A Dream to End All Dreams
Evelyn
Iwas having a disturbingly delicious dream.
Dante Marcelli was standing in front of me. I could smell his cologne, feel his heat. He reached up and ran the back of his hand down my face, just like he had in the gallery, but it didn’t stop there.
Gripping my arms, he turned me around so I was facing my desk. Holding me against his body, I felt his hardness press into my back, warming me.
Slowly, his hands ran down my sides and over my hips. My breath quickened. He pushed me forward, sliding my dress upward, his tattooed hands rough against my skin.
I sucked in a breath, moaned, and opened my eyes.
My heart was pounding. The dream had felt so real, I could almost smell him.
I still smelled him.
A shadow loomed at the side of my bed, and I cried out before a large, gloved hand covered my mouth.
“Don’t make a sound.”
Dante Marcelli.
He was here, in my room. Sitting on my bed.
Or was I still dreaming? Was this some terrifying, erotic nightmare? An apparition created by my overwrought subconscious?
The room was dark. Moonlight slanted through the half-drawn curtains, pooling silver across my duvet. There was no sound, only the racing of blood in my ears as I stared up at him.
“You won’t scream?”
I shook my head and he removed his hand.
“Are you real?” I whispered, pushing myself into a sitting position. His face was mostly in shadow but I could make out the angular features, the muscular physique, and the gray eyes catching the moonlight.
“I’m real,” he replied, in a deep, growly voice, but I heard the hint of amusement in it.
At least I wasn’t losing it. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stared at him. It was like I’d conjured him. One moment I’d been dreaming about him and the next he’d appeared, right here in my bedroom.
As my groggy brain tried to make sense of it, I noticed the gun hanging loosely in his right hand, like a casual accessory.
A jolt of adrenaline hit me, and my eyes widened.
What the hell?
Suddenly, I was very awake.
“Why are you here? How did you get in?” I demanded, looking frantically around my room. The windows were still closed, but the bedroom door was open. I slept with it shut.
Where the hell was security?
“The concierge let us in.”
“Us?” I looked around again, but there was nobody else in the room with us.
“Rocco is waiting outside.” He gestured with the gun.
“Who’s Rocco?”
He gave a smirk. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”
“Meet him? What is the meaning of this?” I leaned over to reach for the lamp.
“Easy.” He raised the gun.
I froze, heart pounding.
Who did this guy think he was, breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night and waving a gun at me?
“I’m turning on the lamp,” I said stiffly.
He gestured with the gun for me to go ahead.
I found the switch and the room lit up. It wasn’t a bright light, unfortunately, but rather a soft, ambient glow designed to relax me before bed. I wasn’t a great sleeper at the best of times, even when I wasn’t hallucinating about hot, dangerous men.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, trying not to notice how he filled out that black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, or the multiple tattoos crawling up his tanned forearms.
“And why the hell do you have a gun?”
I recognized the rose and snake on the back of his right hand, but on his left forearm, he had a jagged bullet hole inked straight over a mass of scar tissue, as if he’d outlined the wound. I also caught a glimpse of a line of script running up the inside. A phrase of some sort. Latin, maybe.
He saw me looking and pulled down his sleeves. Those eerie gray eyes darkened like storm clouds.
“In case you don’t cooperate.”
I gulped, feeling slightly less warm.
“Cooperate, how?”
He gave me a long, hard stare. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Hell, no.
“I don’t think so.”
I wasn’t going anywhere with this devil. Not at this time of night.
His voice was a growl. “I wasn’t asking.”
I stared at him, suddenly conscious of my near nakedness. The slip I wore to bed had slunk off one shoulder, the thin strap now dangling down my arm. I was showing an indecent amount of cleavage, and my uneven breathing didn’t help.
He noticed too.
I saw his gaze drop, a flicker of heat passing through those stormy eyes, before he forced them back to my face.
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.
“About my family’s business.”
I blinked at him, the newspaper clippings and photographs I’d read rushing back. Strange accidents, missing people, failed investigations.
“I don’t know anything about your business,” I said quickly.
He slanted me a look. “That’s what we have to discuss.”
I watched as he uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. The hand with the gun stayed taut.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I blurted out, body stiffening with indignation. “Ask me whatever you want then leave or I’ll call the police.”
He smirked. “Will you now?”
I glanced at the bedside table, looking for my phone. To my relief I saw it was still lying there where I’d left it, charging.
“Yes. Don’t think I won’t. Just because you’re rich and famous—make that infamous—it doesn’t mean I won’t call the cops on you.”
They weren’t idle threats, either. I meant every word.
His gaze dropped to my chest. “This isn’t the most appropriate location for the kind of discussion I had in mind.”
I glowered at him and pulled the strap onto my shoulder.
“Put some clothes on,” he said coldly.
I knew then that he was going to force me to go with him at gunpoint. He and this mysterious Rocco who was waiting outside. Unless I did something to prevent it.
But what?
And what on earth did Dante Marcelli want with me?
“I’m sure this is just a big misunderstanding,” I reasoned, my eyes shifting to my phone again. If I could make it to the bathroom, I could lock the door and call for help.
“That’s what we need to determine.”
I was just calculating the distance to the bathroom—roughly four steps, if I moved fast—when he said, “You won’t make it, Ophelia.”
