Chapter 2
Nick stared at the door, rubbing his jaw. She'd surprised him more than she'd hurt him. A grudging smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he shook his head slowly. Damned if he'd come across many men who'd slug a guy his size—let alone one who happened to be packing a 9 mm. Little Antonia didn't hesitate. She was gutsy; no denying it.
At least he'd managed to figure out what she reacted to. He'd been worried about how the hell he was going to control her. His gun hadn't seemed to intimidate her, or his size, or his best street-thug imitation. When he touched her, though, that was a whole other story. When he'd trailed the backs of his fingers over the soft swell of her breast, her pupils had dilated until her irises vanished. Then she'd decked him. Hard.
So he'd learned two valuable methods of dealing with his temporary captive. He could intimidate her with sexual innuendo, and he'd better duck whenever he found it necessary. He didn't imagine there were many things that scared her. He figured he was lucky he’d stumbled upon even one.
Nick tore his gaze from the door and glanced around the room. She'd be safe here, and no threat to his cover. This part of the mansion had been a safe room, designed by a billionaire with more money than common sense. It wasn’t on the blueprints, and when the feds had confiscated it for back taxes, they’d decided it was the perfect place for a low level gangster who allegedly came from big money, to live. He unplugged the old fashioned landline phone, wound the cord around it and tucked it under the couch. It had a secure line and was less easily hacked than his secure cell. He'd take it downstairs later, while she slept. He double-checked the bookcase door—cliché, yes, but also the only way out of this hidden apartment. It could only be opened by pressing the right combination of numbered buttons on the panel beside it. A light would flash and an alarm would sound if anyone tampered with the lock, so there was no chance of her getting away.
He felt a momentary pang of guilt, but forced it aside. It wasn't difficult. What he was doing was far too important to put it at risk just for one woman. So she'd be scared for a while. So her family would go nuts worrying about her. So what? Kids were dying every day, and Lou Taranto was as responsible for that as if he were choking the life out of them with his own fat hands. Nick's own brother... No. He wouldn't think about Danny—not now.
Too late, a voice whispered from within, and the memories crashed over his mind like a flash flood.
Nick squeezed his brother’s skinny, limp hand tighter, as though he could squeeze the life back into it. “Don't die on me, man. You're all I got, Danny, hold on. Hold on for your kid brother.''
Blue eyes opened, but they were filmy—glazed. Danny didn’t look like he used to. He was thin as a rail, his face and body, heroin-ravaged.“S-sorry, Nicky...let you down...you kep' tellin' me... poison, man... poison.''
Sirens screamed nearer, louder, until they tore Nick's brain apart with their noise. The wind blew like frozen death into the condemned, rat-infested heap Danny and his addict pals called their own. None of them were there now, though. Danny's “friends” had run off and left him there to die alone. Nick reached down to brush an auburn tangle from Danny's forehead. Even if the color of his hair had faded. Danny had all the Irish blood in him, from their mother. Fiona had walked out two years ago—just left. They didn't need her, though. They had each other. Nick was the image of their father, but he didn't want to be. A. J. Manelli was doing eight to fifteen in Attica. They didn't need him, either.
“Help's here, Danny. You hear me?”
There were voices and thundering feet now. Flashing lights bathed his brother’s haggard face in color. Red and blue. The cops were there, too, then. Nick felt tears on his cheeks and swiped them away. “They're here, Dan-o. It's gonna be okay. You’ll be fine—home in time for your eighteenth. We'll party like we planned. It's gonna be okay.”
Only it wasn't.
Nick shook himself free of the rage he'd felt in the months following his brother's death. He'd blamed Danny’s friends, but he'd only been sixteen then. Street smart but naive. Those kids, he learned later, had been just like Danny. Young, cocky, following the pack. It was the filth responsible for putting the heroin onto the streets who ought to pay. And Nick knew who that was.
“And pay he will,” Nick muttered. “If it causes an inconvenience to one brown-eyed spitfire, that's just too damn bad.”
