Wrong Place, Wrong Man

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

BONNIE

“Rosa, find her something dry.”

Rosa looked at my feet.

Her expression sharpened.

“She’s bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

Both of them looked at me.

“I am.”

“You’re leaving blood on my floor,” Lorenzo said.

I looked down.

Tiny red marks followed me across the pale stone.

“Oh.”

Rosa muttered something in Italian.

I didn’t need a translation.

“Upstairs,” she said. “Before you freeze.”

I followed her.

Behind me, Lorenzo said something quietly to Marco.

I glanced back.

He was already watching me.

Again.

Our eyes met across the entrance hall.

Something strange moved through my stomach.

I looked away first.

The bedroom Rosa showed me was larger than my apartment.

That irritated me on principle.

A king-sized bed occupied the centre, dressed in cream linen. Dark wooden furniture lined the walls. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking gardens I could barely see through the darkness.

And the bathroom…

I stopped.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

White marble.

A freestanding bathtub.

A walk-in shower large enough to host a small conference.

Heated floors.

Apparently crime paid extremely well.

Rosa placed a stack of towels on the counter.

“I’ll find clothes.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes softened slightly.

“You are safe here tonight.”

I looked at her.

That was an interesting choice of words.

“Am I?”

Something passed over her expression.

Before she could answer, a voice came from behind us.

“Yes.”

I spun.

Lorenzo leaned against the bedroom doorway.

Barefoot.

Still wet.

Still irritatingly attractive.

I folded my arms.

“Do you make a habit of appearing silently behind women?”

“Only troublesome ones.”

“I’ve known you for approximately two hours.”

“Longest two hours of my week.”

“Mine too.”

Rosa looked between us.

Then muttered something else in Italian and left.

“She’s definitely talking about you,” I said.

“She usually is.”

I turned toward the bathroom.

“I’m taking a shower.”

“I’ll have food brought up.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll eat.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That adorable belief that everything you say becomes law.”

“In this house, it generally does.”

I smiled sweetly.

“Then tonight must be very difficult for you.”

I closed the bathroom door in his face.

And locked it.

For approximately three seconds, I felt victorious.

Then the silence hit.

I leaned back against the door.

Everything stopped.

No running.

No Lorenzo.

No Marco.

No guns.

No sarcastic answer waiting on my tongue.

Just me.

My breathing.

And the memory of a man collapsing onto wet pavement.

Help me.

My smile disappeared.

I looked down at my hands.

They were shaking.

Not slightly.

Violently.

“Oh, God.”

I crossed the bathroom quickly and gripped the marble counter.

My reflection looked like someone else’s.

Mascara smudged beneath my eyes. Hair tangled and wet. A bruise beginning near one shoulder. Mud on my legs. Tiny cuts everywhere.

Blood.

His blood had been on my shoe.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The gunshots came back.

Two.

Sharp.

Final.

My stomach turned.

I opened the shower and stepped beneath the water before it had fully warmed.

For several minutes, I did nothing except stand there.

Then the heat came.

I turned it hotter.

Hotter still.

Until steam clouded the glass and my skin flushed pink.

I washed the marina from my hair.

Mud from my legs.

Blood from my feet.

I scrubbed until my skin hurt.

It didn’t remove the memory.

Eventually I pressed both palms against the wall and lowered my head between my shoulders.

I had almost died tonight.

Maybe I still would.

The thought should have made me cry.

Instead, anger came.

Hotter than the water.

I wasn’t dying because I’d walked home from work.

I wasn’t dying because some psychopath in an expensive suit had decided witnesses were inconvenient.

Fuck that.

Fuck him.

A knock sounded.

I froze.

Another.

“Bonnie.”

Of course.

“Go away.”

The handle moved.

Locked.

I smiled.

Small victories.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened.

I stared through the steamed glass.

“You have got to be f*****g kidding me.”

Lorenzo entered carrying a small black medical kit.

He had changed his trousers but not his shirt. The wet one remained open farther down his chest now, revealing more tattooed skin beneath.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I knocked.”

“And?”

“You ignored me.”

“Yes. That’s generally how locked doors work.”

His eyes moved toward the shower.

Even through the fogged glass, I felt it.

I instinctively folded one arm across my chest.

His gaze returned to my face.

“Your foot.”

“What about it?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m in a shower. It’ll recover.”

“Get out.”

I laughed.

“No.”

“Bonnie.”

“Lorenzo.”

A pause.

“Get out.”

“f**k off.”

His jaw moved.

I smiled behind the glass.

Then he did something I hadn’t expected.

He sat down.

On the closed lid of the toilet.

Placed the medical kit beside him.

And waited.

I stared at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You.”

“You could be waiting a while.”

“I have time.”

I turned my back on him.

“Enjoy.”

Silence.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Two.

I became increasingly aware that Lorenzo Valenti was sitting approximately six feet away while I stood naked behind a sheet of steamed glass.

I glanced over my shoulder.

He was still there.

Not staring at my body.

At my face.

Somehow that was worse.

“Could you at least turn around?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’ve already attempted to escape once.”

“Twice.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Technically, I escaped the first time.”

“You were found.”

“Technicality.”

“Get out.”

I sighed.

“You’re exhausting.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I shut off the water.

His gaze sharpened.

I reached through the narrow opening and grabbed the largest towel without exposing more than my arm.

I wrapped it around myself securely before opening the door.

Steam rolled into the room.

Lorenzo looked up.

And stopped.

It was subtle.

So subtle I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him.

His eyes went still.

I stood barefoot on the marble, hair dripping down my back, the white towel wrapped from my chest to mid-thigh.

For once, he didn’t immediately have something irritating to say.

Interesting.

I lifted an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

His eyes travelled down my body.

Slowly.

“No.”

They returned to mine.

“Not at all.”

Heat stirred beneath my skin.

I ignored it.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Sit.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Do you know any other verbs?”

“Several.”

Something in his tone made me stop.

His gaze held mine.

I decided I did not want examples.

I sat on the edge of the marble counter.

“Happy?”

“Rarely.”

He dragged a low stool closer and sat in front of me.

Then he held out his hand.

I stared at it.

“What?”

“Your foot.”

“I can do it.”

“I know.”

“Then give me the box.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you not to pour antiseptic over it, call it done and start looking for another window.”

That was disturbingly accurate.

I placed my foot in his hand.

His fingers closed around my ankle.

And my entire body became strangely aware of itself.