Gently, I lower her to the bed and take a step back. Her hair is spread out around her face, the curls framing her beautiful bone structure. My T-shirt is still in her hand, her dainty fingers folded around it softly. The robe gapes slightly where her legs are bent over the edge. I grow hard looking at her like this. I imagine stripping the robe and spreading her legs to watch her. I imagine dragging my hands over the contours of her body and getting to know her curves while she’s out cold. The dark, invasive thought makes me even harder. I could tell her I had to dress her in the T-shirt, so she’d sleep more comfortably. She’d never know if I stroked her or stroked myself while looking at her.
But not like this.
My thoughts are sick. They make me sick.
Disgusted, I grab my testicles and squeeze until my eyes water. The pain is good. It grounds me. I deserved that.
I arrange her like a princess on the bed and cover her with the duvet. Then I sink down into the armchair with my head in my hands, watching, thinking. When I’ve decided, I get up. I’d like to watch her all night, but there’s plenty to do.
It takes a lot of work to make a person disappear.
Chapter 4
Zoe
I wake up groggy. My throat is dry, and my eyes burn. I’m lying in a big bed, covered by a soft blanket, instead of on the lumpy mattress of my single bed. Memories from yesterday return, of a man with big hands and a winter’s day eyes. I shoot upright.
Blinking, I look around the room, but it’s not the hotel room from last night. Wait. What happened before I passed out? The last I recall was feeling sick. Maxime took me to the bedroom and gave me a T-shirt. After that, my mind is a blank.
I glance down at the hotel robe I’m wearing. No T-shirt. I don’t remember putting it on or going to bed. My panic escalates as I survey the room with the Renaissance furniture and golden brocade curtains I don’t remember.
Where am I?
Jumping from the bed, I rush to the window and yank the curtains open. The view makes me stumble a step back, gasping as I take in the dome roofs and towers over the canal.
My heart beats furiously as I turn back to the room for clues. My bare feet are quiet on the thick carpet as I run to the adjoining room and peer inside. It’s a bathroom. I’m desperate, so I lock the door and use the facilities before washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face to clear my head.
The bathroom is even bigger than the one of last night. The shower has twin nozzles. A spa bath window overlooks more sandstone buildings and cobblestone streets. I run to the window and check for a handle, but there isn’t one. It doesn’t open. Light streams into the room, the sun still high. It’s sometime in the morning, maybe around ten.
I go back into the room and open the closet. It’s empty. I check the nightstand for stationary or a complimentary pen, any clue, but there’s nothing. I have a terrible suspicion, one so unreal it’s absurd to even think it. I hurry to the other door and push the handle down. It opens onto a lounge as luxuriously decorated as the bedroom. Maxime sits in an armchair, a cup of espresso on the coffee table. He stands when I enter. Dressed in a dark suit and silver tie, he’s as impeccably groomed as yesterday.
“Where am I?” I cry out, going to the lounge window. The view over the square is strangely familiar, yet I know this isn’t home. This isn’t South Africa.
“Calm down, Zoe. Come have breakfast, and I’ll explain.”
I spin around. “I don’t want breakfast.”
He walks to a table and lifts the silver lid from one of the dishes. A waft of pancakes fills the air. He points at the chair. “Please.”
The word is a command. Not hungry in the least, I pad over cautiously and lower myself into the seat. He adjusts my chair and serves two pancakes on the plate in front of me before reaching for a bowl of cream.
I can’t stand it. I have to know. “Did you touch me?”
His hand stills on the serving spoon. It’s minute, but I notice. He drops a dollop on each pancake. “No.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but he definitely didn’t rape me. I would’ve felt the difference in my body, wouldn’t I? “What’s going on? Please tell me where we are.”
Offering me a bowl of strawberries, he waits with an outstretched arm. It’s clear he’s not going to budge until I serve myself. I take a strawberry without paying attention to what I’m doing. I’m too focused on his face, looking for answers.
He pours tea that smells like roses into a porcelain cup and puts it next to my plate before taking the seat opposite me. “We’re in Venice.”
The strawberry drops from my fingers. It rolls over the carpet under the table. I can feel the blood drain from my face as he gives me the verbal confirmation of what I suspected.
“Why?” I whisper.
“I thought you wanted to come here.”
He saw the books in my apartment. I clench my jaw. He stole me. That’s terrifying, but somehow this, the fact that he invaded my dreams, feels so much worse.
“Eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”
I grab the knife. The shaft shakes in my hand. Am I capable of stabbing him? Can I drive the blunt end into his black, devious heart? “How did I get here?”
“I have a plane.”
“You abducted me.” I can’t make sense of the facts staring me in the eyes. “I don’t even have a passport.”
“You didn’t. You do now.”
“How…You can’t just get a passport overnight.”
He doesn’t answer.
Oh, my God. He came prepared. He came to South Africa with a passport. My kidnapping was well thought out. Premeditated. “Just tell me what you want.”
He crosses his legs as he considers me with his emotionless eyes. Does he even feel anything? Is he a psychopath? His face is rough and unsightly to look at, but it’s the flatness of those sharp, gray eyes that scares me the most.
“Eat,” he says again, “and then we’ll talk.”
I eat, not because I want to, but so he’ll tell me what’s going on. The pancakes are fluffy, but I don’t taste anything.
“Have a strawberry,” he says. “They’re out of season. I had them flown in especially.”
I stare at the bowl of fat, red strawberries. Each one is perfect, almost too pretty to be real. Taking one, I bite into the flesh. Juice runs over my chin. I catch it with my palm. He reaches over the table, offering me a linen napkin. I snatch it from his hand, scrunching it up in my fist before dumping it next to my plate in an impulsive act of defiance.
The warm drink is the only thing I really want. I reach for the tea. “I ate. Now talk.”
Rubbing a thumb over his lips, he seems to weigh his words. After an awkward silence, he says, “We need to borrow you for a while.”
The warm tea scalds my throat as I almost choke on the sip I took. “Borrow me? We?”
“My family.”
I replace the cup on the saucer lest I drop the hot liquid in my lap. “What for?”
“You don’t need to concern yourself over the details. What you need to know is Damian’s life is in your hands.”
Shock runs through me. He—they—intend to keep me. If I don’t comply, Damian will pay. “I have a job, a home, friends—”