I blinked at the way the name of the painting rolled off his lips.
“How did you know I had a copy of that painting above my bed?” I whispered, glancing up at it. “Have you been in my bedroom before?”
His eyes lifted. “Looks like you.”
I swallowed. That was why I had it. The ex-lover who painted it for me thought so too.
He’d been travelling through the US, visiting the Met and the Guggenheim and painting in Central Park.
We’d had a brief but passionate affair. Until he’d gone back to Paris.
He’d sent me the copy he’d done as a gift and it was one of my most treasured possessions.
With Dante’s attention still fixed on the Millais painting, I threw back the covers, grabbed my phone, and lunged for the bathroom.
He was on me in two strides.
A strong arm snaked around my waist and, none too gently, pulled me back, slamming me against his rock-hard body. The force knocked the air out of me.
“Dammit,” I wheezed, breathless.
To make matters worse, my phone fell onto the floor. He kicked it under the bed, out of reach. With a frustrated sob, I tried to wriggle free, but he held me firm.
“Let me go!” I demanded.
“Said you wouldn’t make it,” he growled into my ear. His mouth was so close, I could feel his breath on my neck.
One arm was still wrapped around my waist, the other over my chest, one large hand splayed over my shoulder. The strap of my nightgown had fallen down again, but this time I didn’t care. I had bigger problems. Besides, he’d pinned my arms to my sides.
“Let me go!” I kicked out, my heel connecting with his shin. He didn’t so much as flinch. Bare feet weren’t going to do much damage to this guy.
Dante dragged me back to the bed and threw me down.
Before I had a chance to recover, he leaned over and pinned my wrists above my head, wedging a knee between my thighs. My nightgown was bunched up around my hips, exposing way too much underwear.
Furious and embarrassed, I tried to buck him off, but he was immovable.
“Ugh. What are you made of? Lead?”
The corners of his lips quirked. “Stay still.”
When I didn’t, his eyes hardened and he reached behind his back. A moment later, I felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against my side. “I said, keep still.”
I stopped wriggling.
His eyes burned into mine. “Now. Are you going to cooperate?”
I nodded, trying to curb my fury. How dare he treat me like this? But the icy steel pushed against my skin made me think twice about arguing.
“Good.”
I hated feeling so powerless. Hated that he held me at his mercy. I glared up at him, biting my lip to keep from blurting out a scathing retort.
“I was wrong,” he murmured, and to my horror, I felt the gun begin to move upward, over my waist, until it rested against the outside of my breast. “You’re not rigid at all.”
I drew in a shaky breath. “What are you doing?”
With his knee wedged between my thighs, his big hand wrapped around my wrists, his broad, hard chest hovering just inches above mine, and his gun barrel teasing the sensitive underside of my breast, I was strangely aroused.
How was that even possible?
Despite his warning to keep still, I couldn’t help squirming, my hips lifting off the bed, arching toward his crotch. It had been an involuntary movement, but I knew he’d caught it.
I felt his breath hitch as his eyes locked on mine. The gun ceased moving.
“Why aren’t you scared?”
Was it my imagination or had he moved closer? I could see the flecks in his irises now. Silvery threads radiating outward from his dark gray pupils.
“I am,” I whispered, unable to stop my gaze from dropping to his lips.
He nudged my nipple with the gun barrel until it puckered into a hard peak. “No, you’re not. But you should be.”
“Why? Are you going to hurt me?”
His face tightened. “If you lie to me, yes.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Why would I lie?”
He stared at me for a long, heated moment. Our bodies were almost touching. It wouldn’t take much for him to lower himself onto me and—
“Get dressed, Ophelia,” he said flatly, moving off me. “We need to go.”
I sat up, moving very slowly, eyeing the weapon that was still aimed in my direction.
“Don’t try anything else,” he warned, as if reading my mind.
I walked toward the closet. My work outfit wasn’t suitable for… whatever this was. A discussion? An interrogation?
I pulled on a pair of black leggings and a pink, cashmere sweater and wondered what on earth the Marcellis wanted with me.
Sure, I had some unsavory clients, but I rarely dealt directly with them. Buyers, brokers, and art dealers did that. Intermediaries like Mikhail and Helen.
Dante escorted me outside and handed me off to a massive hulk of a man. He was huge and stocky, his face covered in scars. Rocco, I assumed.
He gripped me with a beefy hand as we walked down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. I looked around desperately for the concierge, but he was nowhere to be found. Dante had paid him to disappear, I realized. Help wasn’t coming.
A black SUV with tinted windows idled at the curb.
My captor opened the back door and Rocco released me so I could get in.
I hesitated, only to find Dante’s eyes on me. “Don’t even think about it.”
I sighed and climbed inside.
The heavy black door closed behind me and I sat in silence for a beat, my heart slamming against my ribs. Then the opposite door opened and Dante climbed in beside me.
“Try anything and I’ll cuff you,” he said, the gun pointing at me from his lap.
Rocco got into the passenger seat. I glanced at the driver, but all I could see was the back of his head.
As we pulled away, a surge of alarm ran through me. I’d been abducted by the mob. Dante Marcelli wanted to discuss something with me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what that was.