He realized that water was running into the tub. Maybe she was going to take that hot bath he'd suggested. He hadn't expected her to comply quite so easily. Maybe he'd scared her more than he thought. He told himself that was a good thing. She'd be more cooperative, and a hell of a lot less trouble, if she were afraid of him. God help him if she ever got it in her head that he was all bark and no bite. She was cocky enough as it was. She wouldn't be, though, if she had a clue how much trouble she was in. Nobody—nobody—eyeballed Viper doing a hit and lived to tell. That Lou Taranto had trusted Nick enough to send him along on one of Viper's jobs was the best thing that had happened since Nick had come in. And that had only happened because Lou knew someone was informing on him, and was suddenly distrustful of everyone in the gang.
To think all his work had nearly gone to hell because one beautiful girl just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!
Nick's stomach growled, and he glanced at his watch. Midnight, and he hadn't had a bite since lunch. He wondered briefly whether Antonia had eaten dinner tonight, then shook the thought away. It didn't matter to him if she was hungry or not.
The water gurgling and splashing into the bathtub covered any noise she might have made scrounging for items she could use to defend herself, if it came to that. She'd found nothing. Not a can of hair spray—he obviously wasn't the hair-spray type—or even a razor blade. The jerk used an electric one. It lay beside the basin, still dusted in tiny black hairs.
She stared at the shaver and frowned. Why in the world would he shave in this bathroom? Third floor, hidden-away apartment tucked behind a wall in a mansion fit for a king. Why use this bathroom? She pondered if for a long moment, then had to hurry to shut off the faucets. The tub was nearly brimming.
Steam curled from the water’s surface, and she had to admit it was tempting. There wasn't a muscle in her entire body that didn't ache from running, struggling with him, and riding in his trunk. She was chilled to the bone and her feet hurt. The bathroom door had an old fashioned lock and a keyhole. He probably had a key. She'd been in there quite some time already, though, and he hadn't bothered her yet. Maybe he wouldn’t.
The robe that hung from a hook on the door was black velour. It probably came to his knees, but on her it would hover around mid-calf. Maybe ankle. Still, it looked plush, warm and inviting. Biting her lip, she turned the lock. She took a big towel from the pile stacked nearby and placed it within easy reach. At least she'd have something to cover up with if he decided to come barging in. She peeled off her wet blouse, shimmied out of her skirt then exhaled as she lowered her aching body into the soothing bath.
Heat seeped into her, easing her knotted muscles and chasing the chill away. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and realized that she had needed this. It was the perfect prescription to help her calm herself, assess her situation and begin to make a plan.
“I'm being held prisoner by a hit man,” she mused, very softly in case the overgrown thug was listening. “So obviously my first priority is staying alive. Ranks right up there with finding a way to escape.”
She slid lower in the tub, until her head was submerged, soaking her hair. When she resurfaced she reached for a nearby bottle of shampoo. It wasn't a new bottle, as you'd likely find in a seldom-used guest room. It was half-empty. She allowed that information to take up residence in her brain for possible future use.
“The question is, do I really want to escape? When am I going to get this close to the Taranto gang again? This is a research opportunity like nothing I've ever had.”
Her last tell-all book, sold under t
he guise of fiction, had blown the whistle on several key members of a Colombian drug cartel. Government officials who, for one reason or another, had been dragging their feet on the investigation had been forced to act. Her sources for the book had all been genuine, her information checked to the last detail, and she’d handed every bit of it over to the DEA...just prior to book’s release date, giving them time to round up the bad guys and haul their asses in before they realized they’d been outed by a writer.
The pen truly was mightier than the sword.
She'd changed the names of the players in the book, of course, but she'd made sure the people who mattered got the real names, places, dates, recordings, and so on. Of course, the story revolved around ex-KGB operative turned American agent, Katrina Chekov. All her books revolved around Katrina. The last two had hit bestseller lists nationwide.
