Chapter 5
HANNAH
“Wish me luck,” I say to Delilah.
“You don’t need it. You’re going to be the next big deal in Chicago real estate.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you later.”
I slip my phone into my briefcase and step into the elevator.
The elevator rises smoothly to the forty-second floor.
I check my reflection one more time in the polished steel doors.
Professional blazer, pencil skirt, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
My new black Louboutins make me look like someone who can handle a multi-million-dollar listing.
Which is good, because that's exactly what I need to be today.
This appointment came out of nowhere. A mysterious client who wants to sell his penthouse, someone with enough money that he doesn't care about market timing or staging. The kind of sale that could set me up for the next six months, especially now that I have other expenses to consider.
My eyes drop to my stomach in the shiny doors. No one can tell I’m pregnant. Hell, I can’t even tell and it’s my body. Right now, I need to focus on work. I want to get into a new place before the baby comes. Delilah and I did a little window shopping and holy shit, baby stuff is expensive.
I need the commission.
The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the top floor. The doors slide open to reveal a private foyer with only one door. Expensive marble, subtle lighting, the kind of understated luxury that screams serious money. I take a deep breath and press the doorbell.
"It's open," comes a voice from inside.
I turn the handle and step into what might be the most beautiful apartment I've ever seen. This place will sell itself—my job is just to not screw it up.
"Hello?" I call out, setting my briefcase down by the door. "Mr...?"
I realize I don't actually know the client's name. The appointment was set up through a third party, which isn't unusual for high-end properties. Rich people value their privacy.
"Red."
The voice makes me freeze. Low, accented, impossibly familiar. I turn slowly, my heart already hammering against my ribs, and come face-to-face with the man who's been haunting my dreams for five weeks.
Dante stands in the living room like he owns it—which, apparently, he does. Black slacks, white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal those strong forearms I remember too well. He looks like sex and sin. Every rational thought in my head scatters like leaves in a hurricane.
"Welcome home, Red," he says.
There's something possessive in his tone that makes my skin prickle. I can’t think straight. All of my senses are on overload.
Wait—did he just say welcome home?
"Home?" I take a step backward, my professional composure cracking. "I'm sorry, there's been some mistake. I'm here about a listing—"
"No mistake." He moves closer. Like a predator who's never been prey. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
This is wrong. All of this is wrong. I grab for my briefcase. My phone. Help. "I need to leave. There's obviously been some confusion—"
I snatch up the briefcase and make it out into the foyer. I reach for the elevator button, but nothing happens. Press it again, harder. Still nothing.
"You're not going anywhere," Dante says, his voice calm and lethal.
My blood turns to ice. "What did you do?"
"Took precautions."
I spin to face him, anger cutting through the fear. "Precautions? Are you insane? You can't just trap people in your apartment!"
"My apartment, my rules."
The casual arrogance in his tone makes me want to scream. "This is kidnapping! I came here for a business meeting, not whatever sick game you're playing."
"Business meeting." He almost smiles. "In a way, that's exactly what this is."
Nothing about this makes sense. I managed to get my phone out of my briefcase, but there's no signal. Of course there's no signal—he's thought of everything.
"Let me out," I demand, trying to keep my voice steady. "Right now."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Red."
"Stop calling me that!" The words explode out of me. "My name is Hannah, and you don't get to use pet names after you disappeared like a coward!"
Something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe, or something deeper. But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Hannah," he says. The way he says my name makes my knees weak despite everything. "You're collateral for your father's debt."
I stare at him. "What?" My hand almost goes to my stomach. Almost. Collateral. If he only knew.
"Your father owes me money. A significant amount. Until he pays it back, you stay here."
"My father—" I shake my head violently. "You're insane. My dad's an accountant. He doesn't have debts to people like you."
"People like me?"
The dangerous edge in his voice should scare me. Instead, it sends heat flooding through my veins. I hate myself for it.
"I don't know what you are," I say, "but I know you're not Kevin the accountant. The penthouse suite, the way you just punched that guy, the way you're acting now—none of this is normal."
"Normal is overrated."
“Did you…did you know who I was that night? Were you stalking me?”
He smirks. “I was there enjoying a drink. You arrived shortly after the man I was meeting with left. If I was stalking you, you’d never know.”
I want to scream. Or hit him. Or do something other than stand here while he toys with me like a cat with a mouse.
"This is insane," I say. "My father doesn't owe you anything. He's never even mentioned you."
"Richard Quinn," Dante says quietly. "Certified public accountant, works for Sokolov Enterprises. Lives in Lincoln Park. Wife died twenty years ago—cancer. One daughter, Hannah, who sells real estate and thinks her father's biggest client is a construction company."
My mouth goes dry. He knows things—specific things about my father that he shouldn't know. But none of it makes sense.
