Chapter 5
TOMMY
Seeing those wide green eyes again made me wonder for an instant if my obsessive tendencies had finally escalated to the point of hallucinations.
However, with my hand circling her throat and her feminine scent invading my lungs, I can’t deny reality.
Danika Dobrev, the feisty redhead with a man problem, is here in my apartment.
Why? What does she want, and who is she working for?
Is she undercover for the DEA or sent by one of our rivals, and if so, for what purpose?
Either way, she’s shit at her job. She’s drawn so much attention to herself that she might as well be wearing a neon sign.
If she thought tossing out the name of the man I bought this place from was going to erase my suspicions, she’s a fool.
Anyone with a computer and half a brain could look that information up online.
She’s come after me for a reason, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.
Later.
Fortunately for her, I have somewhere to be.
I tuck my gun in my waistband, then spin her around to secure her hands in mine and direct her to the back bedroom.
“Please, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it’s all a coincidence,” she pleads, panic flaring in her voice. She’s shit at being covert, but her acting is spot-on.
“Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that.” I nudge her forward.
“What do you mean? You can’t keep me here.”
“Says the girl who broke in.”
She looks back at me pleadingly, resisting my prods forward. “I told you, it was a mistake. Please, don’t do this. Please .”
Her voice pitches high with elevated fear, which pisses me off because I don’t like it. She sounds terrified, and what’s worse is she’s probably just playing me. I shouldn’t be the least bit affected. So why do I find myself begrudgingly reassuring her?
“Look at me,” I instruct firmly, turning her as much as I can while still keeping her hands secure behind her.
“I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t give me a reason to,” I bite out.
“I have somewhere to be, but you can’t leave until you tell me what the fuck is going on, so you’re going to chill for a bit. ”
“What does that mean?” Her wide eyes dart around as though she’s searching for a way to escape. “Maybe you should just call the police and let them sort it out.”
I don’t answer her and have to use more force to overcome her increased resistance as we turn down the dark hallway to the two guest rooms. It doesn’t get any easier when I stop at a closet and grab a roll of duct tape.
When the designer outfitted each bedroom with a random chair, I’d thought it was pointless clutter but let her do her thing.
She probably hadn’t expected me to tie a woman to one of them, but regardless, her idea was more practical than I realized.
The compact yet cushioned corner chair in the far back bedroom will serve nicely to contain my little intruder until I’m ready to deal with her.
“Sit.” I motion to the chair.
She looks like she’s going to argue, then glances at the bed before scurrying over to the chair. I’m not crazy about her thinking I’m a rapist, but whatever gets her cooperation works for me.
“You don’t have to do this. Just lock me in the room. Or call the police on me.” Her words are rushed and urgent.
I ignore them and make quick work of taping her wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the chair.
When I rip one last piece of tape for her mouth, she’s engulfed in panic.
Eyes wide, her nostrils flare as I press the tape over her rosy lips.
Within seconds, her breathing intensifies to rapid panting.
She’s straining against the tape and seconds away from hyperventilating.
I place my hands on either side of her face and draw her frantic stare to mine.
“Danika, listen to me,” I say quietly. “Breathe with me.” I take a slow, steady breath in through my nose, then out.
She does the same, her entire focus centered on me in a way that makes me feel like a king.
Like I have the power to move mountains if only because she believes I can.
It’s a heady sensation that does nothing to dim my unhealthy fixation on this woman.
We repeat the process three times until she regains control of herself. Once she’s no longer at risk of passing out, I force my hands away from her, which takes more willpower than I care to admit.
“I’ll be gone for an hour—no more. Then we’ll discuss what you’re doing in my apartment, understood?”
She nods, tears welling in her eyes.
Fuck me.
I have to get out of here before I do something idiotic.
I close the door harder than I intended and get the hell out of my apartment.
Besides, I do have somewhere to be, and I don’t go off schedule.
Routines and schedules exist for a reason.
Ignoring them makes my skin crawl. That’s one of my compulsions that generally doesn’t give me problems.
