Prologue
Blood. It’s everywhere. The metallic scent fills the air, nauseatingly sweet. I feel it roll down my forehead to my jaw and then to my chin, where it hangs thickly before dripping between my legs and onto the metal chair.
All’s quiet but for the buzzing of a fly in the room and the hollow splat of water somewhere in the corner.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Minutes. Hours. Days. I’ve tried counting in my head, tried to determine the passage of time, but consciousness is something I can’t hold on to.
I’m dying. It must be that. That’s what happens when you’re hit on the head and tied to a chair without medical attention.
Suddenly, in the distance, I hear men’s voices and the thud of shoes against concrete. The door to my prison is opened. One of my guards walks in and offers me water. I drink, not because I want to accept anything he has to offer, but because I need to survive. I need to find out who’s done this.
When I’m finished drinking, he leaves, closing the door behind him. Then I hear fidgeting, breathing, and I realize someone’s still inside with me.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
He steps close, until I feel him bump my knees, letting me know he’s standing directly in front of me. Fingers graze my cheek and I jump, pulling away.
“Shh,” I hear.
When he reaches out again, I let him touch me. The blindfold is lifted, and when I squint against the dim light in the space, I see my captor for the first time.
My heart rate increases, as does my breathing at the sight of the familiar face. I’m unable to believe my eyes and I wonder if it’s a hallucination. But it’s not. The pain in my temple, the blood, it’s all too real. And so is this.
“You?” I growl.
“Hello, gorgeous.” A smile touches my captor’s mouth, wicked and angry.
“What do you want from me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to fall in love with me.” Those are the last words I hear before a hand is raised and I receive another blow to the head that once again throws me into unconsciousness.
1
Angelina
Little black dresses have always been good to me. They hug me with love and hide my imperfections with conviction. They give me confidence. And, damn, but they make me feel good.
I turn in front of the beveled mirror, shocked at my own courage to wear this one in particular, with the plunging neckline that nearly touches my navel. A wicked smirk appears on my lips as I remember the look on Jacob’s face the moment he saw me. The way I wanted him to see me. With hunger and desire. With a fire I planned to stoke all night and let him douse in bed.
It’s nothing more indecent than what the woman in red was wearing. The one who sat at the bar with a man who could easily have been her father, but the way he was touching her let me know he was anything but. Or the woman with the pants so tight I could see the outline of her ass when she walked in front of me.
Yet this little black dress has the power to keep Jacob’s attention on me and me alone.
I smooth my dark hair and make sure the long waves are still perfect before I leave the restroom, heading back to the table tucked in a corner of Maison Voclain. Eyes follow me as I make my way through the beautiful interior of the old mansion in the French Quarter of New Orleans that was turned into a fine French restaurant years ago. Nothing was changed, only maintained. Ornate moldings, golden chandeliers, and thick wood floorboards still remain as they would have been when the Voclain family owned the place.
The original house burned down sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds, but it was rebuilt shortly after. I know all this because my father tried to buy the building, and what a shame it would have been if his offer had been accepted. None of this beauty would be here. He would’ve gutted the place and modernized it, filling it with stainless steel surfaces and hip stools, ridding it of its past. Instead of the beautiful ode to what it once was, it would be a trendy eatery that would attract college students who don’t care about memories.
That’s been the Bianchi motto ever since I can remember. Erase the past if you want to move into the future.
I’d believe in it if it weren’t for places like this, where the past is still very much alive, reminding us that there’s value in remembering. Some things, at least.
Jacob is waiting for me, his blue eyes twinkling with pride as I sit.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” he tells me, reaching over to take my hand.
“Only a thousand times. But have I told you how incredibly handsome you look every day? I’m the envy of all the women here.” I mean it. His dark tailored suit he had made especially for this occasion is so sinfully sexy, I can hardly wait to go home and take it off him. That’s his “little black dress,” I suppose.
We’re doting, fascinated and completely engrossed with each other. I sip the Cabernet we ordered the moment we sat, staring at him over the rim of the glass.
“I love the way you look up at me through your lashes, Mrs. Shaw,” he growls low enough for only me to hear.
“If you’re lucky, you’ll get to see more of that tonight, Mr. Shaw.”
We giggle, unable to restrain our attraction. That’s to be expected when you’re still on your honeymoon. Well, not technically. Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Shaw arrived from their weeklong trip to Alaska two days ago. It’s a good thing we went somewhere cold, because we would’ve felt awfully guilty about not coming up for air otherwise.
We didn’t plan on getting married. It was a spur of the moment, crazy decision. That’s how it felt. But it was the good kind of crazy. The sort of thing you do when you believe someone is meant for you. So you take the plunge.
“What are you going to order?” I ask him, glancing over my menu without letting go of his hand.
“Steak. Rare.”
“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose.
He chuckles, and I forgive his need for practically uncooked meat, because I love him. I have since I met him when my brother hired him as a consultant for the family business. It was love at first sight. For both of us.
Now we sit here, enjoying the magic spell of new love that nothing can break. His eyes glow as he reaches for me, the menus completely forgotten.
“Mind if I join you?” It’s not the deep voice that forces our hands apart so much as the highball glass that’s slammed between them, making us let go.
A man I’ve never seen before has the audacity to pull over a chair from the nearest table and sit in it. With a devilish smile and eyes dark as the night, he looks from Jacob to me.
“Excuse you,” I say. “This table’s already full.”
“Is it? I seem to fit perfectly right here.” The man touches a finger to the spot in front of him on the table.
“That’s it, I’m getting the manag—”
“There’s no need,” Jacob interrupts me, seeming suddenly uncomfortable. He digs a finger into the collar of his blue shirt and tugs slightly. “He’s an old friend of mine. Angel, this is Michael Killian.”
Killian. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. It’s as if it’s been mentioned sometime in passing but had no real connection to me. Perhaps Jacob’s talked about him when he spoke of his work in Nevada, but I don’t remember for sure.