The doors closed behind me, and a faint click came from the panel beside the elevator. A quick glance showed the red light glowing, and I guessed that I was stuck here for the time being. Swallowing back my nervousness, I followed slowly as Lucas moved further into the room, disappearing briefly around a corner. Stepping forward, I looked around and saw that the kitchen was nearly as big as the living room. There was a clink of glass, then he called out, “Wine?”
“Um.” He was acting like I was his houseguest, not a captive, and it threw me off. “Water please.”
“Coming right up.”
While he moved around the kitchen, I shifted further into the living room. The penthouse was modern, with thin steps beside the kitchen, leading up to another floor. I’d spent the last few weeks living inside a huge house in the Hamptons, and while this wasn’t quite as luxurious nor as large, it came very close in feel. “Is this place yours?” I asked.
“One of them, yes.”
I wasn’t sure what I expected from the gunrunner’s home, but it certainly wasn’t this. As far as I could tell, Lucas Hamilton had a sarcastic, colorful personality. I would have thought his home would be just as ostentatious as the man himself. This loft, however, looked more like something out of Ikea than Cirque de Soleil.
“Why am I here?” The question poured out of my mouth, all of my frustration behind the simple phrase.
Lucas handed me a bottle of water. “Because we both have something to prove to my brother.”
“Can I leave?”
“No.”
“Please?”
Lucas sighed. “Would you like a tour of the place?”
“No, I’d like to go home.”
“To that little Jersey City apartment, or back to my brother who rejected you?”
I wish I hadn’t told him that. My words had been an accident, but the damage was done. The reminder still stung and I swallowed, mouth dry. “He didn’t reject me,” I murmured, but there was no conviction behind my lie.
Lucas put a hand on my elbow, guiding me around the leather couch. “Sit,” he said, and sat down on a matching chair across from me. “Whether he rejected you is beside the point. He needs to learn how to appreciate you, and I need your language skills. If one can help the other, where is the problem?”
I stared at him incredulously. “What world do you live in where you can kidnap people and force them to help you?”
“My world.”
I unscrewed the cap off the water, taking an angry swig and wishing it was something stronger. “For someone who says they want to go home,” I said bitterly, “you sure seem intent on barreling down the wrong road.”
Lucas said nothing to that, and when I finally looked up I found he was studying me intently. I looked away, not wishing him to see how badly I wanted to get away. Not just from him, but from everything.
“It’s been a long day,” he said after a moment, standing up. “The first bedroom upstairs on the right is made up for you. Let me know if you need anything.”
I didn’t pause to consider the odd statement but stood up quickly, not wanting to study it too closely. Almost to the stairs, I heard him call my name and turned around. He watched me for a moment before speaking. “You know I never would have given you to Niall.”
I swallowed, wanting only to be gone. “I know,” I murmured softly. Even when I’d been sitting in that chair surrounded by the strange men, I’d known the scarred man had my back. It made no sense trusting him, but I did, at least that tiny bit. Not wanting to talk any longer, I fled up the steps and bolted myself inside the bedroom. The tall bed had been turned down for me, and the shutters to the windows were all closed. Not bothering to really take further notice of my surroundings, I climbed into the bed and pulled the covers around me.
The cocoon of blankets wasn’t the most perfect shield from the scary world I’d been thrust into, but it would have to do for now.
I must have dozed off because when I finally threw off the sheets, I could see that it was already dark outside. The winter sun set early, and it didn’t feel like I’d slept too much, but there were no clocks around to tell me the time. I discovered my room had its own full bathroom, which was a relief, as I didn’t want to go outside that door anytime soon.
I thought I heard voices downstairs but ignored them, surveying what was laid out on the granite countertops. Lucas had prepared for my arrival. The bathroom had hair brushes and curling irons, as well as a fully stocked medicine cabinet. I picked up a brush and, looking close, saw a pale blonde strand curling around the handle. It wasn’t much lighter than mine, and I quickly set the brush down as I realized to whom it had belonged, and whose bedroom I was now occupying.
A quick stroll through the walk-in closet confirmed my suspicions. Gowns, dresses, shirts, pants, all in sizes far too small for my figure, hung in neat rows separated by color and type. I even identified the dress Anya Petrovski had worn when I first met her, the flashy number an eye-catcher despite the low light.
Okay, yeah, this is weird.
There was a knock at the door and I swung around as if caught snooping. Don’t be silly, Lucy, I chastised myself, still closing the closet behind me. He put you in here. Obviously he expected you to look around. There was something not right about looking through a dead woman’s things, however. As much as I’d dislike Anya in the brief moments I’d known her, all I could see now when I thought of her was the pale, tear-streaked face lying in a pool of blood.
“Knock-knock?” Lucas called, breaking me out of my reverie.
After a moment’s hesitation I unlocked the door and peeked outside. Lucas filled the entryway, leaning casually against the doorframe. In one hand he held a half-empty bottle of wine, in the other two glasses. “May I come in?”
The urge to say “No” was on the tip of my tongue. This is a bad idea, I thought even as I stepped aside, allowing him inside the room. “You here to let me go?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Nope, just wanted to talk.” He seemed momentarily distracted, looking all around the room as if taking it in. I couldn’t see his face so had no idea what he was thinking, but got a clue when he picked up the picture of Anya I’d been staring at. Sympathy curled inside my heart as I remembered that, right behind the Russian girl’s tearful face, I’d also seen his desperate one. He’d tried to save her, but there hadn’t been any chance, and Anya had died in his arms.