paychecks.
Salinger’s clearly lost it, right?
Or maybe this is what he does. Maybe he gets off on locking whatever girl he’s screwing at the time in a swanky room in his obscenely large penthouse and having kinky sex with her. My stomach flip-flops as I suddenly remember the way it felt to have his fingers stroke methere. I am completely obsessed with his touch, and I haven’t even seen him naked. Pretty pathetic, right?
Right.
And, no, I am not fantasizing about being tied to a bedpost and fucked ’til I pass out, thank you very much.
I force myself off the bed, wrapping the robe around me. In all fairness, my prison cell-slash-guest room is veryfancy and bigger than my studio apartment. One wall is an expanse of windows with a killer view over the skyline to the ocean. In the morning, I will be able to see the islands dotting the entrance to the bay, Salinger’s private island among them.
On an opposite wall is the breakfast bar, with a coffee maker, small fridge, tiny bar-sized sink, and a few contemporary European-style cups and saucers resting on a wooden tray. The floating shelf above the marble counter holds more glasses, a few plants, and some art.
Trailing my fingers along the shelves, I absently wonder how much input Salinger had in the decor. Did he just hire someone and move in, like one of those home-renovation shows? The bathroom is certainly nicer than anything I’ve seen on HGTV, with a freestanding tub that’s probably big enough for both him and me, though he is pretty large.
I so wish I had my phone. I’m dying to text Jess.
A chill washes over me.
I can’t really tell her what’s happening, though, since the only reason I’m here in Salinger’s house, locked in this expensively decorated room, is because I saw Jaxon at the club.
He didn’t see me. I escaped,I remind myself.Everything is fine. This is fine.Totally normal to be locked in your boss’s penthouse to hide from your stalker.
I’m suddenly shaking.
It’s because I’m cold, not because I’m still freaked out from earlier. The bathroom is freezing with all this marble.
“After dinner, I’m taking a bath,” I say aloud to try to ground myself. If I’m going to be stuck here, I’m definitely having a bath on Salinger’s dime.
It isn’t much warmer back in the bedroom. I long for Salinger’s arms to wrap around me.
The key grinds in the lock, and the door swings open. Salinger walks in, wary, carrying an open bottle of red wine with a fancy label and two glasses. His dress-shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows with neat cuffs, both sides exactly even. The top two buttons on the dress shirt are undone.
“1989 Château de Lune. An exclusive family-run vineyard.” He pours a splash into a glass and hands it to me to taste.
The wine is full and rich. I close my eyes, savor it. “Wow, you really do run an excellent kidnapping service, Mr. Svensson. Bravo. I will be leaving a four-star review for you.”
He pours more wine into my glass, and I toast him and take another long sip of wine.
“Mmm,” I moan. “This is really, really good. I’m going to up you to four-point-five stars.”
“Maybe this will get me up to five stars.” Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a phone in a familiar pink case.
“Ooh! Gimme.”
“Now who has a social-media addiction?” He smirks as I snatch my phone out of his hand.
“Wrong, doofus—I’m a workaholic.” I scroll through my emails and text messages.
