Chapter 13
EMMA
Leo is avoiding me, and it’s pissing me off more than anything he’s done in the last three weeks.
Which is saying something, considering you know, he kidnapped me.
But at least when he kidnapped me, he was present. He looked me in the eye and owned what he was doing. This? This disappearing act he’s pulling now? This is cowardice, plain and simple.
It’s been two days since we had sex in his office. Two days since he called it a mistake and refused to talk to me about it. Two days of him making himself scarce, of me wandering this massive house looking for him only to find empty rooms and closed doors.
A mistake.
The word makes me want to throw something every time I think about it, which is constantly because I can’t seem to think about anything else.
That wasn’t a fucking mistake.
The way he kissed me wasn’t a mistake. The way he touched me and looked at me while he was inside me, the way he said my name like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside him—none of that was a mistake.
You don’t kiss someone like that by accident and you certainly don’t touch someone like that if you regret it.
But Leo’s too much of a fucking coward to admit it, apparently.
I’ve tried to find him. I’ve knocked on his locked office door. I’ve checked the library, the gym, even that smaller office where we—where it happened. Nothing. He’s like a ghost in his own house, and I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.
Fucker.
This morning I finally break down and ask Rosa, the housekeeper.
“Rosa,” I say, trying to sound casual as she’s clearing my breakfast dishes. “Have you seen Mr. Santoro?”
Rosa’s face goes blank, which tells me she knows exactly what I’m asking and why. “Mr. Santoro has been taking meetings in the city,” she says diplomatically. “He’s been very busy with business matters.”
Meetings. In the city. Riiight.
“When did he leave?” I can hear the edge in my voice.
“Early this morning,” Rosa replies, her eyes sympathetic. “But I believe he’ll return this evening.”
I nod and thank her, waiting until she leaves before I let myself be angry. He left. He fucking left the house rather than face me and have an adult conversation about what happened between us.
Goddamn that fucking asshole.
Well, two can play this game. If Leo Santoro wants to avoid me, fine. But when he comes back, we’re having this conversation whether he wants to or not.
By the third day, I’m ready to scream.
I’m sitting in the garden, the same spot where Leo and I used to have our morning coffee before shit hit the fan.
There’s a book in my lap—some novel I grabbed from the library—but I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
I keep reading the same paragraph over and over, the words not penetrating because all I can think about is Leo.
The way he felt pressed against me on that desk. The weight of him, the heat of his skin, the way his muscles moved under my hands when I touched him. The sounds he made—these low groans and gasps that went straight through me and made me desperate for more.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And then he called it a mistake.
My hands clench around the book hard enough that the spine cracks. I force myself to relax, and take a deep breath. I try to focus on the words on the page even though they might as well be gibberish.
It’s a beautiful day. Warm but not hot, with a light breeze that carries the scent of the roses planted along the garden walls. Birds are singing somewhere in the trees. The sun is bright but not harsh. It’s the kind of day that should be peaceful and calming.
But I’m wound so tight I feel like I might shatter.
Suddenly, my senses prickle and I know Leo’s nearby. The air changes somehow and gets charged with this electricity that makes my skin feel too tight.
I look up from my book, and there he is.
Leo is standing at the edge of the garden, maybe fifteen feet away, just…
watching me. He’s dressed in dark pants and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and even from this distance I can see he looks tired.
There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there three days ago, and his hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
But god, he’s so handsome it’s unfair.
That’s the thing that kills me. Even now, even pissed off as I am, I can’t stop my body’s reaction to him.
My breath catches and heat pools low in my stomach when I look at him.
His dark brown hair is catching the sunlight, and I can see the amber flecks in his eyes even from here.
His jaw is stubbled because he clearly hasn’t shaved in a couple days, and all I can think about is how that stubble felt against my neck when he kissed down my throat.
How his mouth felt on mine. Hot and demanding and perfect.
How he felt inside me. The stretch, the fullness, the way he filled me so completely that I could still feel him hours later.
My whole body flushes with the memory, heat rushing through me that has nothing to do with the sun. My toes curl in my shoes and I have to press my thighs together because just looking at him and remembering is doing things to me that are extremely inappropriate for a garden in broad daylight.
