Page 29 of Tainted Obsession 1
His desire to be a federal agent is one of the things I’ve always admired most about him. Ever since I met him in our freshman year of college, that’s been his aspiration. He’s supposed to be one of the good guys.
But even if George is corrupt, Massimo has to know that targeting a DEA agent is dangerous. From a criminal’s perspective, there’s nothing riskier than going after American law enforcement.
Maybe I can convince my captor that it’s not worth the risk. He won’t dare hold me hostage if it isn’t advantageous for him. Not if it means the DEA will come after him in full force.
Massimo promised me that no one can get past Duarte’s defenses. And George warned me about the manpower and weapons commanded by the cartels. People will die if agents try to storm this building to get to me.
I struggle to slow my whirring thoughts. If I’m going to escape without risking others’ lives, I’ll have to reason with Massimo.
I might be able to talk my way out of this, and no one will have to get hurt.
Hardening my resolve, I open my eyes and note that all the blood has washed from my skin. No signs of violence mark my body.
I’m not sure how long I’ve lingered in the shower, sorting through my tangled thoughts.
Trepidation nips at me. Is Massimo a patient man? If he decides I’ve been in here too long, he might decide to break that lock and come in while I’m still naked.
My fingers shake slightly as I quickly turn off the shower and step out into the opulent ensuite. A plush bathmat cushions my feet, the heat from the tiles beneath ensuring that a chill doesn’t touch my toes. I grab a fluffy white towel and wrap it around me, covering myself.
Still, I feel far too exposed and vulnerable. I look at the pile of discarded clothes that I stripped off before I took a shower. Dirt from where I fell on the pavement smudges my silky pink pajama shorts, and putting on the blood-stained camisole is out of the question.
That leaves me with one option: Massimo’s huge shirt. It’s big enough to cover me almost down to my knees, and the loose garment conceals the shape of my body.
I do my best to ignore the scent of leather and amber as I tug the soft cotton over my head. Something seems to have been rewired in my brain when he held me through my panic attack, and a tempting sense of comfort teases at my senses.
Before I sort through the confusing emotions, a gentle knock on the bathroom door jolts through my body like a thunderclap. I pull the shirt tightly around me, as though it’s enough to shield me from impending danger.
“Are you decent?” Massimo’s deep voice is easily discernible through the closed door.
My reply sticks in my constricted throat, which is too tight from the fresh surge of fear.
“Answer me, Evelyn.”
Does anger sharpen his tone? Or concern?
“Yes.” I force out an answer before he chooses to break down the door.
I’ve witnessed too much violence tonight, and I can’t handle another outburst.
“Unlock the door.” A firm order. “Now,” he adds when I hesitate.
I unstick my feet from the warm tiled floor, moving to obey him. He’ll come in here, one way or another. I might as well take the smallest bit of control over my situation and unlock the door with my own hands.
As soon as the lock turns, he steps directly into my personal space, joining me in the bathroom. He’s still shirtless, and his muscular torso fills my vision. My eyes catch on the small white bandage at his right side.
Massimo isn’t seriously hurt. Some tension I’ve been holding since he saved me releases from my chest, and I huff out a relieved breath. The sight of his blood and the knowledge that he’d bledfor mehad caused me more anxiety than I’d realized.
He’s a criminal,I remind myself.He’s holding me here against my will.
Even so, I would’ve been tormented by guilt if he’d truly suffered for saving my life. No matter what else he might be, Massimo is a brave man. He jumped straight into the line of fire to protect me.
“You need to hydrate,” he announces. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”
He holds out the glass of water I hadn’t noticed in his hand—I’ve been too distracted by the sight of his powerful body and the bandaged wound at his side.
“I’m fine,” I say, placating him automatically. It’s an ingrained response to reassure others that I don’t need help; I don’t need to inconvenience anyone.
His jaw firms. “Someone pulled a gun on you less than an hour ago, and you just had a panic attack. Drink the water.”