“And this one will be the topper,” she mused aloud. “Katrina infiltrates the Taranto crime family.” She almost laughed. If Mr. Macho out there had any idea it was Toni Rio soaking in his tub, he'd probably have a stroke. Rumors about the subject matter of her next book were rampant, and the mob was getting nervous. Luckily Toni had always protected her identity. She accepted telephone interviews only, and everything else was handled through her agents and lawyers. If her face became familiar, she'd never be able to move in the right circles and get the information she needed to make her books authentic. In a way, she was Katrina.
She shook her head. No, she wasn’t. She'd like to be Katrina. Katrina had the courage to do things Toni could never do. While Toni snooped and eavesdropped behind the scenes, Katrina stormed the front gates and faced whatever was behind them. While Toni dreamed of finding the perfect man and having a home and a family, Katrina dressed in slinky gowns and seduced dangerous rogues. Katrina had all the courage Toni lacked. If Katrina had been Tito's daughter, she would never have watched in stunned silence as her father was slowly destroyed. She'd have done something about it.
He hadn’t been a great guy. He hadn’t even been a very good guy. But he’d been her dad, which was more than any of the other daughters he’d sired ever got from him.
Toni blinked her guilt away and rinsed the soap from her hair and face. It had trickled into her eyes and it burned. She ignored the impulse to rehash her dad’s decline and fall, or to mentally list all the things she should have done but had failed to do. It was too late for any of it to make a difference now.
She needed to concentrate on the matter at hand. Being who she was and what she was, she probably ought to stay right where she was, and consider this a golden opportunity. Swallowing hard, she thought again about the man in the next room. She was afraid of him, might as well admit it. Hiding fear was something at which she'd become adept, but she felt it as much as anyone else. Maybe more. She wished, not for the first time, that she had a fraction of Katrina's spunk.
She rinsed her hair again, just for good measure––it was so long and thick it required extra care––then leaned back against the cool porcelain to think. It didn't look as if she could get out of here at the moment. She probably ought to escape at the first opportunity, though. She couldn't write the book if she got herself shot in the head and dumped off a bridge somewhere. Even if the giant in the other room had decided to let her live, that could change in a heartbeat if he ever found out who she was. So, while there might be a good measure of cowardice in her decision, there was at least an equal measure of practicality.
In the meantime, she decided, there was no reason not to keep her eyes and ears alert. As long as she was stuck here, she might as well get something out of it. And she couldn't do that by cowering in a corner and shaking like a wet dog.
When the water began to cool, she stepped out of the tub, rubbed herself dry and pulled on the oversize robe. The sleeves were too long, and she had to keep pushing them up while she rinsed her underwear in the sink basin. She was arranging her panties on the towel rack to dry when he knocked on the door.
She only glanced toward it and scowled, but he thumped again.
“Antonia? Did you drown yourself in there?”
She lip-synced his words back at him and hopped up onto the counter to wait. It would be a good idea to know for sure if he had a key to this room. She heard him swear and move away after he pounded once more. Seconds later he returned and maneuvered a key into the lock. He pushed the door open, saw her sitting there and frowned as if puzzled.
Toni tried not to show her disappointment. She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, slid down to the floor and shouldered past him into the bedroom. He was behind her a second later. His hand touched her elbow, and she resisted the urge to pull it away. There was no sense in letting him see how intimidated she was by his touch—how it reminded her of his size and strength. He propelled her into the kitchenette, where a pedestal table held two plates of food. He waved to one of them, and warning prickles raced one another up her spine.
Steak oozed juices and columns of delicious steam. Plump baked potatoes rested beside the meat, and small dishes overflowing with leafy green salad completed his offering. He moved to the refrigerator and stood in front of it, holding the door open. “I have italian, ranch or catalina.”
Right. And he expected her to buy into this? “I'm not hungry.”
He closed the fridge, a bottle in his hand, and turned to frown at her. “At least try the salad.”
