"Yes," Gerard agrees, to my surprise. When I glance back, there's a sad look in his eye, something almost like regret. "I believe you will."
Then he's gone back to his regular duties. I don't know the half of everything Gerard does for our family, cloistered away in Dad's study bent over the accounting books Dad keeps, and I have a feeling that I don't want to know. I like Gerard too much to think about how dirty his hands must be.
Then again, they can't be anywhere near as dirty as my father's.
I shake the thoughts from my mind and check my phone. The taxi will be here in five minutes, and this house already feels like the past to me. I need to get some fresh air. Step out of this dungeon and into the future.
I wrench the door open and stride out into the chilly fall evening. The air smells crisp, layered with falling leaves and a hint of snow on the breeze. It's early for snow, even here in upstate New York, but the weather has been odd lately, so who knows what could happen.
I won't have to worry about it, though. Pretty soon I'll be basking in the California sunshine, watching sunsets over the ocean and enjoying the sea breeze.
A smile drifts over my face, and I close the door behind me to settle down on the stoop to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The taxi never comes.
Fifteen minutes later, I sigh and turn around to head back inside. "Gerard?" I call when I reach the foyer. But there's no reply. That's strange, I think as I stride through the halls. I check the study, but it's empty. There's a chill throughout the house, one I didn't notice before. I shiver as I leave the study and hurry through the hallway, back toward the kitchen.
"Andrew?" I call. "Gerard?"
No answer. Something about the way my voice echoes in the empty house is starting to give me the chills. I walk faster now, practically jogging, all the way back to the garage. But when I wrench open the door, it's empty too. No cars; not Gerard's or Andrew's, or even Dad's Corvette.
I back away from the door, my stomach curling. Something is wrong.
There's a sharp buzz, and I let out a yelp. Then I laugh, my heart still pounding, trying to relax.
The doorbell.
Gerard probably just went to look for me and got locked out, that's all. Or maybe they went to run an errand and my taxi finally arrived.
Shaking my head, internally chiding myself for getting spooked so easily, I hurry back through the long hallways of the house to the front door.
"What happened?" I ask as I fling it open, expecting Gerard's smiling face.
Instead, I'm greeted by a stranger.
He's tall, almost a head taller than me, with muscles visible through his tight black T-shirt-not the bulky, bulging kind, but the lean, trim muscles of someone who's strong by necessity, not choice. His pale blue eyes catch my attention immediately, even with how distractingly handsome the rest of his face is. There's something familiar about those eyes … About the way he smiles, slow and dangerous, and his gaze tracks down my body. Bold and possessive, like he knows he can get away with it.
I take a step back into the foyer. "Can I help you?" I ask, remembering where we are. Remembering there's nobody else in this house and this guy does not look like a cab driver.
He laughs, a low, cruel sound that sends another shiver down my spine, sharper this time. "You can help me by coming quietly to my car," he says. "But if you want to fight, that's fine with me too."
Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and I back away another step, raising my voice. "Gerard!" I shout. "We have a guest." I try to keep my voice steady, act like I'm not terrified. Act like there's someone else here who could come to help me at any moment.
But the man just laughs again, in a knowing way that chills my blood. "No one is coming to help you. Everyone knows that it's finally time for Calvin Badiary to pay the price for his wicked ways."
I freeze halfway to the staircase. Take him in again, slower this time. Those cut-glass cheekbones, the dark stubble across his strong jawline. The fire in his deceptively ice-cool eyes.
I know this man.
Five years ago, he saved my life. Five years ago, he rescued me, and then scared me half to death.
Five years ago, I spent the better part of a summer dreaming of this man every night. When I first slid my hand down my panties and started to explore myself, learning just how good it could feel, he's the one who drifted into my fantasies every time. In those fantasies, though, he didn't leave me alone in that dark alley. In my fantasies, he pushed me up against the wall and took what he wanted. He claimed me as his prize, and I loved every second of it.
My face flushes, and he lifts his eyebrows, noticing.
I shake my head to snap out of it. "You need to leave," I say, putting on my best haughty rich-girl voice, a tone I've perfected over the years.
"If you don't come willingly, I have no problem throwing you over my shoulder and dragging you out of here," he replies, his voice level and unconcerned. Like we're talking about the weather or a casual stroll. Not him showing up at my father's house to try and kidnap me.
"Like hell you will." I spin on my heel then, my brain already racing. I can sprint to the kitchen, grab the phone and dial the police. Maybe by the time they come, Gerard or Andrew will have returned too.
But before I can make it even a few steps down the hall, a firm hand closes around my wrist and yanks me backward.
"You're coming with me, Pamona," he growls, his breath hot against my cheek as he pulls me against him. The moment our bodies touch, a flush spreads across my face. His hand is gripping my wrist hard enough to hurt, but I can't help the way my heart rate speeds up and my breath goes shallow with desire. I want him just as much as I hate him right now.
"Let me go." I yank at my wrist, trying to break his grip. But he's not like those stupid teenagers in the alley all those years ago. He knows better.
One solid tug, and he spins me around to face him. Before I realize what's happening, he's grabbing me and flinging me over his shoulder, as easily as if I weigh nothing at all. He pins me against his shoulder, one arm around my legs and the other grabbing my ass firmly to hold me in place.
"Put me down!" I shriek, punching at his back. That only makes him squeeze my ass harder, and embarrassingly, I can feel my pussy starting to clench. No guy has ever touched me before, let alone like this. So possessively, so completely in control. He can take whatever he wants from me, and he knows it …
He strides across the yard, and my stomach aches where it's bent over his shoulder. I can see a limo parked in the entryway, the gate wide open. Almost like someone let him in. I lift my head and spot the outline of someone in the guard booth-our night guard. Oh, thank god.
"Help!" I scream in his general direction, wishing I remembered his name. Ben? Brian? B-something.
The shadow in the booth swivels toward us. The man ignores it entirely, still walking calmly toward the limo.
Barry. That's it. "Barry, help me!" I shout again, and I can see him in the booth now, his eyes on us, clearly watching the scene unfold.
Then he turns back to his screen, unconcerned, and starts typing something on the computer.
The gate to the property whirs open, clearing the way for this man's escape.
My stomach sinks to my toes. That's when I realize, well and truly, that I am trapped. Nobody is coming to save me. Nobody will help.
The man throws open the back door of the limo, and I've gone limp with shock when he tosses me into the backseat. All I can do is stare out the window at Barry, the man my father hired a couple of years ago, who knows me, who knows my Dad. He's letting this happen.
Was everyone? Is that why Gerard and Andrew both left the house? Leaving me alone and vulnerable?
I curl over my legs, defeated.
That's when the man takes the seat beside me and pulls the door shut after him. Up front somewhere, hidden behind tinted glass, a driver starts the engine and backs up to turn us around.
"I told you, Pamona," he murmurs, and now his voice sounds almost apologetic. Like maybe some part of him regrets doing this. "No one is going to help you."
That spurs me into lifting my head. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. Pretending that I don't feel the curl of fear in my stomach or the adrenaline sizzling in my veins. "Who are you?"
"You don't remember me?" He lifts one eyebrow, smirking, the very picture of insolence. "I would have thought you'd recall your savior."
"I thought you said you were the trouble, not the savior," I respond. Then I bite my lip, realizing what I did. I admitted that I do remember him.
His smirk widens. "I knew I made an impression."
"A poor one," I respond, still keeping my head held high. "And you never did tell me your name. Why not? Afraid that I could use it against you? You're willing to go to all these lengths to take me, to punish my father, but you can't even admit who you are. Sounds less like trouble and more like cowardice to me."