And far more dangerous because they almost sound like a promise. I hate that I want to believe him.
So I smile with all my teeth and say, “Then for now, I’ll be planning.”
His mouth curves just slightly. “I assumed.”
“Enjoy your new home,” I say. “I’m going to tear it apart from the inside.”
For the first time since stepping off the plane, he almost smiles for real.
“Birdie,” he murmurs, “that’s the first thing you’ve said all day that sounds like you again.”
Then he leaves me standing there with the locked elevator glowing red beside me, the city glittering beyond the glass, and the sick, certain knowledge that if I want out I’m going to have to be smarter than the man who built my cage.
24
Birdie
I’ve been trapped in this penthouse for seven freaking days.
Seven days of pacing polished floors and glaring at guards who refuse to be intimidated by me. Seven days of throwing the kind of tantrums that should have shaken walls, only to have Lorenzo lean back in his chair and smile at me like I’m the most entertaining problem he’s ever bought himself. Seven days of hating how good he looks at the head of the dinner table, sleeves rolled, voice low, eyes always finding me no matter how hard I try to avoid them.
And worst of all?
Seven nights of dreams so vivid they leave me waking breathless, twisted in ruined sheets, reaching for a man I should never want.
I step out of the shower and scrub myself dry harder than necessary.
“Freaking pregnancy hormones,” I mutter under my breath. “Making me so horny I can’t seestraight.”
“What was that?” Lorenzo’s voice comes from the other side of the bedroom door.
I freeze and my heart slams once against my ribs.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I came to tell you I’m going out of town for a few days.”
That gets me moving. I cross the room and yank the door open, not caring that I’m wearing nothing but a towel.
“What?” I ask sweetly. “Need to go check in with your wife?”
His gaze lands on me and goes very still.
It starts at my face, drops to the damp line of my hair, the bare slope of my shoulders, the towel clutched high over my chest, then lower, slower, until my whole body feels noticed.
My body, traitor that it is, notices back.
That is the only explanation for what happens next.
I let the towel fall.
It drops to the floor between us like a gauntlet. For one breathless second, neither of us moves.
Then I lift my chin. “Well?”
His throat works. Something dark and dangerous moves through his face, there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“I’m going out of town,” he says, voice rougher now, “not to see Fran.”