Toni's gaze slid from his eyes to the salad bowls on the table. “You must think I'm an idiot.” She prayed her false bravado wouldn't fail her now. “Let me correct that notion for you. I won't be eating anything you try to feed me. You'll have to think of something more original.” There was a numbing certainty in her mind that he'd put more than salad into the bowl reserved for her.
He stared for a moment before he understood. “You think I drugged it, don't you?”
Her cold, level voice deserted her. She couldn't come up with a fitting reply. A sickening mass writhed in the pit of her stomach when she thought of how easily she could have simply sat down and dug in. This was like walking blind through a pit of cobras. She'd have to watch her every step.
“I don't quite know how to get this through your head, Antonia, but I brought you here to keep you alive.”
That really was too much. Her temper came into play, and her paralyzing fear was forgotten. “You brought me here to keep me quiet, so don't try putting any noble motivations on it. I think we might as well dispense with this bull about a couple of days, too. We both know you have to silence me permanently. A few days won't make a helluva difference, unless you've figured a way to resurrect Vinnie Pascorelli from the dead.”
His eyes widened. He lunged forward, one long stride bringing him to her, and he gripped her upper arms and glared into her eyes. “How the hell do you know his name?” He asked the question softly, but his face looked dangerous.
Toni felt her heart flip over. She'd blown it with her damn temper again, and it wasn't the first time. Now what? “I...must've heard you say it to the other guy while I was playing dead.”
She watched him turn that one over, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned the victim's name. She waited. He must not have been sure, because he let the matter drop. He continued holding her arms, though. “I need to know if you have a family. Anyone who's going to miss you.”
She thought of Joey, the only one of her half-sisters she had contact with, had built a relationship with, and her anger flared anew. “You think I'd tell you if I did? Would you have to silence them, too?”
He released a short breath and shook his head. “You mentioned your sister. How long before she realizes you're missing?”
She eyed him and she felt her defiance oozing from every pore in her. The day she'd breathe a word about Josephine to this bastard would never come.
“I don't want to silence her, Antonia. I only need to—” He broke off there, released her arms and looked at the floor. “Hell, I don't suppose I'd tell, either, if I were you.” He reac
hed for one of the salad bowls and pushed it toward her. “I'm not going to poison you, Antonia. Eat your salad.”
With an angry swipe of her hand, she knocked the bowl to the floor. Cherry tomatoes, lettuce, slivers of onion and cucumber chunks littered the place like confetti. His face turned murderous. He grabbed for her again, but she was faster. She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door as she had before. He came after her this time. He threw the door open so roughly that she was knocked away from it. He stalked toward her, rage marking his every movement. Grabbing her by one arm, he jerked her toward him until her chest was pressed to his. He held that arm so tight his fingers burrowed into her flesh and she winced. His other hand went to the back of her head, and he twisted a handful of her hair around his fist. He yanked once, pulling her head back. She felt tears of pain and fear burning her eyes.
Then his mouth descended. He was brutal, making sure he hurt her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She twisted away, but another tug at her hair forced her compliance. His tongue invaded her mouth, attacking, plundering. Her lips were ground between his teeth and her own.
When he finally lifted his head away, she knew there were tears pouring down her face. She tried to check them and found she couldn't.
“Have I made my point?” He let his hand fall from her hair but still held her upper arm, forcing her to face him.
She met his triumphant gaze with tear-blurred eyes. “You made your point. You’re bigger than I am, therefore, you’re in charge. What you say is law and I’m at your mercy. Is that the point you wanted to make?” She rushed on before he could say another word, angrier than she had ever been in her life—with one exception. “Now, I'll make mine. If you close your eyes in my presence, I'll slit your throat. If you lose track of your gun, I'll use it to blow your head off. If you forget to lock the bathroom door while you're bathing, you might find a toaster landing in the water beside you—plugged in. And if there is any poison floating around this hole, you can bet you'll be the one who ends up ingesting it. Have I made my point?”
