I shuffle down the hall, and only in the light of day do I realize how nice the place is—all hardwood floors with paintings hanging on the walls, tasteful decorations, modern and clean, lots of earth tones. I knew he was rich—he owns a string of nightclubs, strip joints, and restaurants all over the East Coast, though I have a theory that half of them are fronts for his brother’s mafia, but I have no real proof of that—but I didn’t realize his money was quite so lavish.
The main room is split between an upscale living area with a fireplace, a TV hung over the mantel, enormous floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous view of downtown LA, and a gourmet kitchen, currently occupied by the man himself, wearing a pair of tapered black joggers that hug his finely toned lower body like dew on a leaf and a short-sleeved white shirt that shows off his muscles and the tattoos etched into his skin. I stare as he finishes cooking a stack of pancakes, pours himself a cup of coffee, and turns.
He spots me standing there—and smiles.
It’s the grin of a predator.
I freeze and don’t know what to do. I feel so exposed like I’m standing outside in the middle of traffic completely naked, and even though my body’s covered, or at least the important bits are tucked away behind thin layers of fabric—I know nothing stands between him and me, and if he wants to take me, he can.
I shiver at the idea as my nipples stiffen. I can’t tell if that’s fear or desire, or a combination of both.
He puts his plate and mug down on the counter and gestures. “Coffee? Something to eat?”
“Uh,” I say, because how the hell am I supposed to respond in a situation like this? I drugged his brother with sleeping pills and now he’s offering me pancakes like we just went on a really steamy Tinder date or something and this is nothing more than the walk of shame the morning after some hot sex.
Except there was no hot sex, just a death threat.
“Don’t worry, Gracie. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now. So please, sit down, have some coffee, get something to eat, and we’ll talk.”
“Right, we’ll talk.” I blink rapidly as he strides past me and sets himself up at a nearby table, leaning back in the chair with an arrogant smile on his face.
Heart pounding, hands trembling, I find a mug in a cabinet—his selection of dinnerware is shockingly normal for a man that probably spends half this life killing people, but what did I expect, hollowed-out skulls like he’s some Viking warlord?—and pour myself some black coffee. I walk over and sink into the chair opposite him, curling in on myself to try to give myself a hint of modesty even though there’s none to be found, not right now, not when he walked in on me last night curled up in his spare bedroom with my hands tied behind my back and a blindfold covering my face.
That would be bad enough, but I’m pretty sure he got a full-on glimpse of my panties, and that’s basically the most mortifying thing imaginable.
“Do you know how long my family has been involved with organized crime in and around Los Angeles?” he asks like it’s the most natural question in the world, even if it is utterly psychotic. I could be anyone in the world and he just admitted to the one thing he’s never supposed to say out loud—which means I’m never, ever going to escape from him, not alive at least, and the idea sends a sudden jolt of panic deep down into my core.
I’m a dead girl walking.
“I have no clue,” I say and cover my terror by drinking some coffee.
If he’s aware of my fear, he doesn’t show it. “Generations,” he says casually, waving a hand. “It’s in my blood. And in all that time, I’ve never, ever heard of anyone doing something like what you did to my brother last night.” He laughs to himself as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. “The idea of someone drugging the Don of the LA mob is the most obscene thing I can imagine, and yet you did it, Gracie darling. You little thief. A feat like that takes daring and guts, and I’ll admit, I’m impressed.”
“Thanks?” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not sure what’s happening right now.”
“I’m complimenting you.” His eyes give a dangerous gleam as he leans forward and grins at me. “You can take a compliment, can’t you?”
“Usually, no, not really, and especially not when I’m at the mercy of the guy giving the compliment.”
He nods to himself. “You are at my mercy, aren’t you? I can’t imagine what that feels like but I suspect you don’t enjoy the power imbalance.”