Page 11 of Savage Vows

“You are correct, ma’am.”

I exhale. Matteo isn’t taking any chances, and I really can’t blame Chiara for following his orders—no matter how much I hate the fact she’s now my shadow. Maybe I should be grateful he brought along a female bodyguard.

A few minutes later, my hands washed and dried, I rejoin Matteo.

“Want anything?”

Never in my life have I been at the mercy of another person. My mother and grandparents left me plenty of money. And maybe from guilt, my father has always given me a generous stipend each month. Now I’m dependent on Matteo for a snack.

Screw that.

It’s his fault I don’t have any money with me. And he’s probably richer than Midas, all from ill-gotten gains.

Determinedly I grab a handful of delicate, crumbly sticks of milk chocolate that are wrapped in cheerful yellow packaging. Then I select a soda from a nearby fridge. God only knows when my kidnapper will feed me an actual meal.

“All of that?”

Because of his comment, I snatch up a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. “You owe me.”

He shrugs.

Of course, he only gets a bottle of water. Is he superhuman?

Within a few minutes, we’re back in the car. Once more, he leans over to fasten my seatbelt, his movements deliberate and controlled, the heat of his strong body pressing against me.

I hate that my breath catches when his fingers brush against my collarbone, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.

“I don’t need your help,” I snap, twisting away, but there’s nowhere to go in the confines of the car. The leather seat is cool against my bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him.

“Clearly you do.” His voice is low, a warning wrapped in silk. The buckle clicks, and he doesn’t retreat immediately. His face is close enough that his breath warms my cheek.

By the time we reach Mayfair, the city is cloaked in darkness, its streets glowing with the warm light from the ornate lampposts.

Nash stops in front of a breathtakingly gorgeous four-story townhome with a Georgian facade. With its wrought iron fence and balconies, it screams old world elegance and obscene amounts of money. “We’re staying here?”

Matteo nods. “Belongs to a friend of mine.”

Even though the place is stunning, I know what it really is. A gilded cage meant to imprison me.

Chiara goes in front of us, while Nash grabs luggage from the trunk. At least all of them have belongings.

The door opens, and we’re greeted by a woman wearing a black dress with a white apron. She smiles widely. “Mr. Moretti, so nice to see you again.” She turns to me. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. DeLuca. I’m Mrs. Billingsly. I hope you enjoy your stay at Hollings House.”

The woman is gracious, and I’m sure she has no idea I’m here under duress. Or maybe that’s not true. Since I’m dressed like an orphan, maybe she has a suspicion.

Somehow she has gracefully managed to get us inside the grand hallway, with the door closed and locked behind us in just a few seconds.

Chiara continues past us, toward the back of the townhome while Nash heads up the sweeping staircase with the luggage and my plastic bag filled with chocolate and chips.

“Thanks for everything, Mrs. Billingsly,” Matteo tells her. His voice is appreciative and kind, and his tone is one I’ve never heard from him. “We won’t require your services for the rest of the evening.”

“If you’re certain.”

His phone rings, and he glances at the display before silencing the device.

“I’m happy to show Ms. DeLuca to her room while you deal with business,” the housekeeper suggests.

“No need.” He silences his phone. “Thank you.”

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