She doubted her words had much impact, since she blurted them with angry tears streaking her face. He released her arm, shook his head in exasperation and turned toward the door. “Get some sleep,” he muttered. “I'll spend the night on the couch.” He turned and left her standing there, feeling as if she really could carry out those ridiculous threats she'd hurled at him. She felt as if she could happily wring his neck with her bare hands, if she could get them around it.
And the truth was yes. Her half-sister Joey would know she was missing. She would know almost instantly. She might even have known it before it happened.
Nick went to the table and attempted to eat, but the little witch had ruined his appetite. She was being about as uncooperative as was humanly possible and she was only hurting herself. His little show of aggression had scared her into submission—for a moment. His lips thinned and his stomach twisted when he recalled the sight of twin rivers of tears burning down her face. He'd scared her, all right. He'd terrified her, acted like a crazed maniac, made her fear and despise him. He had no doubt she'd meant what she'd said. She might very well try to slit his throat in his sleep, if he gave her the chance. And he wouldn’t freaking blame her.
He sawed off a piece of steak and speared it with his fork. “Good, let her hate me. That's just the way I want it.” He lifted the fork to his lips, paused, then threw it down in disgust. Surging to his feet, he took two steps toward the bedroom door, then stopped himself. What am I going to do, go back in there and apologize? he asked himself. Tell her I'm not the bastard she thinks I am? You have me all wrong, lady. I'm a nice slime bag. Right.
He could just tell her the truth.
Nick shook his head the minute that notion popped in. No way. He was already beginning to wonder if her appearance earlier had been an accident. That alley wasn't in what he'd call a good neighborhood. So what was she doing there? How had she known Vinnie's name? She sure as hell hadn't heard it from him, and he knew she hadn't been close enough to see the man's face. He couldn't have mentioned the name. It was too well-known, had been plastered all over the papers since Vinnie had been busted on a trumped-up charge. The D.A. had put a scare into Vinnie, leaned on him until he'd agreed to testify against Lou Taranto. Then at the last minute, Vinnie the songbird had changed his tune. There wasn't a person in the city who couldn't guess why. Lou had got to Vinnie while he was inside. Lou scared Vinnie a little more than the D.A. did. Vinnie recanted. The D.A.'s bluff was called. He'd never had a stand-up case against Vinnie to begin with, so he'd turned him loose. Then Lou sent his top hitter to repay Vinnie for his loyalty. By the time Nick got to the alley to witness the hit, Vinnie was already dead.
Nick remembered the fear in Antonia's face when she'd seen Viper level his gun at her. That had been his first glimpse of her, standing in the rain, trembling with fear and revulsion. No wonder she didn't want to eat. If he could guarantee the food was safe, she probably wouldn't be able to eat it.
Two hours later the light flashed near the door. Nick flicked on the big-screen monitor, reminding himself to hide the remote control when he was finished. The screen lit, giving him a view of the front gate and the pizza truck parked beyond it. Carl stood beside the truck, pressing the button there.
Antonia was asleep. Nick had peered in a few moments ago. He depressed the button on the speaker and spoke softly. “Yeah?”
“Pizza delivery, Mr. Manelli.”
“Extra anchovies, kid?”
“Sausage and mushrooms, just like you ordered.”
He'd given the right answer. Carl was alone. Nick used another button to open the gate and watched the monitor as the truck lumbered through and stopped near the front door. Nick used the remote to switch the view on the screen to that of the foyer as Carl came inside.
When Nick let him into the apartment a few moments later, Carl tossed the pizza box on a table and glared at him. “I knew you wanted him bad, Nick, but not this bad. How could you do it? How could you pop an innocent like that? She was just...” He swallowed hard and looked toward the ceiling. “She was such a little thing.” He closed his eyes, cleared his throat. “The suits are gonna have a ball with this one, Nick.”
“Then you were there.”