As a kid, I would go unhinged when the family schedule changed unexpectedly, but as an adult, I have all the control. Sometimes things don’t go as planned, and age has helped me learn to cope with that frustration, but for the most part, I can avoid disruptions with careful planning.
Danika Dobrev was not in my plan.
The part I’m struggling with the most is determining whether my intense need to know more about her is a justifiable result of her reappearance or the rationalization of my obsessive brain.
If anyone else in the world had broken in, would I have simply called the police?
Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not the type to call the cops in general, so the question isn’t particularly helpful.
What I’d rather ask myself is why she suggested calling the police. It doesn’t make any sense if she’s part of a rival organization, and I can’t see her being an undercover cop. I’m not a fan, but even I can admit they’re not incompetent enough to do what she’s done.
Could she be a random thief who pegged me as a mark—followed me home and planned to rob me? One who carries around a large duffel bag of crap and stares vacantly out windows after breaking in. That doesn’t add up either.
Something is off with this woman. I don’t understand people in general, but this feels like something more than an inability to read her. Something isn’t lining up, and I intend to find out the reason one way or another.
I’m not back at my place for five minutes when Sante texts to tell me he and his wife, Amelie, are on their way over. Not ideal, but I’m the one who asked him to come by, so I put my curiosity on the back burner and let my little captive stew a little longer.
I plan to deal with her as soon as Sante leaves, but I should have known things would get complicated.
They always do when women are involved. The minute Danika hears our voices, she starts to make a ruckus.
Of course, Amelie hears it and isn’t about to leave anything alone.
Not that I intended to hide Danika from Sante.
He and I have no secrets from one another. I simply had nothing to tell him yet.
Amelie demands to know why a woman in the back of my apartment is screaming. Sante looks equally curious, so I indulge them.
“I caught her breaking in this morning.”
Amelie’s eyes practically bug out of her head before she bolts for the back bedroom. She swings the door wide open, and we all take in the teary woman duct-taped to a chair. I internally cringe because I know how bad it looks.
“Tommaso Donati, what on earth have you done?” Amelie glares daggers at me.
“ Me ?” I shoot back at her. “She’s the one who broke into my apartment.”
“So you tied her up and left her back here?”
“I had somewhere to be.” I shrug, knowing if I tell her I went to a haircut appointment, she’ll skewer my balls and roast them at one of today’s Fourth of July barbecues. Some things are better left unsaid.
She whacks my arm. I glare at her husband because that asshole has the nerve to snicker at my abuse.
After Amelie has carefully removed the tape covering my captive’s mouth, she asks in a sickeningly sweet voice if Danika is okay. I roll my eyes only because I know Amelie can’t see me.
“I’m so sorry. This is all a big mix-up,” the little liar pleads. “I thought the apartment belonged to a friend who was out of town.”
“You steal shit from your friends when they’re away?” Sante’s suspicion gives me some hope that his new wife hasn’t muddled his brain completely. I like the woman, but everything’s changed because of her. I fucking hate change.
“I wasn’t stealing,” Danika shoots back defensively. “I just needed a place to stay.”
“Ah, so you’re a squatter, not a thief.”
“Sante,” Amelie says in warning. “You’re not even letting her explain.”
He gives her an incredulous stare, which withers to a pathetic grimace under the glare of her scrutiny. Looks like I gave him too much credit. The cretin rolls over in surrender.
“I have a photographer friend from school who used to live here. I didn’t realize he’d moved, but I knew he was on shoot in Iceland, so I was hoping to use his place while he was gone. I would have checked with him, but the shoot is remote, and he couldn’t be reached.”
I study her as she explains, trying to assess every little nuance of her speech and movements for tells.
It’s a craft I’ve studied for years because it doesn’t come naturally to me.
I’ve had to work very hard to learn to read people.
Either she’s very good at lying or she’s telling the truth.
But even if she is being honest, her answer only raises more questions.
“You don’t look homeless,” I point out. Nor does she look like someone who wouldn’t have a single friend or family member to call on for a place to stay. Why would she choose to break into someone’s home rather than stay with someone else?
“I’m not,” she replies hesitantly. “I needed to lay low for a bit.”