Page 7

I look out over the lawn. This is prime real estate.

Unless something changed drastically during the gap in my brain, the money this place takes to maintain—not to buy or to gut and remodel, but just maintain—is well beyond my comfort level.

I grew up with money, but not Cherry Hills Village money.

This is John Elway money.

Or the guy who founded major league soccer money.

Or … Christian Barone money. Whoa!

I sit on the chaise outside and lift my face to the early afternoon sun. It’s warm and bright and cuts through the brisk fall afternoon to soothe the chill that accompanies me everywhere now.

In all the dreams of my life, I never could’ve envisioned Cherry Hills Village or a “patch” of grass like this in this zip code.

In all my nightmares, I’d never have considered it means living here with a man I don’t know and cannot trust.

There are things that terrify me. Snakes for one. Those weird glass elevators that look like they float. Nefarious people for another. But right up there is being at someone else’s mercy.

No agency.

Under someone else’s control.

Stuck.

The idea that my life is not my own and that I can’t change it is unthinkable. And it has not-so-subtly reared its head to stare me in the face.

I have no cell phone. I’m guessing I have a car and credit cards, but I’ve yet to see any of it. Not a key, not a purse, no identification. Zero.

Am I a prisoner in this house I don’t know? What happens if I want to walk out the front door to get some fresh air? Will I be hauled back? Or will I even be allowed to leave in the first place?

Well, allowed is the all-wrong word.

My life.My body.My choice.

If I want to leave, I damn well will. I’ll just have to figure out where I want to go and how I plan to get there.

As these thoughts assault me, I recognize two things. The first is the overwhelm, the oppressive size of the problem, how very bad this situation is, and how scared I should be. I can taste the despair on the tip of my tongue.

The second is how physically tired the whole thing makes me. Call it healing. Call it fatigue. But the emotional and physical exhaustion has just caught up with my head.

And I want to check out. Not officially or permanently, but a good nap—an escape from this crap—sounds perfect.

I have to say, finally escaping a hospital bed only to volunteer to climb into a different one makes me disappointed in myself. Pile that onto the emotions that swamp me, and I have the perfect shit sandwich.

I could sleep right here but that feels too vulnerable. Not that I think anyone could waltz onto this lawn, but I am exposed.

I stand and stretch my limbs before wandering back toward the house on the stone terrace.

Christian’s voice carries from the dark paneled door that’s hidden off the sitting room.

“Get with Corinne. Tonight is gnocchi and lamb, with her roasted cabbage, salad, and soda bread. And Ayla’s favorite apple cake. Nothing says welcome home like her favorites.”

Nothing says trying too hard like controlling what I eat. The response is on the tip of my tongue when another deeper voice speaks. It parrots the menu with no response, answers a few questions, and offers no more. “She’ll have it ready for seven.”

“I need you here tonight.”

“Visible or less so?”

What the fuck?

“Let it be known you’re here, but I don’t see her needing or wanting that. You’re here for her protection not entertainment.”

“Yes, Mr. Barone.”

Agency in my own life starts with not allowing two men to choose my meals, my “protection,” my anything.

I walk straight to the door only to face a man at least a foot taller than me with more than a hundred pounds on me blocking my path.

We end up in the clumsy dance where we each shift but end up going the same direction.

I apologize. The wall of man does not.

Christian clears his throat. “Ayla, this is Fitz. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Barone.”

No one can miss my flinch. Mrs. Barone.

I extend a hand and shake. “Fitz. Sorry for the awkward”—I hitch a thumb over my shoulder—“whatever that was.”

Fitz gives Christian a look, again saying nothing, and leaves me alone with a brooding man in his home office.

All my brave woman mojo leaches from me. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Okay, Princess.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“It reminds everyone, including myself, of the way I expect you to be treated. I hope it gives you an inkling of how precious you are.”

How the hell do I argue that?

“Ayla, I have to go out tonight for a work meeting. I’d love it if you wanted to join me.”

That’s a hell no. Not today. Not when I can’t remember shit. Instead of saying that, I shake my head in a tiny motion. I know better than to do it more aggressively.

“I thought you might say that. I’ve asked Corinne to cook your favorites.

Do you want to invite Halley over for dinner?

I wouldn’t normally mind you being alone, but it’s your first night after…

” His words drift, and my shoulders sag in relief.

“I won’t be too long if you’d prefer I stay, but if you’d like Halley to?—”

“I’d love that.” I miss my best friend. I need her. Halley Tomlinson is incredible.

“A new phone, programmed just like your old one, is on your nightstand. Let Halley know that Corinne will have dinner ready at seven, but she’s welcome anytime.”

“Thank you.”

I turn and take a step or two before returning my gaze to him, pushing some hair behind one ear. “Christian? I, uh… don’t know where my bedroom is.”

He rounds the desk and ushers me out of the room, dropping his hand to my lower back again. This time the intimacy of the gesture forces a shiver up my spine. I can’t discern whether desire is mixed in with the frisson of fear. But the fear is undeniable.