“Vacant room over the bar. I saw the whole thing go down.” His gaze was accusing. “I never thought you had it in you—”
Nick pressed a finger to his lips and Carl instantly went silent. He glanced around as if he expected to see Fat Lou emerge from the shadows with an Uzi. Nick walked to the bedroom door, opened it slightly and looked through. Antonia lay on his bed with the covers pulled protectively up to her chin. Her hair spilled over his pillow, completely hiding it from view. Her thick black lashes touched her cheeks. He stood back and allowed Carl to peer through the crack in the door. Carl did, then he pulled back in shock, and Nick closed the door again, urging his friend away from it.
“What did you do?”
Nick sat down on the couch, stretching his legs out fully and tipping his head back. “The only thing I could do. You didn't really think I'd shoot an innocent bystander, did you?”
“What was I supposed to think when I saw it with my own eyes?”
Nick shrugged. “She was convincing, wasn't she?”
“What, you just told her to fake it and she did?”
Nick didn't want to relive the tense moment. “I told her I'd kill her if she didn't.”
“And she just came here with you? How much did you have to tell her?”
Nick's head came up. “I didn't tell her anything, Carl. She already knows too much. She saw Viper.”
Joey paled visibly. “I was afraid of that. It's as good as her death warrant, you know that, Nick.”
“Exactly. I brought her here because I had no choice. If I didn't have one, how the hell could I give her one?”
“You kidnapped her.”
Nick winced at the term. “I'm trying real hard to think of it as prote
ctive custody.”
Carl shook his head, got up and went to the refrigerator. He took out two beers, tossed one to Nick and popped the top on his own. “Man, I'm relieved. I thought you finally went over the edge.” He took a long drink from the can. “So do you think Lou trusts you, or was it a test?”
“No way to tell, although if anyone identifies Viper to the local cops in the near future, you can bet my body won't be found for months.”
“You know how many people that bastard's killed, Nick?”
Nick nodded slowly. “I know. I want him put away as badly as you do. Now that I've been at the actual scene of a hit, I can give sworn testimony and take Viper out of commission for good. Maybe.” He hadn’t seen the actual hit, though, dammit. “But we have to let him have his head a while longer if we want to take Taranto out, too.” Nick sat a little straighter. “How's your part in the drama coming along?”
“I'm still just one of Taranto’s low-level gophers, running errands for the big boys. I did wrangle an invitation to a poker game tomorrow night at the Century. Word is there's something big coming up. I hope I can find out what.”
Nick frowned at the news. The Century was Lou Taranto's nightclub—a place where most of the patrons were mob players and prostitutes. Private rooms were commonly set aside for invitation-only poker games. Every employee in the club was drop-dead loyal to the Taranto family. “I don't like it, Carl. You'd have no backup. What if something goes wrong?”
“What do you think I am, a rookie? I've been at this as long as you have. You know damn well the bureau's got guys watching Lou's place twenty-four hours a day, snapping cameras and taking down names. An extra plain-brown wrapper parked out front won't raise any eyebrows. Lou's so used to having them around, he sends out sandwiches sometimes. They don't worry him any. I had Harry assign somebody in case I get into trouble. All they know is that if they see someone stand in the left front window and flick a lighter three times before lighting his smoke, they raid the place and bust everyone inside, me included, for gambling.”
“But the surveillance guys won't know there's a Fed inside,” Nick said.
“They don't need to know. That's the deal.”
Nick shook his head. “I still don't like it.” He saw the determination in his friend's face and sighed. “At least you'll have a way out.”
“Right. Now, what are we gonna do about the girl?”
It was just like Carl to change the subject rather than risk an argument. “I'm keeping her here,” Nick told him.
“Not a smart move, my friend.”
“Smarter than letting her go. The second she was spotted, Viper would kill her.”
Carl sighed. “You're right on that count. If he knew she was alive, a whole army couldn't protect her from that bastard. But, God, Nick, how long can you keep her here?”
