A part of her didn’t want to be here, either.
She left her sisters back there.
With them.
It made her heart ache.
She had to make a choice—her own freedom, or to sacrifice it. Except, when that freedom had been dangled in front of her fingertips, with the promise that it might be okay in the end, the first thing she had done was snatched it right up.
Greedy hands shaking, and all.
Was that selfish?
She didn’t know.
“What?” Corrado asked again, his tone softening slightly the second time.
Ginevra swallowed hard. “Sorry, I just remembered your name, that’s all.”
“And who told you my name?”
“Andino.”
Corrado nodded. “Don’t trust very much he says, let me tell you.”
“He’s the one who gave me this chance,” she replied quietly, “so all I have to go on about him is that he made the right choice for me.”
The man glanced her way again. “Arranged marriage, was it?”
“Not one I wanted.”
“One rarely does.”
He’d said that so dryly, and yet, managed to sound amused at the same time. Ginevra found, the longer she stared at him, the more confused she was about him, and who he was. How did Andino know the man, and was he someone she could trust? Where was she even going with him; where was he taking her, and what in the hell were they going to do once they got there?
She had too many questions.
And no fucking answers.
Ginevra’s heart grew heavier the longer she thought about it. Her sisters, without her and their mother ... the fact she was now a girl on the run with a man she didn’t even know, that the engagement ring she had been made to wear was still on her fucking finger.
“God,” she mumbled.
Corrado glanced her way again.
She was quick to wipe away the tears that slipped down her cheeks, but that didn’t really help. The stupid things kept coming, like a floodgate had been opened, and now she couldn’t control it. She went from silent tears to hiccupping sobs in a blink, and she felt foolish for it, too. Not that she could stop it, now.
“Stop that,” Corrado muttered.
Ginevra dragged in a ragged breath. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
His sharp tone was back.
It made her cry more.
What was wrong with her?
“I don’t do tears, fix your face.”
“Excuse you?”
“I can’t handle a woman that cries all the time, so quit it.”
Fuck him.
“Would you shut up?” Ginevra barked back. “You have no idea what my life has been like lately, or what happened to me today! Just ... shut up!”
Corrado blinked, murmuring, “You’re kind of a mess, donna.”
“And you’re kind of an asshole. What about it?”
Those tears still hadn’t stopped flowing. Corrado let out a harsh noise, but that time when he looked her way, a sympathy stared back from him. She didn’t know what happened until the tires of the car crunched on gravel, and they slowed to a stop. He came across the seats after throwing off his buckle. He snatched a couple of napkins from the cup holder between them, and with a soft, but quick, hand, wiped the wetness from her face.
And likely what was left of her ruined makeup, too.
He kept stroking away those tears, never saying anything the entire time. Part of Ginevra liked that far too much—the way he looked as he focused on his task of wiping away her tears, and how he did it with such silent intensity that it struck her quiet.
And made her stop crying at the same time.
Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Corrado shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Or, a place I used to call home ... I’m sure they’ll be surprised to see you with me when I arrive.”
She frowned.
What did that mean?
Who else would he show up with?
“For how long?” she asked.
“Apparently,” Corrado drawled out, sitting back in his seat and buckling up again, “until I am told otherwise. Settle in, I’m sure it’ll be fun.”
Yeah.
But would it really?
• • •
“Home sweet home,” Corrado muttered, dropping Ginevra’s box—the one Andino had given her with the forged passport, and other things she might need—to the floor. “Feel free to find a room you like, except the master bedroom, it’s ... mine,” he said, after hesitating. “And yeah, that’s about it for now.”
He didn’t say anything else, simply headed down the hall without taking off his blazer, or removing his shoes. Ginevra didn’t feel comfortable enough to walk through this Toronto penthouse without taking her manners into consideration. If he owned the place, then he could do what he wanted—she hadn’t been raised that way.
Hanging up the hat that she had used to hide her face as she escaped from the church, Ginevra noticed the coats hanging along the rack on the wall. It wasn’t that there were coats there that made her hesitate, but more the fact that they were two entirely different styles.
Leather.
Blazers.
She kicked off her shoes, and moved them into one of the cubbies underneath the row of jackets, noticing there, too, were different styles of shoes. And not just a selection of loafers, but rather, combat boots, a pair of Doc Martens, and then next to those, runners, Armani loafers, and a pair of shined, black leather dress shoes that would work with any suit.
And just with a quick glance, she could tell the shoes were two different sizes. Like they belonged to two people.
Two men.
Did someone else live here?
“Is this yours?” Ginevra called after Corrado. “This penthouse, I mean?”
He didn’t answer her back.
She tried not to be annoyed.
Not knowing where he went after he disappeared past the large entrance, decorated in black and white marble, Ginevra headed down the hall. That same sleek and stylish décor followed her deeper into the penthouse. She passed by a sitting room with an entire wall covered by windows overlooking a busy part of Toronto’s center, and another that held a television large enough to be a projection screen. The black leather sectional sitting atop a similarly colored rug looked inviting, and God knew she needed to relax, but she had questions.
Only one man could currently answer them.
Overtop the couch hung a chandelier made up of metal fragments that mirrored the light from the inverted lights in the ceiling. Hardwood floors gleamed under her feet. Artwork covered the walls, and fresh flowers rested in a vase that she passed as she moved toward the noise coming from a room over.
Did someone change them regularly?
A maid?
The place screamed excess.
Money.
From the sturdy, huge bookcases she found in what looked to be a library-slash-office, to the black marble standing shower and matching clawfoot tub in a bathroom directly across from a state-of-the-art kitchen.
The kitchen was where Ginevra found Corrado nursing a glass of amber liquid. Whiskey, given the bottle sat in front of him on the gray, granite countertops. Stainless steel appliances and white cupboards surrounded him in the large space, and yet, somehow, he still dominated it. Her attention was only on him, and that haunted look in his eyes.