CHAPTER 8 - ARIANNA
CHAPTER
Arianna
I BLINK AS brIGHT SUNSHINE assaults my eyes. Did I forget to shut the curtains? Roberto goes crazy if there’s the hint of a chink of light through the...
Shit!
Sitting bolt upright, the recollection of where I am and what has happened hits me like running full pelt into a freight train. Fresh panic tops up my residual level as my memory gets up to speed and I piece together what has occurred.
Pulling the crisp sheet up around my neck, I’m grateful to see my clothes are intact. But then again, why wouldn’t they be? I wasn’t drunk last night, and there’s no way I’d willingly choose to...
My jaw tightens as Redmond Bateman’s insinuation returns to my mind. I’d love to punch his face for stating that he wasn’t interested in anything I could “offer”.
Well, Mr Bateman, I’ll offer nothing to you or your thug family, no matter how handsome you are!
I close my eyes in irritation. Why do I feel the need to give a thought to that man’s good looks?
Why does that observation even exist in the first place?
It shouldn’t. I thought Roberto was a nice-looking man once.
In my ludicrous immaturity, there was a part of me that felt lucky to become his wife.
I actually convinced myself that even though the arrangement wasn’t the way I’d choose, having naively dreamed as I grew up about falling in love for real, followed by marriage and babies - you get the drift - wouldn’t be so bad.
All things considered, the prospect of Roberto as a husband didn’t seem too much of a hardship.
After all, even my sister was insanely jealous that I’d been granted the best-looking, powerful and most eligible bachelor on the cards.
I thought that, being as this was my lot, it could have been worse.
How misguided I was.
The concept of things being workable lasted until halfway through my lavish wedding reception when I was led to the bridal chamber. With my beautiful gown still on, Roberto slammed me face down on the bed and, without a word, tore my virginity away.
Leaving me to clean myself up after achieving the necessary consummation, he’d left and returned to the reception alone, later satiating himself further with a woman who was “better use in bed” than me.
This was just one facet of life that good wives accepted.
In that moment in the bridal chamber, I made the decision I’d never be so stupid as to base judgment on a man’s looks again.
Not that it’s difficult because since then, my ability to have emotions, opinions or any natural feelings I once may have had about anything was permanently deleted; further reinforced by the black eyes and nightly ritual of abuse following my marriage.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
My forehead bunches into a frown. If I’ve deleted this ability, why did Redmond Bateman overload my senses?
I shake my head to dislodge the uncertainty. It’s only because yesterday was so fraught it put me on hyper-drive, that’s all. Even so, Red’s presence diverted me down a derelict path I didn’t like.
Needing a semblance of time, I look around for a clock.
I can’t remember going to sleep last night.
Being dragged up here by one of the brothers - and they must be Red’s brothers because they all possess that gray-blue wild-eyed look - I took little notice of my surroundings.
I was too busy panicking about what they might do.
But nothing happened. The man, I think they call “Liam”, but it’s irrelevant because they’re all the same and I hate them equally, said nothing. He wouldn’t answer my questions; he just locked the door - actually locked it - and then left.
I must have fallen asleep from exhaustion eventually. But however sleep came about, knowing Roberto wasn’t next to me or being on tenterhooks waiting for him to return from whoever’s bed he’d visited, I had the first uninterrupted night in two years.
I run my tongue around my dry mouth, spotting a glass of water on a table over by the window. Almost salivating with thirst, I scramble from the bed and pad over the thick beige carpet to stare at the glass.
Do I drink it? It could be drugged.
I either risk it or die of dehydration. I might be trapped here for days.
Panic rumbles at that prospect, but I push it away and tip the cool liquid into my mouth, greedily gulping it down. I wipe my hand across my mouth and glance around.
There’s definitely no clock, but this is a very nice room...
I feel the same sense of confusion. Like Red’s office, it’s beautifully done. But it’s the polar opposite of the neutral, contemporary look of that office.
This room is... gorgeous!
I drink in the deep teal walls and luxurious velvet curtains.
There’s a teal rug just under the foot of the super-king bed - its black leather headboard mirrors the black geometric detail in the rug.
The room is masculine and feminine all rolled into one.
It’s a clever design. I resent succumbing to it, but I can’t resist tracing my fingers along the orange velvet scatter cushions on the bed and over the chaise longue by the window.
The pops of color that the cushions bring work flawlessly with the stately color of the walls.
I can’t help liking it. It’s vivid, yet tasteful and dripping with class, the very opposite of Redmond Bateman.
Two contradicting and opposite ends of the scale.
The glaring difference between the opulence of the surroundings and those men’s brash harshness is disquieting, yet intriguing. I don’t want it to be intriguing because that’s another reason why that despicable man remains in my brain when I wish him anywhere but in my thoughts.
I suddenly gasp as a horrible thought assails me. Why would a man have a nicely designed and decorated bedroom above a casino if not for a specific purpose? Perhaps entertaining women of his choice - no doubt one after another? Maybe even more than one at the same time?
A man with his fierce reputation, looking like he does, wouldn’t be short of fame and money-seeking women.
I’m disappointed to realize that once again I’ve brought Bateman’s looks into the equation.
Why the fuck am I doing it?
I stomp over to the wardrobe, my temper rising. How dare they place me in a ready-made brothel room !
What’s in here, then? A wardrobe full of fucking condoms or...
With the door half open, I stare in surprise at the contents.
Shirts and trousers?
Unable to help it, I run my fingers along the packed rail, my skin tingling on the expensive fabric. There’s a distinct waft of that heady scent I smelled last night when Red forced himself up close; the time when I felt the hardness of his chest, his muscles against me...
It must be his aftershave I can smell. How did I miss that in here before?
Almost in a spell, I lean inside the wardrobe, my nose brushing against the clothes. Why are there so many? Surely he doesn’t live above his club? No one would be that dire, would they?