“As long as I have to.” Nick frowned at a small noise from the bedroom. He met Carl's glance, his eyes conveying a warning. Was she up and listening? They'd kept their voices low, and Nick wasn't concerned about his cover. Still, it wouldn't hurt to buy some insurance. His voice only slightly louder, he added, “I just hope she's not foolish enough to try and escape. She'd be digging her own grave.”
Toni didn't close her eyes after that. She couldn't believe she'd managed to fall asleep in the first place, knowing he was just in the next room. All she had to do was think of him to feel his mouth possessing hers again. He'd enjoyed showing off his physical power over her. The truth was, she was glad he'd done it. There had been odd moments when she'd actually found herself thinking he was attractive, admiring his size and the hardness of his body. Of course, she hadn't allowed such thoughts to linger. For all she knew, he was a killer. Well, good. She wouldn't think of the man as anything but repulsive from here on in. He couldn't have done anything to turn her off more.
She pushed all of her analysis aside and tried to guess who had been speaking to him just now. She'd been roused from sleep by a man's deep laughter and she'd quickly pressed her ear to the door. She'd heard “Carl's” question, “What are we going to do about the girl?”
And the answer: “I'm keeping her here.”
Nick. Carl had called her captor Nick. Then she heard both men remark on her abbreviated life expectancy should she be discovered by Viper. Was Nick telling the truth, then, when he said he'd brought her here to keep her alive? More likely to keep himself alive, she thought. He would be a marked man if Viper ever learned of his little deception. Neither of them mentioned killing her. She supposed she could take that as a good sign. And the bit at the end about digging her own grave had obviously been tacked on for her benefit. She wasn’t an idiot.
A few minutes later there had been absolute silence. Either Nick had left her alone or he was asleep. She was too afraid to open the door to find out which was the case, so she went back to the bed, where she still lay, wide awake, in the morning.
She knew she was a wreck when Nick flung the door open. Her eyes were sore and felt puffy. Her head ached from lack of sleep and nervous tension. All things considered, she'd had better mornings.
He stepped into the bedroom with a flash of straight white teeth in that tanned face and a tray of food in his hands. Toni sat up, clutched the robe tighter and watched him warily. His eyes scanned her face, and his smile vanished.
“You didn't sleep?”
“Did you really think I would?” She injected all the venom she could into the words.
Instead of getting angry, he only frowned harder and put the tray down on the bedside stand. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she intended to slide right out the other side, but he gripped her wrist, his hand capturing hers with the speed of a cobra striking. “You look awful.”
“Sorry. Being kidnapped has that effect on me.”
“More like no sleep and nothing to eat.”
“Who's to blame for that?”
“Look, I'm trying to be friendly,” he snapped. “Why don't you lighten up? I brought you breakfast in bed. How bad can I be?”
“I've already told you, I won't eat anything you bring me.” She said it louder than she needed to, but the aromas coming from the tray were too cruel to bear.
“Use your head, Antonia. I could think of a hundred more practical methods of killing you than poison.”
“That makes you an expert, doesn't it?” She averted her face to avoid the tempting scents. “Take it away.”
“Maybe you think it's something other than poison. Is that it?” He caught her face in his hands and turned her until she faced him. “You think I dropped a roofie in there? Think I want to knock you out and have my way with you?”
She felt her cheeks blazing and tried to pull free of him, but he held her still and smiled. “You are a bastard,” she said slowly, enunciating each syllable.
“You may be right.” He let go of her face. “But at least I've figured out a way you can eat.” He pulled the tray of food nearer the edge of the stand. She couldn't resist looking. The brown sausage links and fluffy yellow eggs pummeled her senses. Her stomach rumbled and he laughed. “What would you say to a brief truce? Just long enough to eat breakfast?”
She glanced at him, her eyes narrow with distrust. He took a sausage and brought it to his lips, his eyes fastened to hers. He took a bite from the end. She couldn't look away as he chewed, swallowed, licked his lips. He held the same piece of sausage to her lips. “Eat, Antonia. You're hungry and you know it.”