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
I think about my father. I remember the stories about boring financial reports. The man who taught me to ride a bike and helped me with my math homework and cried at my college graduation. He’s a boring accountant. I grew up in a small house in the suburbs. He’s not a thief.
"You're lying," I whisper.
"I don't lie, Red. Not about business."
I can't process this. Can't reconcile the father I know with whatever Dante is suggesting. My dad is the most honest person I know. He returns extra change to cashiers and won't even jaywalk when the street is empty.
"I want to call him," I say. "Right now."
"That's not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because until this situation is resolved, you belong to me."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of his hands on my skin.
"I don't belong to anyone," I snap, moving toward the window like I might throw myself through it rather than stay here with him.
"We'll see."
I whirl around to face him. "You can't just kidnap people because their fathers supposedly owe you money! This isn't the Middle Ages!"
"No," he agrees. "It's much more civilized now. We use collateral instead of public executions."
The casual way he mentions executions makes my blood freeze. What kind of world does this man live in? What kind of world does my father apparently live in?
"This is insane," I repeat. "Even if my father does owe you money—which I don't believe—I had nothing to do with it. You can't punish me for his mistakes."
"I'm not punishing you." Dante moves closer. I find myself backing up until I hit the window. "I'm protecting you."
"Protecting me from what?"
"From the people who want to hurt you to get to him."
His words don't make sense, but the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. He actually believes what he's saying. Which means either he's delusional, or my entire life has been built on lies I never knew existed.
"I want to leave," I say quietly. "Please."
"I can't let you do that."
"Then you're no better than those people you claim to be protecting me from."
Something in his expression shifts, becomes almost vulnerable. "Maybe not."
The admission surprises me. I expected arrogance, justification, anything but this quiet acknowledgment that what he's doing is wrong.
"Then let me go," I whisper.
"I can't." His voice is rough with what might be regret. "I wish I could, but I can't."
I try to move past him, to get to the door even though I know the elevator won't work. But he catches my arm, his grip gentle but unbreakable.
"Don't," he says.
"Let go of me."
"Hannah—"
"Let. Go."
Instead of releasing me, he steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, that same expensive scent that has haunted my dreams for weeks. Close enough that I can see the way his pulse beats at his throat.
"Still want to leave?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I should say yes. Should push him away and demand my freedom. Should remind him that whatever happened between us five weeks ago doesn't give him the right to hold me prisoner.
Instead, I find myself grabbing the front of his shirt, my fingers closing around the expensive fabric. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I hate that you left me alone in that hotel room."
"I know."
"I hate that you gave me an amazing night and then disappeared."
"I know."
"I hate that you're doing this to me now."
"I know." His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "But you don't hate me."
He's right, and that's what makes this so impossibly complicated. I should hate him. Should be terrified of him. Should be calling the police instead of leaning into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
But all I can think about is the way he looked at me that night. The way he made me feel alive in ways I had never experienced before.
"This is wrong," I whisper.
"Yes, it is."
"You can't just keep me here."
"I have to."
"Why?"
Instead of answering, he leans down and presses his forehead against mine. We're breathing the same air. Sharing the same space. I can feel the tension crackling between us like electricity before a storm.
"Because the alternative is losing you," he says finally. "And I can't do that."
The raw honesty in his voice breaks something inside me. This man—this dangerous, complicated, impossible man—is afraid of losing me.
"You lost me the moment you walked out of that hotel room," I tell him.
“But did I? You’re here. You’re mine. I don’t think I lost anything.”
Before I can respond, he spins me around, pressing me against the window with my back to his chest. I can feel every inch of his hard body. It’s giving me delicious flashbacks to that night. He fucked me just like this and it had been the hottest night of my life.
"Still want to leave?" he murmurs against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can feel it. This is crazy. All of this is crazy. But his hands are on my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh. I can't seem to remember why I should push him away.
"This doesn't change anything," I manage to say.
"Doesn't it?"
His lips press against the spot just below my ear. I have to bite back a moan. My body remembers him, remembers how he made me feel that night.
"You're still holding me prisoner," I say, but the words lack conviction.
"Collateral," he corrects against my skin.
"That's not a real thing."
"It is in my world."
His world. A world where fathers aren't accountants but something darker. A world where debts are paid in blood and daughters are held as collateral.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I find myself leaning back against him, pushing my ass against the hard cock I can feel through the thin fabric of our clothes. "How long?"
"As long as it takes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you."
I close my eyes, trying to think past the confusion and fear and unwanted desire coursing through my veins. "What happens to me if my father can't pay what he owes?"
The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications I don't want to understand.
"Let me worry about that," he says finally.
"That's not an answer either."
He bites down on my neck sending pleasure and pain tearing through my body. I immediately forget all the reasons why I should hate him.
Just one little orgasm, I tell myself.
And then I’ll hate him. I’ll fight him and escape.
But first…