Page 56 of Girl Anonymous

Somehow, she hadn’t seen that coming. She thought there’d be a car waiting to whisk them away somewhere…somewhere where she could explain to him where she stood. Where they stood.

As it was, she listened while Señor Alfonso assured her they would occupy the most secure suite in the house, on the third floor, that he had hosted celebrities who needed a time away from the limelight and she and Mr. Arundel would be completely private during their time at the Live Oak.

She thanked him again, for the fact of the matter was—she needed that security. She’d seen the faces at Mrs. Arundel’s funeral. She’d suffered under Connor’s fury and acrimony. She’d felt the malice that had invaded her home to place the bottle in her drawer. If she wanted to live tonight, she would stay where Dante had arranged.

Ludwig led them toward a coat closet, or what she thought was a coat closet. But no; he used a small key to open the lock, and handed it to Dante. “The other doors have been programmed as you requested.” He stepped back.

Dante gestured her into the dim space lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Ludwig shut the door behind them.

The right hand wall was lined with shelves of canned goods; a camouflage, she supposed, as well as storage. The other two walls were flat and blank, and Maarja took a quick, frightened breath. Was this like the Haunted Mansion at Disney? Was the floor going to sink or rise or go sideways? Not that she was particularly claustrophobic, but this close, airless space with Dante Arundel made her feel trapped and wary.

Dante reached into the shelf at eye level and tapped in a code. “The same as the number you memorized,” he told her.

A door opened to the left.

Breathing a deep breath of relief, she stepped through into a small foyer lit by a glass and molded iron sconces on the walls.

With a soft click, the door closed behind her.

She looked back.

Dante ran his hands over the door, securing it against intrusion. She supposed she should appreciate the feeling of safety, but…he was on the side of the door with her. He laid claim to her. He believed she was his. To own? To do with as he wished?

Oh, hell no.

Two closed doors stood between them and the kitchen and here, in the space between real life and its consequences, existed the chance to make her position clear to Dante. She could not allow that moment in the restaurant control what happened between them.

She took one step up—the high ground—and turned to face him. In icy tones, she said, “I am not yours. I would not be even if thismarriage—” because Maarja was really angry, and because she knew it would irritate him, she used air quotes “—were legitimate or legal. Such an idea, that you can own me, is insulting to me as a human being.”

He didn’t nod or acknowledge her words in any way. He watched her, narrow-eyed, unsmiling.

Which made her want to rush at him, make him afraid of her punches and kicks. Only the strong caution her martial arts master had instilled in her held her back. That, and the knowledge Dante probably had more experience, undoubtedly was more ruthless, and obviously had a longer reach.

She used her words, because before they shared a suite, he should by God acknowledge her dominion over herself. “Your mother could never have approved of such an outdated belief of human ownership. Would be ashamed of you for holding such a view.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, butespeciallyyour mother, who in her own marriage was nothing but an object and a possession. I’m convinced she taught you to be more enlightened.”

“She did try.” He barely seemed to move his lips.

“You can get over the idea I’m going to fall into your plans and sleep with you out of some misplaced sense of obligation.”

“Obligation.”

“Because you saved my life.” That sounded churlish. “Not that I’m unappreciative—”

“You appreciate that I didn’t leave you to be murdered.”

She hesitated. When he repeated her words, especially in that cold emotionless tone, they sounded insulting. “Are we sure someone was going to murder me? The bottle in my drawer… They were trying to frame me.”

As if seeking patience, he looked down, a slow motion, deliberate in its purpose, then up again. His eyes, dark fringed, faintly glowed as if the gold in their depths had grown molten with heat.

The heat of impatience? Or anger? Or…

He wasn’t listening to her. He was refusing to hear what shesaid, or believe that she meant it. Prickly with frustration, she turned her back on him and climbed the stairs.

---