Through the great room, past the curving staircase, and down the hall, there’s a set of double doors. When he pushes one open and steps inside, my mouth drops.

My apartment in college was smaller than this room.

It must be a story and a half. Skylights are open in the high ceiling.

A king-sized bed sits center in the lushest cream carpet I’ve ever felt beneath my feet.

Creams, pale blues, and golds are woven in the comforter.

Deep pillows beckon me, while the sitting area of fluffy chairs and a deep settee, piled high with books, draws my eye.

Christian walks around me and taps a button on the tablet at the bedside.

The whirl of something mechanical hums as fabric covers shutter the skylights and shades drop across the windows.

The same happens across the wall of doors I now see open onto the terrace at the hot tub and pool.

Lamps on nightstands come on as the man walks toward me.

He extends the tablet. “Lights, blinds, sound, TV”—at the last, he looks aside—“are all here at the touch of your fingers.”

I tap the button labeled “Entertainment” only to see multiple options.

I can connect to playlists or to services like Apple Music or Spotify.

There’s a way to have ocean waves or rain sound through invisible speakers surrounding me.

I tap the button labeled TV followed by my name and the mirror across from the bed becomes sheer glass and beyond it are every option I didn’t know I could need.

I look up to the man next to me and wonder if his smile mirrors my own.

“Of all the things I thought would make you happy, housewives of wherever wasn’t it.”

I turn to look and, sure enough, it’s some dramatic catfight.

“What did you think would make me happy?”

“I thought you needed a nap. Do you want to lie down, or would you like me to show you?”

If the bedroom does this straight-out-of-a-Hollywood movie stuff, which is so cool, what does he think makes me happy? I have to know.

“Your call.” The taunt in his voice is unmistakable.

“I can nap after I guess.” I fight to make my voice casual, hoping it’s nonchalant.

Christian crosses his arms over his chest. I don’t know when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, but his tan corded forearms are on display.

They’re a thing for me. Some women are about the butt, or the abs, or the pecs. For me, it’s hands and forearms. Masculine power and grace banded into the muscles that ripple and roll just under the skin.

When he taps his fingers, I’m distracted by the sinewy muscle undulating beneath the taut tan flesh.

“Ayla.” My name that rips from him is half amusement and half warning.

I look up into fierce, heated black eyes.

“Come.” That one word, said in that manner, is not the stranger before me asking me to follow him. That is the way a man commands his lover to find her pleasure.

The shiver that runs through me is less fear than last time.

“Okey doke, let’s go.”

I can’t be sure, but I think I hear him repeat “okey doke?” from behind me as I march down the hall, having no clue where I’m going. Once I get to the great room, I turn a complete circle, looking for Christian.

He stands underneath the curved staircase and pushes something, a latch perhaps, in the wall. A door I didn’t see earlier swivels open. He steps aside. “After you.”

Like hell am I going into the secret dungeon in the wall with a man I met less than a week ago. I stand looking into the dismal area and back at Christian Barone.

“Your life insurance policy is too valuable to not have a body.”

I gasp in shock.

“Ayla, I get it.” He scratches his neck. “No, I don’t. I don’t understand, I know. But I’m not trying to hurt you and I’m sure as fuck not trying to off you.”

I stare back at him in disbelief.

“Take a deep breath, baby.”

I do, and the tang on the air is comforting. It’s so familiar that I turn into it with my back to the threat in front of me and wander the short, dark hallway.

“Is this what I think it is?”

My heart rate rises as I step from the tight hall into a windowless room—a windowless dark room.

Happiness bubbles up for the first time that I can remember and bursts out of my body in a laugh. It hurts my head and stretches where the stitches were at my temple, but it’s worth it. I whirl. “You were right. This is definitely my favorite.”

“I said this would make you happy, not that it was your favorite. But we can go with that.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets.

I wonder if he recognizes his tells. This is boyish and cute. Those aren’t words I’d normally use to describe the demi-god in front of me. I bet he hasn’t been called either in more than a decade.

“How old are you?” The question pops out before I can stop it.

“Thirty five. Thirty six in two months.”

“A Scorpio? You struck me more as a Taurus.”

He tilts his head in curiosity. “Cell service isn’t good in here, and WiFi is dampened by what it took to build this in.”

My face must register panic.

He holds his hands out, heels of his palms down. “I’m not saying that to scare you. I want you to be aware. If you spend a lot of time in here, pop out into the hall to check your phone. You have… You had a tendency to lose time while you were in here.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

“On the wall right there.” He points and I turn to what he’s indicating.

“There are safelights switches. There’s also a vent for black and white days.

I can show you more— well, what little I know—when you’re ready.

I’m sure you’ve forgotten more than I’ve ever known, but for today, I can guide you. ”

I walk up, throwing caution to the wind, and move to him, kissing the underside of his jaw, before walking down the hall and away from the danger that is Christian Barone.