Page 17 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
The last twelve hours have been a volcano explosion. My desire for Jenna has been smouldering away, safely under the surface. Yes, I’ve been stalking her, but that’s been all smoke and rumblings. No damage done. No threat of destruction to all that she holds dear.
I’m a danger to her. If it wasn’t clear enough before, her losing her memory emphasises that she shouldn’t be in my violent world.
I swear then yank out my phone, striding up and down the hallway where I chased Jenna down and stole her kiss. I relive every step and moan in my mind as I receive an update from Arkadi.
Basically, there’s no progress. My men are working with anyone who has reached out since I called Westminster and asked. I okayed that last night, telling them to organise anything necessary.
I didn’t imagine that half a dozen London mafias would volunteer to help. Everyone from Fulham in the west, Croydon in the south, and Highbury in the North, have been in contact with offers to scour the sprawling city for the man.
I never dreamed of having other London mafia bosses on my side. That’s unhinged. But the Bratva territories occasionally work together, so when Artem, the kingpin of Mayfair, suggested it, I agreed.
And now there’s a bonus I didn’t expect: I can focus on resisting Jenna until it’s safe for her to leave.
Because however much I want it, she can’t stay here. Despite the erotic fantasies she posts about, Jenna is too young, sweet, and innocent for me and the life I lead.
She’s half my age, and that’s bad enough. But she has no memory.
It might never return, and while murder, torture, and illegal activities are fine in my mind, taking advantage of women isn’t.
The conclusion is obvious: I can’t touch her.
Jenna will be here, safe, until Howard is dealt with. And I cannot have her.
Nothing. I’ve already done too much, even if it was at her insistence. I shouldn’t have, but I don’t regret anything that happened. Not my stalking her, nor our chase and kiss.
It’s deranged, but as I check my emails on my phone, Karik at my feet finally behaving, I rub my thumb over the damp patch on my leg, bring it to my lips, and savour the tangy sweetness until it’s all gone.
After about half an hour, Jenna peeks around the door, pink and glowing from her shower. I’m ridiculously happy to see that she has put on one of the dresses I had my London housekeeper bring. It’s green cotton that matches her eyes and is loose over her body.
“Suits you.” I indicate the dress.
“I found it in the room,” she babbles. “I hope you don’t mind. Is it your daughter’s, or your girlfriend’s…?”
Oh fuck. She’s thinking of me like that? I don’t know what’s worse, that she imagines I could have anyone in my life and still do what we did earlier, or that she has recognised that I’m old enough to be her father.
Forty-three to her twenty-one years is the age gap between us. It makes my uncontrollable attraction to her taboo. Filthy. Forbidden.
“Not my daughter. I don’t have any children.” I fail to keep the wistful tone from that second denial. I’d love to have babies with Jenna. “Or a girlfriend. Or a wife.” These words sound exactly like what they are: a vain attempt to justify the indefensible. I’m in love with a woman young enough to be my child.
“Really?”
“I said I wouldn’t lie to you. I meant it.”
She nods seriously, but there’s relief in the way her mouth relaxes.
“Come on. Breakfast.” We walk through the house, and she takes it all in with shy glances to the side.
“You want a tour?” I suggest. “See the library?”
Her eyes widen and a ghost of a smile lightens her. “You have a library?”
“After you’ve eaten,” I promise.
In the kitchen we find—as I expected—breakfast awaits. It’s a bright room with French doors out onto the terrace and Jenna walks outside like a butterfly drawn to the fresh air. She gasps when she sees the long spread of rolling green semi-formal garden that leads amongst scattered trees to the woods that surround the house.
I follow, and smile when I see that there’s a table with a white cloth set with pastries, coffee, tea, and toast. I push the plate of baked goods then sit and pour drinks. Her brows pucker with confusion when she sees that I’ve made her tea exactly the way she likes it—with milk and sugar.
“How do you know…?” She meets my gaze.
