If my mouth hadn’t been full of toasted bread, peanut butter and jelly when I made it to the bottom step, I would have let out an impressed whistle.
A state-of-the-art gym took up the space before me. Treadmill, weight machines, a Stair Master, a rack full of dumbbells of various sizes, basically anything you would find in a gym, it was here.
Also in the space was a punching bag that looked heavy and imposing, a speedball and another rack on which an array of Samurai swords rested. Something about the lethal way those swords looked made me think there was nothing ornamental or decorative about them.
I swallowed.
This room, this space, was for one thing and one thing only—to hone a person’s ability to inflict a lot of pain effectively.
In other words, a room—I was beginning to believe—that suited Lucas perfectly.
Making my way through it, I headed toward one of the closed doors at the far end.
The thought of not opening the door flittered through my head for an infinitesimal second, and then I wrapped my fingers around the knob and twisted my wrist.
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
This room was a firing range, complete with a paper target dude hanging from a clip. The dude, I couldn’t help but notice, had a bullet hole right in the middle of his head.
I backed out of the room, closed the door and moved to the next closed door. Okay, I was probably being a masochist, and I’m very aware of curiosity being responsible for the cat’s demise, but there was no way I could stop myself opening it.
After I did, I kind of wished I hadn’t.
There was nothing in this room but a safe. Big one. Metal. Just a safe.
For some reason, that was more unsettling than the personal firing range in the other room.
Who the hell had a safe in a room like that? Who the hell was Lucas fucking Pratt?
I closed the door, turned back to the gym and stared at it blankly.
What did I do? Leave? I could. Lucas wasn’t in any state to stop me. I could get in my car—or the Ferrari in the garage—and hightail it back home. But to what end? What would that achieve? It would only piss Lucas off, and it was becoming increasingly obvious to me he was not the kind of person you wanted to piss off.
I could call his parents, tell them where we were and what was going on. The thing was, I really didn’t know what was going on. What would I say to them that wouldn’t freak them out? Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, guess what? Your son turned up at my house naked and beaten up, revealed to me he wants me in ways a good girl shouldn’t enjoy, made me come a lot and then told me to drive him to this amazing isolated house on a cliff upstate. We’re here now. A veterinarian with a killer rack and a Glock 36 operated on him and I’m now standing in his personal gym, studying his sword collection. Oh, and he’s told me someone is out to hurt me and not to trust anyone. Do you know what’s going on? And by the way, are we still on for dinner when you get back from the cruise?
No, that was a conversation I didn’t want to have. And really, what help could they be from all the way in the Caribbean?
Which left me with staying where I was, not calling anyone and completely lacking any answers.
I huffed out a breath. “I wonder if he’s got cable?” I muttered, pushing myself from the door and stomping through the gym.
When I got back up to the living room, Lucas was gone.
Fuck.
Panic, I’ve come to realize, tastes like metal and fire in your mouth.
I stared at the sofa where Lucas had last been, my brain desperately trying to process the cushions I was looking at where a sedated six-foot-five man should be.
“Lucas?” I shouted.
And then slapped my hand to my mouth. If he wasn’t here, than someone must have moved him, right? Which meant I wasn’t alone.
And I’d just announced my presence to whoever was in here with us.
Shit.
Half crouching—no, I don’t know why either—I hurried through the living room to the front door.