“Oh, and, Gabriella,” he calls, catching my attention.
Back to Gabriella? This man is one big ball of confusion. This entire interaction is wreaking havoc on my sanity, and I’m still unsure what’s even happening or why I’m allowing it to.
His eyes flick to the space next to me. “Those would be much better in black.”
My cheeks burn as I glance over and take in the crotchless panties that kicked off this whole crazy chain of events. Instead of embarrassment, I burn with anger. At Adrian. At myself. At this stranger for having walked in and, in less than ten minutes, turned my world upside down—more than it already had been.
“They aren’t mine,” I seethe through clenched teeth.
A grin plays on his lips. “I didn’t think so.”
My eyebrows narrow in confusion. Did he truly overhear everything? How long was he standing outside?
“Then why would you say that?” I ask, trailing off as I rub my temples, where a tension headache is beginning to form.
“To gauge your reaction. You’re angry, and that’s a good thing. Indifference would mean you’re too far gone. Despite what he may think, you are not a possession. You are not a plaything. You are a beautiful, strong woman just waiting to break out of her shell. A treasure to be cherished, not a trophy to be locked up in a case until he decides to find you useful. You know it, and I know it. The question now . . . What are you going to do about it?”
Before I can answer, he slides the screen door open and escapes onto the patio, his questioning echoing loudly throughout the silent kitchen.
What am I going to do?
And just which one of them is the devil and who, if anyone, will be my savior?
AFTER A LONG, LONG, hot shower to wash the events of the day off, I try to distract myself from my two very different interactions with two very different men. I stay in the house and work at the dining table, scouring the meticulous plans Adrian had drawn up for the guesthouse for the answer to some unknown question. The thing is that I have no idea what’s so significant about this construction project. The main house is already a sprawling twelve-thousand-square-foot monstrosity sitting on over two hundred acres. There’s enough space to accommodate at least five families, and right now, it’s just the two of us and the occasional business associate of Adrian’s. The addition makes no sense to me. Neither does his need for me to oversee things.
Nothing in the plans looks out of place until I come to drawings for a tunnel leading from the main house to the guest one. I frown, unsure of its purpose. Why would he need to get from home to the next undetected? As I examine the prints more closely, I recognize the room where the point of entry is—his office—but not the door. It’s one I’ve never seen before.
Rising from my chair, I make my way down the long hallway until I’m just outside his office. As I stand there, a battle wages within me. Part of me wants to enter, but the other part knows that, if Adrian found out, he’d be livid. After all, he did warn that he had eyes and ears everywhere. Do I want to risk his wrath when I’m unsure of what it could possibly unleash? The way he acted this morning was unsettling, and I have no idea how he may react if I go where I’m not supposed to. Then again, that little tête-à-tête in the kitchen with Rafe was more than enough to anger him, so why not continue my acts of defiance?
For the most part, this room is off-limits, especially when Adrian’s traveling. He claims that it’s due to what he keeps there—the personal information of his clients. I’ve never questioned it before. It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Still, I’m only curious about the door, and if caught, I can make up something about the blueprints. It’s not exactly a lie.
As I turn the knob, I’m surprised to find it unlocked. I always assumed that it’d be locked due to Adrian’s insistence that I stay out, but perhaps he really does trust me as he said.
Slowly, I push it open and then flip on the light, looking around and seeing nothing out of place. I step into the room, frowning when I see no extra door. I search his office, taking in the imposing wooden desk that takes up nearly half of the room. It’s meticulous and organized, not a thing out of place. On the wall behind his desk is nothing but a blank space. There’s a hook there, where he prepared for my perfect selection, and I was ecstatic that he trusted me enough to decorate his favorite room in the house.
He balked at the idea of reproductions if they weren’t for sentimental reasons. He had the money for originals. He wanted to use it. The only reproductions he’d consider were the ones I grew up with. It was the only time he ever tried to get me to go to Chicago. Like our first day together, he showed an interest in studying reproductions side by side with their originals. I wasn’t keen on the idea. As much as I loved him, I wasn’t ready to share that part of my past with him—or anyone for that matter. It was still too fresh, too raw. The only reason I was even able to decorate our home was because I knew he didn’t care for Impressionism. He begrudgingly understood, and dropped it, but not before he made sure I was aware of how unhappy he was.