“Hey, Emma,” Leo says in a low voice.
I close my book carefully, not trusting myself to speak yet because I’m afraid what will come out will be either rage or want or some combination of both that won’t make any sense.
“Well look who finally showed up,” I say sarcastically.
Leo winces and takes a few steps closer, his hands in his pockets, before he schools his expression. “We should—”
“Talk?” I interrupt, finding my voice and letting all my anger seep into it. “Yeah, we should. We should have talked about it three days ago, but you’ve been too busy running away.”
Leo’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t running away. I had meetings.”
“Bullshit,” I say flatly. “You’ve been avoiding me. Rosa told me you left early in the morning and didn’t come back until late at night. You’ve been hiding from me in your own house.”
“I haven’t been hiding,” Leo argues, but he won’t quite meet my eyes.
“You have,” I insist, setting my book aside and standing up. “Because you’re a coward who can’t handle the fact that we had sex.”
Leo flinches slightly at the word. “We shouldn’t talk about this out here,” he says quietly, his eyes darting around.
“Why not?” I challenge. Is he ashamed of me? “Afraid someone might hear? Afraid you might have to actually acknowledge what happened?”
Leo sighs heavily and looks up at the sky as if it holds all the answers.
“Are we going to talk about it?” I demand, crossing my arms. “Or are you going to keep pretending it didn’t happen?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out across his face—the desire to flee versus the knowledge that he can’t keep running forever. Finally, he moves to the bench and sits down, his posture rigid.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, and his voice is flat and emotionless. I want to fucking deck him.
“Nothing to talk about,” I repeat, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice is when I’m shaking with anger inside. “We had sex on your desk and there’s nothing to talk about.” I stare at him in disbelief, noting how he refuses to look at me. “Is that really what you’re going with?”
Leo’s hands clench on his knees. “It shouldn’t have happened,” he bites out.
“But it did happen,” I say, moving closer until I’m standing right in front of him. Look at me, dammit! “And calling it a mistake doesn’t change that.”
“It was a mistake,” Leo insists, finally looking up at me, and his dark eyes look tortured. “We crossed a line that—”
“You’re a liar,” I interrupt, and I watch his eyes flash with surprise. “You’re lying to yourself and you’re lying to me. That wasn’t a mistake and you know it.”
Leo runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Emma, the power dynamic alone is problematic,” he argues.
“Fuck the power dynamic.” I sit down on the bench next to him.
Leo immediately shifts away slightly and puts distance between us, clearly trying not to touch me. It annoys me more than it should—this careful avoidance, like touching me might break whatever control he’s clinging to.
Fine. If he wants to play it that way, I’ll make it harder for him.
I scoot closer deliberately, closing the gap until our legs are pressed together from hip to knee. Leo’s whole body goes tense and his jaw clenches. His hands grip his knees harder and his pulse jumps in his throat, his breathing going slightly faster.
Good. At least I’m not the only one affected here.
“It can’t happen again,” Leo says, his voice strained.
“Why not?” I demand, turning to face him more fully. We’re so close now that I can smell cedar and bergamot and can see the different shades of brown in his eyes.
“Because you’re my captive,” Leo says, but he doesn’t move away from me.
“You’re avoiding the real issue.” I watch his eyes narrow. “You called what we did a mistake. You had sex with me and then immediately called it a mistake and refused to talk to me about it.”
His jaw clenches so tightly I can see a muscle jumping. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” I cut him off sharply. “Don’t lie. You said ‘it was a mistake’ and then you literally left the house rather than face me. So let’s talk about that. Was it a mistake, Leo? Really?”
I can see him struggling with the answer. “The circumstances—”
“Fuck the circumstances,” I snap.
Leo scoots away. I follow him, making sure to press my leg tightly against his. Desire courses through me and even though I’m so pissed off, I want to straddle him right here and fuck him.
“Do you regret it?” I ask Leo, my heart thumping as uneasiness suddenly replaces the desire, leaving me feeling empty. “Did you not want it?”
Leo glares at me, his full lips pursed. “What kind of question is that? Clearly, I wanted it.”