Chapter 27
MARLENA
Iwake up surrounded by luxury. The pillow beneath my head is as soft as a feather. The blanket covering me is light and warm all at the same time. This definitely isn’t my apartment, and I’m not even sure it’s the suite of rooms Francisco has given me.
It hits me all of a sudden: I’m in Italy. The plane ride wasn’t a dream. Brandon is still missing, and I’m on the opposite side of the planet, held prisoner by my own fiancé. But as I open my eyes, it’s hard to stay mad.
This place is gorgeous. Even the suite of rooms in Francisco’s mansion can’t compare.
From my vantage point on the bed, I can see an expanse of dark, antique furniture.
There are two suitcases sitting by the door, and a floppy hat sitting on the dresser.
It looks like someone brought me more goodies during the night, and I’m not sure whether to be impressed or angry.
Obviously, it doesn’t do any good to lock my door. Yet, if the only thing the intruders are going to do is bring me presents, why should I be upset? I climb out of bed to stretch. There’s a big picture window behind me with a glorious view of the pool.
I was impressed last night when Francisco took me on a tour, but I didn’t say anything.
Those lounge chairs look super comfortable, and the landscaping is spectacular.
I’m almost upset I didn’t pack a bathing suit.
A morning dip would put me in an excellent mood.
But then I remember I’m supposed to be angry.
Brandon is still missing, and it’s all Francisco’s fault.
Well, not all his fault, I tell myself. Maybe it’s a little bit the fault of my father’s enemies.
I just wish that I could have gotten to Brandon before the bad guys did.
It might have taken some encouragement, but surely I would have been able to convince him to run away with me.
Yet, looking at the situation in the bright light of morning, I can see that’s just another hopeful dream.
The truth is that Brandon would never have listened to me.
He wouldn’t have wanted to give up his college dorm life, no matter what the cost. There was little I could do to stop this tragedy from unfolding, and even less that Francisco could have done.
“I’m still mad,” I say out loud, as if to convince myself that I have permission to be upset.
I go to the bathroom to investigate the damage from the plane ride.
My hair is still tangled, but a good night’s sleep has restored my skin tone.
I find a toiletries bag sitting on the bathroom counter, full of all kinds of things I didn’t buy.
There are makeup wipes and cold cream, foundation, and at least a dozen different shades of lipstick. Someone is looking out for me.
I spend a quick ten minutes getting my face ready, and then I turn to the presents that have been left on my doorstep. There’s no note, but I know where they came from. Francisco obviously bought them or had someone else buy them.
The shopping bags are lined up against the wall. I look at them with scorn, knowing they were just a ruse to get me to the airport. Still, some of the dresses are outstanding, and I guess I’ll wear them since I don’t have anything else.
I grab one of the suitcases and haul it to the bed.
It’s a fancy bag with a designer label. Of course, nothing substandard is allowed to enter Francisco’s homes.
I unzip it, and to my delight, I find that it’s full of more clothes.
Most importantly, there are three bikini bathing suits in delicate crepe paper, nestled right in the middle of the bag.
I pull one out and hold it up to the light.
It’s a man’s dream, with barely enough fabric to cover my essentials.
I roll my eyes. Of course, Francisco would plan for this eventuality.
I wonder how long it took him to order his staff to go out and buy it.
I’m surprised he didn’t think of it back home when we were at the department store.
Of course, this bathing suit looks like it costs a fortune, so it’s obviously not commercially made.
I look out the window at the pool and bite my lip.
Should I? Do I dare? What could it hurt?
I have no illusions anymore about the man I’m going to marry.
He made it clear that he’ll do whatever it takes to get his way.
He’s not above dragging me onto a plane, kicking and screaming, and he won’t take me home no matter how much I protest.
But I also know that he’ll keep his hands to himself unless I give him explicit permission. I was the one who made the first move in the office. I was the one who needed to forget the situation I was in, who was insatiable, who kept our passion moving forward at breakneck speed once I got a taste.
He was ready, willing, and able, but he resisted entirely until I broke the ice.
So, putting on this bathing suit and going outside to swim in the pool doesn’t mean anything.
If he sees me, then I’ll just ignore him.
I don’t have to pretend to forgive him just to take advantage of the amenities in his villa.
Making up my mind, I slip out of the clothes I was wearing on the plane.
I didn’t even bother to change into pajamas the night before because I was so tired.
I also didn’t want to give Francisco the satisfaction of wearing the pajamas he bought for me.
It seems petty now. Francisco wasn’t even in the room, and he wouldn’t have known that I went to bed in my travel clothes. The whole thing seems silly.
I pull the bikini bottoms on and lace up the sides.
Then, I slide my arms into the spaghetti straps and fasten it in the back.
I feel nearly naked, but I’m craving the touch of the sun on my skin.
