Page 801 of One More Kiss

He rose.

I held my breath as he circled around my chair.

He placed his hands around my neck. I pitched forward to escape his touch, but his grip forced me back against the chair. I sobbed. “Please don’t kill me. Please, I’m begging you. Please don’t.” Hyperventilating, I strained against my bonds as the sharp plastic edges dug deep into my skin.

He leaned over, running his hands along my exposed arms and placing his palms over the backs of my hands. The side of his face pressed against my cheek. The spicy scent of his cologne permeated the hood. Turning his head, he pressed his lips to my ear. “Baby, stop. Now.”

I obeyed. Squeezing my eyes shut, I braced for whatever came next.

He moved his fingers over my skin, stopping to cup my shoulders. Then his fingertips were tracing the outline of my collarbone. There was a rush of cool air as the hood was pulled off my head.

I blinked against the blistering brightness. The sun shone through countless latticed windows, which lined the massive empty warehouse space. A swept but still dirty cement floor stretched ahead of me to thick brick walls, with the occasional timber column running in rows down the center. Through several of the windows on the left, I could just make out the Chicago skyline. I must still be in the stockyard area, in one of the many abandoned old brick warehouses.

I turned my head, intending to get a glimpse of my captor, but his hands on my jaw stopped the movement.

He chuckled. “Not just yet, cara mia. We still need to come to an understanding.”

Why had he removed my hood? Did it mean he was going to kill me? I mean, why worry about my seeing his face if he was just going to kill me? Or maybe he was like a cat just toying with a mouse before snapping its neck in his sharp teeth.

He continued. “If you are a very good girl, I will release your wrists and ankles, but first you have to tell me more.”

I inhaled a hesitant breath. I desperately wanted to please him, but I didn’t know what he wanted to hear. “There is no more. Mr. Russo is very secretive about his business. I’ve barely worked there for six months.”

He stepped away. It was strange not to feel his touch.

A paper floated over my shoulder onto the floor. It was a glossy black-and-white photo. There was another and another and yet another. All falling like leaves around me. Artistic close-up photos of people and architectural elements of unique buildings around Chicago. These were my photos. They weren’t just my photos; they were the photos I had taken over the weekend. Photos that were supposedly still on the memory card in my SLR camera back in my apartment. I hadn’t even uploaded them onto my photography website yet.

I licked my lips. “Where — where did you get these?”

“You know where. Let’s not waste my time with silly questions, Avery. It insults both of our intelligence and more importantly,” his voice took on the sharpness of a razor’s edge, “it wastes my time.”

Cowed, I stayed silent. Staring at my only contribution to this world, laying scattered on the dusty, dirty cement at my feet. Proof that I existed and yet also proof that I had failed. I would die before ever achieving my dream to photograph the people and places of Europe.

“Why would such a talented photographer as yourself work for such a lowlife like Russo?”

He thought I was talented? There it was again. That disturbing sense of pleasure at his praise. I shrugged. “It’s just a job. Something to pay the rent until I get my photography business going.”

“So you have no connection to Russo?”

I shook my head. “None whatsoever. I don’t even like the guy and his sons are—”

I stopped.

The back of his knuckles skimmed my jawline. “His sons are what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’ll decide what’s nothing.”

I licked my lips. “His sons have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves,” I whispered in a rush.

For the longest time, he didn’t respond. Had I said the wrong thing?

He circled in front of me. I snapped my eyes shut.

His chair creaked as he sat. I could hear him picking up the scattered photos. Before I caught myself, I actually felt happy he was showing my art such respect instead of just trampling on them.

We passed a few moments in complete silence. He then chuckled. “Open your eyes, cara mia.”

I shook my head. “I can’t. If I do, I’ll see you and then you’ll have to kill me.”

His fingertips stroked my cheek. “You watch too much TV.”

I kept my eyes shut. “I can’t.”

“I guess I’ll just have to change your mind.”

The fabric of my sundress shifted across my calves before he flipped the hem up. His warm palms slid between my legs, along my inner thighs.

My eyes flew open.

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