Wrong Place, Wrong Man

Chapter 18 - The Rules

CHAPTER 18

BONNIE

For the first five minutes of the drive, nobody spoke.

It might have been the longest five minutes of my life.

I sat in the back of the SUV with my arms folded tightly across my chest, staring through the window and pretending I wasn’t acutely aware of the man sitting beside me.

This was difficult for several reasons.

The first was that I was still wearing nothing but a bra and a ruined pencil skirt from the waist up, with my wet blouse balled in my lap.

The second was that Lorenzo Valenti was equally soaked.

And the third was that apparently wet white shirts had been invented specifically to ruin women’s decision-making abilities.

His jacket was gone. His sleeves remained rolled to his elbows, exposing the black ink covering his forearms and hands. His shirt clung to his chest, translucent in places, revealing the darker lines of tattoos beneath.

His hair was still wet from the marina.

A few strands had fallen forward over his forehead.

I preferred it when he’d looked immaculate.

Immaculate Lorenzo was easier to hate.

This version looked like he’d been dragged through hell and had somehow come out hotter.

Unacceptable.

I turned back toward the window.

Beside me, Lorenzo shifted.

I immediately looked at him.

He noticed.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

His gaze dropped to my crossed arms.

“You look remarkably tense for a relaxed woman.”

“I’ve been kidnapped.”

“You keep using that word.”

“Because that’s generally what it’s called when someone is taken somewhere against their will.”

“You got into the car voluntarily.”

My mouth fell open.

“You carried me into it.”

“You could have made the process easier.”

“You threw me over your shoulder.”

“You were being difficult.”

“I kicked you in the balls.”

His jaw tightened.

Marco’s shoulders moved suspiciously in the driver’s seat.

I pointed at him.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

Lorenzo turned his head toward the window.

I stared at him.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“You f*****g are.”

He looked back at me.

His expression was perfectly composed.

His eyes weren’t.

I narrowed mine.

“I hope it still hurts.”

“It does.”

“Good.”

“You seem very pleased with yourself.”

“Immensely.”

That earned me the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

I hated that mouth.

Mostly because I kept looking at it.

I forced my eyes toward the window again.

A moment later, something heavy landed across my lap.

I looked down.

His jacket.

I looked at him.

“What’s this?”

“A jacket.”

“I gathered that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

I picked it up.

“I’m wet.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’ll ruin it.”

“Bonnie.”

“What?”

“The jacket costs considerably less than my patience.”

I wrapped it around myself.

“Your patience seems remarkably cheap.”

Marco coughed.

Again.

Lorenzo’s eyes closed briefly.

I smiled and pulled the jacket tighter.

It smelled like him.

That was unfortunate.

Something dark and expensive. Cedar, perhaps. Tobacco. The faint trace of his cologne.

And beneath it, something warmer that belonged only to him.

I absolutely did not bury my nose slightly deeper into the collar.

I merely adjusted it.

There was a difference.

“You’re smelling my jacket.”

My eyes snapped toward him.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Into my collar.”

“Would you prefer I stop?”

“Breathing?”

I considered him.

“See? There is hope for you.”

His mouth curved.

I looked away before mine could do the same.

Twenty minutes later, enormous iron gates opened in front of us.

I sat straighter.

The road beyond them disappeared between tall trees, illuminated by low lights set discreetly into the ground.

“Where are we?”

“My home.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It was the answer you got.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By women?”

“Mostly men.”

“Were they alive afterwards?”

Silence.

I slowly turned my head.

Lorenzo looked at me.

I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

That was considerably less funny.

The house appeared between the trees.

And house was the wrong word.

It wasn’t some vulgar modern mansion with glass walls, gold gates and a fountain shaped like a naked woman.

It was beautiful.

Annoyingly beautiful.

Old pale stone stretched across two enormous storeys, interrupted by tall windows glowing warmly against the night. Ivy climbed one section of the façade. A wide flight of stone steps led to the entrance, while the land behind the house seemed to fall away toward distant water.

It looked inherited rather than purchased.

Old money.

Old secrets.

The sort of place that had probably watched generations of people make terrible decisions and politely kept them to itself.

The car stopped.

Marco got out.

I remained seated.

Lorenzo opened his door.

I didn’t move.

He looked back at me.

“No.”

“We haven’t even started.”

“I’m establishing expectations.”

“Get out.”

“See? That’s exactly the kind of expectation I object to.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Then his gaze dropped toward my legs.

I immediately pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

One eyebrow rose.

“If you put me over your shoulder again, I swear to God…”

“What?”

“I’ll improvise.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Lorenzo stepped aside.

“After you.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

“That was too easy.”

“I can still carry you.”

I got out.

“Wonderful choice.”

“f**k off.”

“Such elegance.”

I pulled his jacket more tightly around myself and climbed the steps.

My feet were killing me.

Every step sent little sparks of pain through the cuts on my soles, but there was absolutely no chance I was giving him the satisfaction of seeing me limp.

The front doors opened before we reached them.

A woman stood inside.

She looked somewhere in her early sixties, with silver threaded through dark hair twisted neatly at the back of her head. She wore black trousers, a cream blouse and the expression of someone who had spent many years dealing with other people’s stupidity and had developed very little patience for it.

Her eyes landed on Lorenzo.

They moved slowly downward.

Wet hair.

Wet shirt.

Wet trousers.

Then they moved to me.

His jacket.

Bare legs.

Ruined skirt.

Bare feet.

My wet blouse clutched in one hand.

She closed her eyes.

“Lorenzo.”

I immediately pointed at her.

“Thank you.”

Lorenzo looked at me.

“What?”

“Finally. An appropriate reaction.”

The woman’s eyes returned to me.

Then, unexpectedly, amusement flickered across her face.

“Who is this?”

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie,” I confirmed.

“Rosa.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Under unfortunate circumstances, apparently.”

“You have no idea.”

Lorenzo walked past us.

Rosa looked down.

“Shoes.”

He stopped.

I looked between them.

Rosa pointed at his wet shoes.

“Not on my floor.”

Lorenzo Valenti, a man who apparently ordered executions without raising his voice, stared at her.

Rosa stared back.

Several seconds passed.

Then he bent and removed his shoes.

I blinked.

Oh, this was magnificent.

I covered my mouth.

Lorenzo slowly looked at me.

“Not one word.”

I failed.

A laugh escaped.

His eyes narrowed.

I laughed harder.

“Oh my God.”

“Bonnie.”

“You’re scared of her.”

“I am not scared of Rosa.”

Rosa took his shoes from him.

“You should be.”

I nearly folded in half.

For the first time that night, the laugh that came out of me wasn’t nervous or sarcastic.

It was real.

And when I finally looked at Lorenzo again, something in his expression had changed.

He wasn’t laughing.

He was watching me.

The amusement disappeared from my face.

His eyes lingered for one second too long.

Then he turned away.