I need this so I can let go of some of the anxiety I’m carrying around.
There’s nothing I can do for Brandon from here, and hiding away in this bedroom isn’t going to help anyone.
I step out into the hall, looking both left and right to see if I’m alone.
I don’t see any of the maids or any of Francisco’s men.
Even my bodyguard is missing, and for that, I’m grateful.
Of course, they’re all probably in the villa somewhere, maybe in the living room or sleeping in their own quarters.
I’m under no illusion that I’ll be able to sneak out and make it to the American embassy when I don’t even know where in Italy I am, but that’s not my preferred destination anyway.
I hurry down the hall, retracing my steps, trying to remember how to get outside to the pool. I find the patio doors just beyond the living room. Sliding them open takes a little bit of force, but as soon as I manage to do it, the world opens up in front of me.
The air is sweeter here than it is back home.
I don’t know if that’s because I’m used to living in the city, and this villa is far enough away not to attract any smog or congestion.
Or maybe it’s because Italy itself is sweeter than America.
It doesn’t matter. The sun is shining, and the birds are chirping.
The pool itself looks inviting, and I drop the towel I’ve brought with me on one of the lounge chairs. I walk to the other side of the pool where stairs lead down into the shallow end. The water is colder than I’m expecting, but it feels so good as it collects around my toes.
I step in deeper, and the water swirls around my ankles.
I shiver as it crosses my calves and eventually opens up to swallow my thighs.
By the time I’m waist-deep, standing on the shallow end of the pool, I feel refreshed.
I remember being a kid and swimming at the Y.
Brandon and I would make a game out of who could go under first.
I hold my breath and plunge beneath the surface. The world stops, and I’m suspended halfway above the floor. I float for as long as I can hold my breath, wishing that the water could wash away all my troubles. When it doesn’t, I decide that a few laps are in order.
I carefully stretch each arm forward and back, remembering my strokes from when I was younger. The more I swim, the faster I can go, until I’m back and forth from one wall to the next in under thirty seconds.
I’ve warmed up considerably, and I feel like now is a good time to take a break.
The exercise got my heart pumping, and I feel ten thousand times better than I did last night.
I almost manage to forget that my brother is still missing and my husband-to-be is still a monster.
An attractive monster to be sure, maybe even an attractive, thoughtful monster, but still a monster.
I half wish that he could see me as I emerge from the pool, dripping and glistening in the sun. I sneak a glance over at the patio, but it’s empty. No one’s watching. With a sigh, I walk around to the lounge chair and sit down.
The sun is in my eyes, and I realize what that hat was for. Whoever gave it to me knew all about the brilliance of the morning light. I could sneak back inside to grab it, but I don’t want to leave wet footprints everywhere. So I just close my eyes and relax, letting my worries drain away.
After a few minutes, maybe ten or twenty, I decide I want a drink. It’s early in the morning, but who cares? I’m not on vacation. I’m a captive here. If I want to drink, then that’s my business.
I get up to investigate the bar I saw earlier. It’s an ornate wooden cabinet with a shiny mirrored top. It’s located beneath the eaves of the villa to protect it from the weather. I wonder if it’s going to be locked, but to my delight, it opens right up.
There are at least a dozen liquor bottles lined up, along with some of the more popular cocktail mixes. Francisco thought of everything. I select a glass and mix myself a martini, even discovering a jar of olives and a package of toothpicks.
It’s fancier than I’m used to, but it feels right. I take my drink back to my seat and sip while I watch the silent water. The only thing wrong with this picture is Brandon’s situation. If only I knew he was safe, I could let myself relax fully.
I’m surprised when I hear the patio door open. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Francisco has joined me. He’s not wearing a swimsuit. In fact, it looks like he hasn’t changed at all, except that his suit is wrinkle-free.
I watch, astonished, as he sits down in another lounge chair and begins to take his shoes off.
This isn’t something I expected. I don’t know why, but I consider him above all the childish verve necessary to enjoy a good time by the pool.
He strikes me as someone who would be at home in a gambling den or in a smoky back room with a couple of showgirls.
Yet here he is, pulling off his socks and rolling up his pant legs so that he can dip his feet in the pool. He doesn’t say anything to me at first, simply walks around to the other side of the pool where the water is shallow.
I’m mesmerized by his movements. I feel like a voyeur, even though I’m the one in the bikini.
I take another sip of my cocktail and watch as he descends onto the first step.
I know the water is cold, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.
He takes another step down, and now the water tugs at his pant legs.
He sits down at the water’s edge, perfectly content. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could forget everything happening back home and just enjoy myself. But I can’t. Life isn’t fair, and I’m wallowing in it.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. Here it comes, his impassioned plea for me to forgive his blatant lies. I almost shut him down, but I’m feeling a little bit loose after the exercise and the drink. So I decide to hear him out.