Page 67 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“How? Your name is nowhere on that pad.”
Shit. He’s right. I never wrote my name on the inside of the cover. I never thought I’d have to.
“And you didn’t sign any of the sketches, so . . .” He shrugs.
My face is so hot it burns. Furious, I glare at him. “I have copies of everythin
g. In San Francisco. On my computer. I always make copies of what I’m working on.”
The smile that was flirting with one corner of his mouth blooms into a grin. “One of these days you’ll learn how to lie convincingly. Today isn’t it.”
I want to hit him. I want to stab him. I want to set fire to his face. Spending the rest of my life in prison would be a fair price to pay to get rid of this ruthless prick once and for all. “I said I’d pay you back for the ticket, and I meant it. Once the shop is back on its feet—”
“I don’t want your money, bella.”
His voice is so soft, like fingertips lightly stroked down my cheek. It leaves no doubt as to his meaning.
Starting to get desperate, I try a different tactic. “You don’t need my designs. Your company is the hottest thing going. Your menswear line alone is one of the most profitable—”
“We’re expanding the ladies’ evening wear line.”
I can tell he’ll have a comeback ready for anything I throw at him. I think he might have spent a considerable amount of time thinking this through.
Like Brad and his plan for us to live a lie.
My voice shakes with rage when I say, “My father would hate you for this.”
He flinches. He recovers quickly, plastering the smile back on, but I know I got to him.
But he effortlessly checkmates me. “No. Your father would be disappointed that you’re trying to go back on your word.”
I gasp. That hurt so much he might as well have kicked me in the ovaries.
He speaks again before I can spit out some curse. “We made a trade. A fair trade. One you agreed to freely.” His voice grows quieter. “A trade you admitted was the best gift you’ve ever been given, if you recall.”
I can’t look at him anymore. I just can’t look at his awful, beautiful face one second longer.
I turn and run.
TWENTY
The problem with castles is that they’re built to keep invaders out and the occupants safely in.
Which means they’re annoyingly short on doors.
The few I do find are huge, made of thick wood fortified with iron, and locked. I could get one of the axes from the Wall of Death and try to chop my way out, but I don’t have the energy. After wandering around for the better part of an hour, I finally give up and ascend a narrow winding stone staircase to a second floor. The staircase opens to a wide corridor lined with potted palms and ornate console tables, with the occasional ancient suit of armor standing vigilant in niches in the stone wall just to give you that warm, snuggly feeling of home.
The first room I come upon is a library. It’s got overstuffed sofas and chairs, a cavernous fireplace at each end of the room, and heavy wooden bookcases fronted with glass that rise nearly to the ceiling. It looks like as good a place as any to hide for a while, so I flop into a tufted leather chair that could fit the Jolly Green Giant quite comfortably and stare morosely at my feet.
The stupid chair is so big they dangle off the edge like a kid’s, not even touching the ground.
I’m there no more than five minutes when one of the uniformed ladies I saw in the kitchen enters the room carrying a large tray. Approaching, she smiles at me and says something in Italian.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t, um . . . no comprende Italiano.” I realize that was some kind of botched Spanish, but I’m hoping she’ll get the gist.
She shrugs, as if she couldn’t care less either way, and sets the platter on the coffee table in front of me. When I smell freshly baked bread, I perk up in my giant seat.
The nice lady pulls off the napkin covering the tray with a flourish and gives me an overview of everything on the tray, pointing out various breads, meats, and cheeses, and looking at me every so often to make sure I’m following.
