Page 13 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

TWELVE

Olivia

I 'm in the arms of a killer.

There're about fifty tornados swirling through my mind — each one competing for attention as they wind together, mixing my thoughts and feelings and creating a monster of confusion.

I watched this man shoot someone in broad daylight in an alley, where anyone, I.E. me, could have seen. Who does that?

I grew up with a mother who warned me of tall, dark, and handsome Italian men and how one look at them would ruin your entire life. And one look at Sam is definitely not helping.

I should be afraid of him.

But the way my body responds to his touch — tingles spreading under the surface of my skin — is not fearful.

Like I said. Confusion.

Sam brings me through the back door, past the glimmering pool and patio with its color-coordinated furniture.

He moves swiftly through the sunroom and living room, opening French doors that lead into what I assume is an office.

His house is large, but I don't get a chance to admire any of the rooms as he drops me onto a leather chair.

Before I have a second to catch my breath, he's leaning in.

A hand on each chair arm, his face hovers inches from mine.

I can see how it would be easy to fall for someone like him, minus the whole "I'm keeping you" Neanderthal situation.

He's easy on the eyes, with chiseled features and the classic brooding good looks that make hearts flutter. And if you’re into the whole being tossed around thing — clearly, he's good at that as well.

But I have no interest in growing closer with my newfound captor. Despite how close he literally is right now.

"Olivia," he basically purrs, and I refuse to like the way it sounds. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation you find yourself in." With his admonishment, he clicks his tongue.

"I understand you're a jerk who won't let me leave to check on my sick grandfather." I give him a look filled with sass, somehow overly confident that he's past the option of killing me.

"That's getting old." He shakes his head. "I already told you, I hired a nurse. Find a new excuse."

"What about my bar?" I bite back. "Who do you expect to run it?"

"I can send someone over to take care of it for now," he answers, as if everything I mention has an easy solution.

"I don't want some random man managing my bar. I want to manage my bar. What do you not get about that?" With every word, I’m getting louder. For a moment, I wonder if there’s anyone else in this house and what they think about our arguing.

"That's not an option. The options are, I send someone or the bar stays closed. Choose, Olivia."

His voice isn't mean or angry, just stern. I feel like a child, kicking and screaming, while Sam is the calm adult laying out my choices.

I purse my lips together, not wanting to pick one of his options. I need to figure out how to get away from him.

"You're thinking too hard," he says, softer this time.

One of his hands reaches forward, finding the piece of hair that fell out of place during the whole being tossed over his shoulder situation.

He swipes it back behind my ear, his knuckles grazing against my skin.

He pauses like that for a moment, his touch lingering, and I hold my breath.

"This doesn't have to be difficult," Sam adds. "You don't need to do anything, Olivia. All you need to do is listen to me and prove to me that I can trust you. I'll handle everything else. Do you think you can do that?"

Something about him is lulling me into a sense of comfort.

I fight the urge to nod and promise to be good.

Maybe it's the people pleaser in me that doesn't want to ever be in trouble.

But there's another side of me that rages, the one that doesn't want to be told what to do, that refuses to let anyone else take care of me.

I've always taken care of myself, and it's worked better that way.

Relying on anyone else has always ended in disappointment, and I don't expect Sam to be any different.

Especially not under the circumstances that led us here.

But if I keep fighting, he's just going to keep asserting his dominance, and I get the feeling that Sam doesn't lose.

I inhale deeply and nod.

"Words. I want to hear you say it, Olivia. Tell me you're going to be a good girl for me?"

My heart rate spikes. I don't know what it is about that phrase that sends a bolt of excitement mixed with panic through me. I don't want to be a good girl for him, but something about the words on his lips makes my body tingle.

Sam eyes me expectantly. My lips are still pressed together, and he's still hovering over me.

I don't think he's ever going to let me out of this chair if I don't meet his demand.

I close my eyes, gathering my strength. I can say what he wants me to and not mean it.

I'll never actually yield to Sam Costello.

"I'll be a good girl," I mumble.

"Promise me," he demands, dragging out this torture.

"I promise."

Sam's eyebrow lifts, and it's clear he wants more. That my promise wasn't good enough.

Swallowing down my annoyance, I try again. "I promise to be a good girl."

That makes him smile, the grin stretching across his stupid perfect face.

"Atta girl," he praises, and even though I hate it, I can’t suppress the warm feeling that coats my body. "Now, let's get you settled in."

Finally, he steps back, putting much-needed space between us. Extending his hand, he helps me from the chair.

This is all an act, I remind myself. I just need to survive long enough to get out of here. And if I need to lie to Sam Costello to do so, then that's what I'll do.