Ignoring her pride, she parted her lips and let him push the sausage between them. She took a bite. He smiled and she realized she was staring at him instead of the food. He was so different this morning, speaking softly. His face was relaxed, not hard and scowling. His hair wasn't wet or slicked back as it had been, but dry and thick and wavy, with a shine to it that rivaled a mink. He wore a faded pair of jeans and an ordinary T-shirt—clothes that accentuated the muscles underneath.
He took another bite of the sausage and held the last tiny piece in his fingers. He pus
hed it into her mouth, and when she took it, her lips closed around his fingertips. A jolt shot through her at the sensuality of the contact, and she didn't miss the dark intensity in his eyes.
He looked away quickly, scooped eggs onto a slice of toast, folded it and took a bite. He handed it to her this time. He didn't try to feed her from his hands again.
Toni was famished, and more grateful to him than she cared to admit for thinking of a way to show her the food was safe. She shouldn't be. It was his fault she had to be suspicious of everything he said or did. She ate everything on the plate, always careful that he tasted first. She even made him sip her coffee after she'd added cream and sugar to it. He grimaced but he sipped. He drank his own black and bitter.
“This is much better,” he said, relaxing now and sipping his coffee. “I think we got off on the wrong foot last night, Antonia. This will work out better if you think of yourself as my guest. I promise I won't keep you here a day longer than necessary.”
She was shocked at his easy, almost friendly tone. “It isn't that simple. There's my si—” She stopped herself.
“Your sister,” he finished. He drew a breath and released it slowly. “I wish I could do something about it, but I can't.”
“She'll be worried.” Antonia saw the compassion in his face and pressed him. “Couldn't I send her a note—tell her I've gone away—”
He shook his head. “She'll have you back alive. It's the best I can do. Sorry.”
“Not the best you can do, only the best you will do, you lousy—”
“Nick,” he told her. “It's Nick Manelli. Save yourself the effort of thinking up all those lovely nicknames, okay?”
He drained his cup, stood and left the room. When he returned he carried a large green plastic trash bag. “I brought you some things to make your stay a little more bearable.” He dropped the bag in the center of the floor. “If I've forgotten anything, let me know and I'll do my best to get it for you.” He stepped back into the living room and closed the door.
Curious, Toni got up and looked inside the bag. She drew back in shock. Her own clothes lay in neatly folded stacks. Her purse rested on top. Gaping and gulping air as her rage mounted, she flung open the door and charged him.
“You arrogant bastard! You broke into my apartment last night! You—”
He held up one hand, flat palmed. “I did not break in. I had a key. It was in your purse along with the address. If you recall, you left it in the trunk last night when you kicked me and ran like hell. The least I could do was get some of your things for you. It was no trouble. You don't need to thank me.”
“Thank you! Thank you? I—”
“You're welcome, Antonia. I knew you'd appreciate it. Of course, I am beginning to think I shouldn't have bothered bringing a robe. You couldn't possibly look better in it than you do in mine.” His gaze moved heatedly down her body.
In her fury, Toni hadn't tightened the cord. The robe hung loose to her waist, and the inner swell of her breasts had caught his gaze. She tugged the cord tight and moved toward him. “You are the lowest, most vile, son of a—” She'd lifted her hand in preparation as she spoke, but he grabbed it in mid-swing.
One ruthless tug, and she was flat against him. “Since I've already demonstrated what happens when you lose that hot little temper of yours, I can only conclude you want more of it.”
Her eyes focused on his lips, and her anger began to turn to fear. “Thanks for reminding me what a scumbag you are, Manelli. For a second there I thought you might have a crumb of decency.”
“Never think that, Antonia, because I don't. Push me too far, and you'll find that out.” His eyes blazed down into hers, and Toni waited, trying not to let the moisture spring into her eyes.