Leonidas hovered a finger over the screen, then typed, “Somewhere impossible to find. I’ll update you when I have more info.”
Three dots appeared and then disappeared, and then, Benji’s response was, “Thanks. I owe you.”
“By my count, if I can find this jackass, we’ll be almost even.”
“Keep her safe, Leo. She’s very important to me.”
Leonidas’ eyes narrowed, his gaze focused on the gentle undulations in the distance with steely intensity. He had every intention of protecting Mila. Where he’d failed his twin sister, and his father, he would not fail with her.
For as long as she was at his chateau, she would be completely and utterly safe.
Even from you?A little voice in his head asked. After all, perhaps the greatest threat facing them here was the desire they felt for each other, and the almost unavoidable likelihood of acting on it. But Leonidas couldn’t. It was wrong, and beyond that, he’d given Benji his word. But the more time he spent with Mila, the more he felt as though he was trying to deny himself something as essential as oxygen.
Mila felt more restedthan she had for a long time. As she fought her way through the layers of sleep, she had an overwhelming sense of well-being. Strength. Care. Safety. But then, memories sharpened like daggers in the recesses of her mind, slashing her, forcing her to sit up and confront the truth of what had happened.
You’re mine.
Her heart pounded.
Slut.
Her stomach rolled and she pushed back the duvet, looking around, trying to grapple with the unfamiliar setting, but she was thrown, transposing herself back into the room in Croatia, even when the ocean was not visible beyond the window. Instead, there were rolling hills, lush vines, a blue sky, bright sun. She squinted, nausea cresting through her, filling her throat with acid and bile so she made her way quickly to one of three doors and, by a miracle of luck, found her way to a bathroom. She heaved over the toilet bowl, her brow hot and beaded with sweat, her palms clammy, the now-familiar anxiety response flooding her with adrenalin, so she couldn’t think straight.
The words kept running inside her mind, taunting her, haunting her, read aloud in a whispered voice that was murderously soft. With a shiver, she pushed up, moving gingerly to the sink and splashing water on her face before glimpsing her reflection in the mirror.
The same face she knew so well stared back at her, but inside, she was in turmoil. Sucking in a deep breath, she realized, belatedly, that she wore the same clothes she’d chosen for their dinner, and a new blade pressed to her belly, one of disappointment.
Leonidas hadn’t removed her clothes, nor had he changed her into anything more comfortable.
Of course he hadn’t.Only a jerk would have taken advantage of her in that moment. Besides, she’d been out cold when they’d arrived—wherever they were. Changing her outfit would have been surplus to requirements. She looked towards the bed and saw her shoes lined up beside it, in a gesture that was unexpectedly sweet and domesticated, and which made her wonder about his childhood and ordinary habits. Where did he live? Was he tidy? Neat? Clean? Organised? Or did he come home from the office and discard things as he went, bit by bit, like a handsome Hansel leaving bespoke suit pieces as breadcrumbs?
She opened the door slowly, peering out into the unknown building, taking stock of the details. A wide corridor with black and white tiles, tall ceilings and elaborate chandeliers was framed on either side by big pieces of art—historical, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, influenced by the French revolution. She moved further down the corridor, wishing she had her walking stick, even as she realized her ankle was doing much better today. Perhaps the decent night’s sleep had benefited her injury? She moved on instinct, and came to a large, formal sitting room, with black leather, designer armchairs, a low set coffee table, a spread of newspapers and the aroma of coffee.
She didn’t usually drink the stuff, but her stomach gave a strange lurching and her mouth filled with saliva; she found herself wanting a cup of something warm more than life itself.
“You’re up.” His voice was graveled and seemed to come from a long way away, so she spun almost guiltily.
He stood with obvious concern, his features dark, his skin equally so, beneath his eyes, leaving her to know that he’d had nothing like her blissful night of sleep.
“Yes. That bed was way too comfortable,” she said, awkward suddenly, and shy too. A thousand feelings rammed into her with the intensity of a runaway freight train. Gratitude, desire, shyness, need.
He stared at her as though appraising her, as if by looking at her alone he could see how she was feeling, could understand the cacophony of emotions barraging her.
“I’m glad you slept well.” He gestured to the seats. “Please.”
She eyed the lounge chair, then looked behind them, to the enormous window that framed a picture perfect view. “Where are we?”
“France.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Exactly?” He murmured, pouring a coffee from a French press and carrying the cup towards her. Up close, she saw new details, or perhaps they were details she’d noticed but not fully appreciated until this particularly golden morning light bounced off his face. His freckles, for instance. There was only a handful, five or six, leaping across his cheeks, but they made her stomach fall to her toes with a desire to lift up and kiss each one. His long, curling lashes, so thick and dark and clumped together.
Her hands, slightly unsteady, curled around the coffee cup, and she was disappointed he managed the handover so deftly, so their fingers barely glanced. But where they had touched, sparks simmered in her blood and she had to blink quickly to clear the erotic direction of her thoughts.
“This is my chateau in the Loire Valley.”
“Really?” Her heart soared. “How lovely.”