“You could consider it kidnapping, I suppose.”
He turns another page.
“You changed my clothes,” I accuse.
“No.”
That stops me for half a second. “No?”
“One of the women on my staff changed your clothes.”
“That was supposed to improve the situation?”
“Simply ensuring the facts are accurate.”
“You are very committed to being irritating, aren’t you?”
“I prefer to be precise.” His mouth curves slightly, though his eyes stay on the pages of his book.
I reach the desk and let my fingers brush the edge of it. The letter opener is heavier than it looks when my fingers grip the hilt, lifting it quietly from the surface and sliding it off the desk in one fluid, natural movement. Good balance. Not sharp enough for a clean kill unless the angle is perfect, but good enough to inflict pain, and pain can create brilliant opportunities.
I move behind him, still acting as if I’m examining the books on the shelves. He lets me. My pulse steadies. The room narrows. The ache in my head fades behind focus. The blade rests low against my wrist, hidden now by the fall of my sleeve.
Three more steps. Two. One. I strike toward the side of his throat. Point toward his artery.
His hand catches my wrist before the blade gets within six inches of his skin. Impossibly fast. The book in his other hand closes with a soft snap.
“Better,” he says.
I twist. His grip tightens, not enough to break anything, but hard enough to prove he could. Then he pulls. One sharp, efficient motion. My balance goes, my feet tangle in the hem of the robe, and I hit his lap sideways with my hip across his thighs, and my free hand lands against his chest.
The letter opener drops to the floor. For one second, all I register is the heat of his body beneath mine. The hard lines of him, the steady rise of his chest beneath my palm. He smells like smoke and expensive cologne, which is rude. Kidnappers should smell like cigarettes and cheap things, not like this. Stefano smells like a mistake someone wrapped in silk and handed me with instructions not to touch.
His hand settles at my waist, holding me tighter against him.
“Let go,” I say.
“No,” he answers, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I try to drive my elbow into his ribs. He catches that too and pins both of my hands in one of his. The motion is clean. Practiced. Infuriating. His other hand stays at my waist, fingers spread against the robe like he has every right to keep me exactly where I landed.
That’s when I realize just how much bigger than me he is. Not in the way a football player is large, but in the way that those dashingly handsome actors in forbidden romance movies are. The length of his fingers wrapped around both my wrists is shocking. The scrolling tattoos from his fingers to his neck had somehow hidden that from me until now. Now I can feel every inch of his tall, lean, impossibly imposing build.
“You know,” he says, his green eyes mesmerizing, “most guests wait until after breakfast to attempt murder.”
“I’m not a guest, though, am I?”
“No. You’re more expensive than that.”
I glare at him. “Ask for a refund.”
“I don’t return things I want.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second. Long enough for me to notice. Long enough for him to know I notice.
I pull against his grip. “Where are Erin and Heath?”
“There she is.” His eyes lit up with amusement at my protests.
