Page 47 of A Touch of Dark
While I haven’t read too much into the case overturning the Borgetta conviction, I’m inclined to believe my father’s judgment.
After all, some display their darkest impulses for the world to see.
Like Damien’s art…
I shiver, recalling how illustrated, hollow eyes held me captive. In the model’s painted gaze, I found terror, fear, passion, life. Those elusive traits a certain artist claimed I didn’t possess.
Just how long has he been watching me to know as much? I left his bug in my office drawer—a rather stupid hiding place in retrospect—but something warns me there are more. In the boardroom? In the hallway? The lobby? I name every location I can while avoiding the most obvious target.
The thought of Damien listening in on my private moments is enough to drive me upstairs, into the shower. I turn the water as hot as it can go and scrub my skin raw. Then I redress in Diane’s borrowed clothing, sequester myself in the guest bedroom, and do the one act that Simon, after all these years, never made me do. I call the office and I take a week off work, citing the drama around my father’s overturned cases.
“I just need a few days,” I lie.
When I return downstairs and join my father in the great room, I intend to announce my desire to spend the rest of the week. As Daddy angrily flips through the channels to avoid the news stations, the words are poised on the tip of my tongue.You need me here.
Try as I might, I can’t spit them out. Seven days is more than twice what Simon ever took from me at one time. I’ve already conceded my life to one dangerous man. Psychopath or not, there is no way in hell I’ll surrender more of myself to another.
Emboldened, I tell Daddy goodbye and have his driver return me to town. On the way there, I call the management of the Lariat and demand my suite be searched upon my arrival. For good measure, I request an armed escort.
Two can play the surveillance game.
Flanked by a guard twenty minutes later, I feel confident enough to face Damien head-on. Once I reach my door, I boldly swipe my keycard and step inside. Only to suffocate.
Roses.
Exotic masculinity.
Intimidation.
My nostrils flare, catching every scent before my other senses even register the danger.
“Wait, miss!” The guard grabs my shoulder, making me trip over the threshold. He mutters something I don’t hear.
I’m too busy hallucinating. Somehow, I manage to choke out a statement of my own. “What in the hell?”
I step farther into the foyer without waiting for an answer. My eyes blink, unwilling to register the scene before them.
Someone drenched my gray color scheme in a bloody shade of red. It’s everywhere. Rose petals, to be exact. Hundreds coat the floor in a haphazard spread. Menacing enough on their own, the mutilated buds are merely the icing on the cake of unease my tormentor sought to deliver.
I don’t realize that I’ve circled around to my coffee table until I’m standing before it, a trail of crushed petals in my wake.
There, lying on the exact spot where I was the other night, is a square object wrapped neatly in crimson paper. A black bow gives it a wicked finish. Anticipation and sweat slick my palms, and it’s suddenly impossible to breathe.
“Miss?”
I look over and find the security guard watching me from the mouth of the foyer, his lips pursed.
He has a radio pressed to his ear and static issues from it. “My manager is pulling the camera footage now. Should we call the police?”
“No.” God, I don’t know why that word leaves my mouth. Or why my gaze won’t leave the box. A foolish thought crosses my mind before I can quash it. How might Damien’s gift differ from Simon’s?
There’s no mistaking who delivered this parcel for me. I smell him, tainting the air. Cologne. Mocking smugness.
I know as surely as I know my own name that he’s overseeing this very moment. Waiting.
“I…I overreacted,” I say, my voice rasping. “This came from a friend. You can go.”
“Are you sure?” The security guard looks torn between the floral massacre and his crackling radio. “If you want to file a police report, it should be done as soon as—”
