Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
KENNEDY
I stare at the array of clothes around the room, my head pounding.
I vaguely remember a driver bringing me here. Correction—a driver and a bodyguard, both as mountainous as Enzo. Fucker probably knows I was thinking of running.
Not that I could run anywhere, considering Enzo had to carry me to the car.
Me, my shoes—because if the bastard is shoving me off to Andre D’Angelo, it won’t be in six-inch come-fuck-me heels made by Jimmy fucking Choo.
This guy, Ricardo, fusses with my hair, sweeping it up, then letting it fall, before his hands brushing along my waist and across my back. Not in a sensual way. More like he’s sizing me up.
For the slaughter.
I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t so hungover, I’d be a freaking out by now. But with this much alcohol pumping through my veins, it’s a wonder I’m still standing up .
Ricardo holds one gown against me, then another, and yet another. “Your body is exquisite,” he says, his accent vaguely French. He gestures flamboyantly. “You’ll look good in absolutely anything.”
“Thank you,” I say, annoyed. I’m seriously not sure what all the fuss is about. Is this some kind of weird rich-people kink? Playing with me like I’m his favorite Barbie?
“Any preference for color?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
My shoulders rise and fall, deflated. “Got something that matches a silver platter?”
He laughs so hard he nearly shoots champagne through his nose. The sound of laughter is boisterous and genuine, infectious in its warmth. Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips, breaking through the heavy weight holding it down.
Ricardo taps my chin with the crook of his finger. “Remove your clothes.”
All traces of a smile vanish, replaced by a jolt of fear. “What?”
“Just to your bra and panties. For now.” He waggles his brows.
My fingers dig into the fabric of my blouse, clutching it closed. I don’t care how the man seems; it’s just not happening.
When I hesitate, he spins me around to face the mirror. “You’re pretty, eh?”
Okay, now he’s just pissing me off. Like he’s not so sure if I’m pretty. Then I catch my full-length reflection in the mirror, and now I’m not so sure, either.
My clothes are in shambles, I’ve got makeup smeared across one eye like a raccoon’s mask, and my hair is such a tangled disaster that not even rats would nest in it .
When I frown, he leans in, the voice of reassurance. “But when I’m done with you, you’ll be irresistible enough to eat.”
“Like Little Red Riding Hood.”
He bats my nose playfully. “Exactly,” he says and disappears into a back room.
I’m about to grab my bag and run for the hills when my phone rings. Loudly.
The name Riles flashes across the screen, accompanied by the ringtone, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” because she’s been messing with my phone again.
“ Shh! ” I press the volume down until my thumbprint feels permanent. I answer and rush into—well, I’m not even sure what. A sewing room?
Three sewing machines sit quietly, along with half a dozen ironing boards, irons and steamers, and a mannequin that looks eerily like me, hair and all.
Except for the fact that she’s already naked.
Lace litters the room like a fabric bomb exploded. To my right, a board catches my eye. There’s a photo of me from the beach yesterday pinned to its center, surrounded by sketches of dresses, each one signed with an extravagant flourish.
“What the fuck?”
“What the fuck is right! Oh, my God, Kenni, your boyfriend has his own private jet?”
Her words snap me back to the call. “You’re on his jet?”
“And headed right for you. Did you know they’ll serve me any drink I want? And food. And they even have?—”
“You need to call Agent Knox,” I cut in. “Tell him where you’re landing. Make sure he picks you up. ”
“Why?” she asks, confused and wanting answers. “What’s going on?”
“There’s no time to explain.” My heart pounds as I glance around the room, paranoia creeping in. My fingers clutch the phone so tightly it hurts. “Make sure he meets your plane and takes you somewhere safe.”
“But—” she starts to protest.
“But nothing,” I interrupt, gripping the phone tighter. “Don’t ask questions. Just trust me, okay?” Footsteps echo down the hall, coming way too fast. “I have to go,” I whisper urgently. “I love you, Riley.” I disconnect the call.
The door slams shut, and I whip around.
Ricardo stands there, studying me with a cold, hard expression. “ Tsk-tsk-tsk . Sneaking off. Discovering my lair,” he chides, leaning in, his voice a low, sing-song whisper. “It rubs the lotion on the skin, or else it gets the hose again.”
Horrified, I flinch. “What?”
“Oh, my gosh. I’ve always wanted to say that.” Ricardo chuckles dismissively while I’m busy scouting the room for exits. “But seriously, darling, if you don’t do exactly as you’re told, I won’t be able to finish in time. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
I don’t know. Is there a deadline? Like being a few minutes late will ruin the big reveal? News flash: Andre D’Angelo already knows what I look like. I mean, when a grizzly bear rips apart a lone hiker for breakfast, does he give two shits what they’re wearing?
Ricardo’s fingers are unexpectedly gentle as he brushes my hair behind one ear. “Make my year and tell me you’re not attached to it. ”
I gulp. “Attached to it?” I squeak out, my throat suddenly dry.
“Attached to the length.”
He toys with it some more, and I take a long, hard look at him. There’s something unnervingly familiar about him. How do I know him?
I rub my temple. Is he a mass murderer? Top 10 on the FBI’s most wanted list? My stomach churns. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He takes a deep, meditative breath, his hand gripping mine. “No, no. You can’t be sick. You must be brave. Brave and daring, darling,” he says, tossing back the last of his drink.
He sets down the glass and pulls out a straight razor, the blade glinting menacingly in the light. “Brave and daring?” I ask, my eyes wide, voice trembling.
“I’m going to make Enzo D’Angelo wish he’d never given me free rein over you,” he smirks. “Don’t worry. The first cut’s always the worst.”
My gasp is so loud he stops. He gives me a sympathetic look, patting my hair once more.
“Sometimes, if you close your eyes, it’s easier, darling,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as spun silk and eerily convincing.
After a brief hesitation and with no exits in sight, I shut my eyes, while my heart is pounding wildly in my chest.
“Trust me, you won’t feel a thing.”
That’s just it. I’m feeling everything.
Fear.
Heartbreak.
Regret .
But then I think of Da and square my shoulders, standing tall and brave.
If I’m going down, I’m going down like a Mullvain.