I stilled. It made perfect sense that Cristiano knew of them—it’d been his job to once—but it disquieted me nonetheless. I’d never met my mother’s parents since she’d chosen cartel life with my father and had severed ties to keep them out of danger. But they’d always been in it, emotional leverage in the shadows, and they didn’t even realize it.
“But what about you? How would you fare without my protection?” Cristiano continued. “Such a beautiful girl who can’t fight . . . they would find you. Easily.” He ghosted his knuckle under my chin. “You’ve accused me of many things. What was it? Worked, passed around, sold? You were worried I’d invite half the town to fuck you.” His dark eyes reflected the cool blue of the pool as he passed them over me. “You must understand, Natalia. They would do all of that and worse. And never forget that I could, too, with less than a snap of my fingers.”
I’d hunched back into my seat, cowering from him, but when my attention snagged on one word, I straightened. “Could?” I asked. “Or would?”
His eyes drifted down to the strapless neckline of my dress. Instead of answering, he said, “Don’t give my staff any trouble while I’m away, and we can take out the horses when I return.”
Cristiano would go all the way up to the line, but something kept him from crossing it. He had the power and inclination to treat me however he wanted, or at least scare me so badly that I never stepped out of line. And he had the reputation to back it up. But he wouldn’t. Why not? What was that raw place in him I’d touched when I’d equated my being here with human trafficking?
“You have horses?” I asked.
“You already met mine, remember?”
How could I forget being forced onto a saddle and stolen away from a burning warehouse while the love of my life had been inside. Or that confusing mix of relief and safety as I’d submitted to the things I couldn’t stop—the wind in my hair, Cristiano’s body cocooning mine, the sound of hooves pounding the solid ground as the desert had spread out before us.
My most unbearable memories of my mother were those of laughing and riding free on our horses. Nothing took me back to those days like the smell, sound, and feel of riding a horse. I worried if I ever took the reins again, I’d keel over from a broken heart. I looked away. “I don’t ride. Not anymore.”
“Then you can stay in the house while I go.”
I jerked my head up and met his glittering eyes. “You’re a dick.”
Still bent at the hip, he removed his hand from the table to pinch my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Not yet, but I can be if you like. Perhaps as payback for slapping me in the church in front of my men, I ought to gather the staff out here and spank you for your attitude. Now, that would make me a dick.”
“You won’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
Because that would be over the line. “You just gave me your word you’d never let anyone lay their eyes on me,” I challenged, “and I’m pretty sure that includes my bare ass. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’d like to let Alejandro take a swat.”
“Go upstairs,” he bit out before I’d even finished my sentence. “You’ll find a closet full of new things, all in your size. Don’t touch a single garment.” He paused to let me connect the meaning of his words to his fiery gaze. “Take off your clothes and wait for me in bed.”
My heart skipped. He sounded more serious than he had yet—and more menacing, which was welcome. We both knew what he was, but he hadn’t fully stepped into the role yet. A captor, rapist, and monster with heroic restraint had kept me on edge more than anything.
Whatever he was, I was ready to face it. I shoved my seat back from the table, took one last healthy gulp of wine, and marched upstairs.
In the closet, I slammed the door. Each hanger had been filled during our meal—floral summer dresses, beaded ball gowns, silk blouses in every color of the rainbow, wool slacks. T-shirts and jeans piled to the tops of each shelf. The stilettos, pumps, sneakers, and sandals lining one wall were so dazzling that I had to force myself to look away so I wouldn’t lose focus.
I wasn’t here to play dress up. To fall into the role of wife and keep house. I was something much uglier—a captive who’d been bestowed with a closet of beautiful things but had been sent to bed with nothing.
My dresser drawers were filled with satin and silk, lace, rhinestones, and scalloped trim. I stripped down and rifled through his drawers instead for the most unattractive thing I could find.