Page 12 of Captured By the Mafia Boss
“We’ll get you some clothes.” His mouth twists. “In the meantime, if you want to cover up, here are your options. I’ll be in the kitchen.” He stalks out.
Nothing fits. Not even slightly.
I slide my fingertips over every garment and imagine it on King’s body. The smooth cotton, the rough wool. Eventually, I pick a green and grey checked shirt that falls almost to my knees, and the heavy fabric rubs on my erect nipples. I roll up the sleeves so I can use my hands, then pad through the house. I take my time to examine everything. I tell myself it’s because I’m looking for weapons, or a way out. But honestly, it is an insight into King that I always wanted and only once allowed myself to fantasise about.
That one night in the library, soon after he took over.
I thought that night I felt something hot and sweet in his gaze, but when I saw him next, it was gone, replaced by cool indifference.
It never mattered to my body, which flared to life whenever he was in the vicinity.
Focus, Olivia. You have an opportunity.It’s a crappy opportunity, yes, but haven’t I been wanting to kill King? To get revenge for everything that has gone on in Camden, and that drove me away. I don’t want to return, now I’m out. I like my wings. I like the freedom away from an arranged marriage and fear. I love my little job at the florist.
There’s no lack of potential weapons. Solid brass and stone sculptures line shelves and windowsills. I had no idea he lovedart, but this house reveals a deep passion for quality. Everything just so. No item out of place.
I find his study. A top-end computer, plus all the tech. I sink into the plush leather desk chair. It’s too big for me, and I feel small and delicate in it. Behind the computer the window reveals a view of outstanding stark beauty. A clear sky, mountains fading into misty blue at the horizon. A fabulous garden in the foreground, a riot of herbs and flowers. I tear my gaze away to focus on looking for clues. This room is more modern than the refined comfort and old-world quality of the rest of the house. Still, the white walls are hung with art and the enormous desk has trinkets and—
My eyes snag on one object.
A knife. A familiar knife.
With shaking hands, I lift it off its custom-made wooden cradle.
Why does he have my knife? There’s nothing very pretty or unique in it. Though my father gave it to me, and it has a nice metal handle engraved with flowers, it’s out of keeping with all his other possessions, which are of the finest craftsmanship.
Maybe it has a value I don’t know about? I examine it for a few seconds but find no more than what I already knew: it’s a small silver knife.
It takes me a few moments to figure out how to secret the blade into the shirt, but eventually I tuck it into one bulky rolled sleeve, and you can’t see it. Much.
His kitchen is filled with the scent of a delicious stew. King is chopping herbs.
How the hell did he get those?
“From the garden,” he replies when he shoots a sidelong glance at me.
“I wasn’t wondering,” I lie. And it’s only then that I realise the thought I should have been having was about acquiring that knife he’s using.
“You were. Your face is an audiobook. Even when you’re in disguise.”
I wish I could deny it. I should be better at this whole being a peerless, poised beauty thing. But actually, I can’t. I am not poised. I am a bit untidy and wilful, and I love swimming.
I look at the hob and wonder where King learned to cook, then turn so he can’t see that question too. Instead, I gravitate to the window. The view of the hills, mottled with shades of green and the odd rocky outcrop is breathtaking. The sky is a perfect streak of pink to orange, like a bouquet of fragrant roses. It’s lovely in the way a simple item of ideal utility is beautiful.
Like King. Perfectly proportioned. Even his imperfections are aesthetically pleasing. That long slash of a scar I saw on his upper arm, and the circular wound on his side make him only more appealing. Those flaws prevent him from being too gorgeous to be believed, but my mind circles back to why I’ve been trying to ignore his appearance.
“Why did you kill Trudy?”
My question is the toll of a bell. Clear and ringing through the air.
I don’t turn around. King isn’t going to murder me tonight after chopping herbs, so I might as well find answers to what’s been bugging me all this time.
“I didn’t.”
I snort. “Who did then? The boogie man?” I’m a little disappointed. I thought King would admit it.
“Henry.” He appears beside me and passes over a mug.Our fingers brush as I accept it and the contact sends a pulse of longing through me as though now I’ve been touched by him my body will reach out towards him at every opportunity.
“His mother.” I don’t bother hiding my disbelief. “He murdered his mother.”
