Yes, I’d written about Paolo incessantly, like a girl with a bad teen idol crush. But it was only because my notebook was the only place I could turn to after Santiago slash Paolo had showed up and then mysteriously disappeared.
“You mean completely obsessed,” I admitted pathetically.
“And that.”
“You must’ve thought I was crazy,” I said. “Because I sure the hell did.”
“No, I didn’t. Truthfully, I couldn’t forget about you—your smart mouth, your fiery personality, your humility. You are the sexiest, most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. I jumped at the chance to see you again. It was all too convenient for me that your father’s motives were to have me keep every guy on campus away from you. I would get you all to myself.”
That bastard! And he’d made sure I had a brand-new notebook just waiting for me to pour my heart into on the first day of college.
“Don’t be angry.” Paolo brushed the hair from my shoulder and kissed me gently. “I was flattered that you dreamed about me so much. And that you thought I was a space alien. And a demon. And a ghost, asshole, chauvinistic pig.”
Served him right.
I looked at my hands, thinking through how things must’ve looked from his point of view, knowing my secrets, pretending not to. Ugh! “You knew how I felt, but you let me keep making a fool of myself?”
“Have you ever read your journal?” he asked. “The only thing I knew was that you wished me dead and had very erotic dreams about me. A lot.”
“Oh my God. This is so embarrassing. I will never write anything down ever again. Stupid notebook.”
“That notebook saved your life,” he said.
Paolo explained that everything I wrote while being held captive gave them all the clues they needed to find me: the description of being stuck with a needle, the fact I had been locked in a basement, how the person who took me was Mr. M—an insider with access to their communications.
“We knew,” he said, “you were only a few hours away because you’d written about waking up in a basement. That meant sedatives. The kind our people use only last for an hour and a half to two at most. There aren’t many houses with basements in that geography.”
Once I’d written in my notebook that I’d been taken, my father had a hundred analysts, scouts, and “friends” searching every house I might be inside. Paolo was already on the tenth home when he saw me coming out with Mr. M.
“I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, Dakota,” he said. “Never like this. But when I saw him handcuffing you, shoving you into that car, I could only imagine the things he’d done. When I shot him, it was the first time in my life I’d enjoyed it.”
Oh. “Well, if it’s any consolation, he was taking me to someone who was going to chop me into tiny bits and pieces. So, not sure I feel too bad about you shooting him.”
Paolo looked at me and gave a little smile. “I didn’t think I’d recover from my rage—not only at him, but at myself.”
“You’re a good man, don’t ever doubt that,” I said, knowing that my words fell seriously short compared to how I felt about him.
“So you forgive me for reading your diary?” he asked.
Hmmm. Did I? It was hard to be mad when that notebook had saved my life. A bizarre twist of fate. My fate book.
“I’m not angry. But my father is such a jerk!”
The cell on the nightstand began to vibrate. It was the same number as before.
“Speaking of, there he is now,” Paolo said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Let me answer—”
He snatched the phone from my hands. “Let me.”
I understood that he wanted to shield me from the ugliness of the situation, but I had lots and lots to discuss with my father, ranging from the fact that he’d lied to me, manipulated me, spied on me, and threatened to kill the man I loved.
“Dane,” Paolo said coldly. Several moments passed, and I saw the look on Paolo’s face change. It was the first time I’d ever seen him look pale. “I see.”
He held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Great. Because the son of a bitch had this coming. I stood up from the bed and wrapped the sheet around my body before taking the phone. “Dad, I want you to know—”
“Do you love him, Dakota?” my father asked. No hello. No I’m sorry. Just…do you love him?
“What?” I asked, feeling confused.
“Do. You. Love. Him?” My father’s tone was stern and bitter, like the time I’d driven my car into the neighbor’s fence.
“Yes, more than anything. Where are you going with this? And where’s Mom? Is she okay?”
“Dakota, Mr. McGregor did more than simply hunt you down and take you. He posted pictures of you and your mother on every Internet site out there. Every hit man, cartel boss, mobster, and enemy of the state now knows you exist and what you look like.”