“And that’s fair. That’s understandable. Just don’t ever lie to me, Kage. If you want me to trust you, I need to know you’ll tell me as much of the truth as you can.”
He says softly, “I hear you.”
“So we’re agreed?”
“Yes.”
I stretch my neck and blow out a breath. “Okay. I’ve got to hang up now.”
“Why?”
“I’m late for work.”
“You don’t have to work anymore, if you don’t want to.”
I laugh. “Oh, really? Did I win the lottery or something?”
He chuckles. “Or something. You won me.”
Wait. He’s actually serious. I stop laughing and frown. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that after sleeping with me once, you’re willing to support me financially from now on?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t make it sound so reasonable!”
“Why not? It is.”
“No, it’s absolutely not.”
“You’re mine now. It’s my duty and pleasure to take care of you.”
Who talks like that? What’s happening? “Give me a sec. My head is spinning.”
“I’m not saying you should quit your job. I’m just saying you could. Money will no longer be a concern for you.”
I look around the kitchen as if for help from some other, more reasonable person. “You’ll be sending me an allowance now, is that what I’m hearing?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll take it in gold bars, please. I’ve always wanted to stack them into a giant pyramid in the living room to see if I can communicate with aliens.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he says, “Your house is already paid off—which is good, because that salary of yours is pathetic—but I’ve set up a trust account for you that you can draw from for any large expenses. A new car. New wardrobe. New jet. Whatever.”
Jet?
When I’m quiet too long, trying to pick my jaw back up off the floor, he says, “The trust is solely in your name, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can’t revoke it. That money is yours to do with as you wish.”
When he hears the small, strangled noise I make, he chuckles. “If seven zeroes isn’t enough, I’ll wire in more.”
Trying to work out how much money has seven zeroes, my brain turns to scrambled eggs. I say breathlessly, “Wait. Wait—”
“Mr. Santiago from MoraBanc in Andorra will be contacting you with the details. You can trust him. He’s a good man. We’ve been doing business together for years. In fact, we should plan a trip there. It’s a beautiful place, right between France and Spain in the Pyrenees Mountains. Amazing ski resorts.” His voice turns tender. “I know how much you love to ski.”
Another detail about myself that I never told him.
He’s been a very busy boy.
I decide it’s safer for me to be facedown on the table. The longer this conversation continues, the more I’m liable to topple sideways to the floor and crack open my head.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Just a small brain hemorrhage. Nothing to worry about.”
“You’re so damn cute.”
“Glad I amuse you.”
“I’ll try to be back for Christmas, but I can’t guarantee it. In the meantime, relax.” His voice turns hot. “And keep out of that toy drawer. I want you wound tight as a spring the next time I see you. I want you to come on my cock the second I shove it inside you.”
The line goes dead.
I stay in the same position for a long time, thinking, until finally I rouse and take Mojo outside for a pee. Then I get dressed and go to work.
Life goes on, even when it’s bizarre and confusing.
Even when you’re the new obsession of a rich, sexy, dangerous criminal.
Even when you’re in way over your head.
21
Nat
For the next few weeks, I exist in a weird state of breathless anticipation. I’m keyed up and jumpy, as if at any moment, a shrieking snake-headed monster is about to pop out from under my bed.
I barely sleep. I pace grooves into the floor. I can’t even look at my drawer of sex toys, much less use one of them. It’s not so much Kage’s command that keeps me from it, but that I’m honestly too anxiety ridden.
The anxiety that is due, in part, to the sheriff’s cruiser that slinks by my house at all hours of the day and night.
Chris keeps his word to keep an eye on me like I keep grudges: religiously.
I don’t know what he’s hoping to achieve. There’s nothing to discover by such commitment.
Kage doesn’t return.
We talk on the phone almost every day, but the conversations are short. He’s always getting pulled away by business, interrupted by the many duties and obligations of his position. I get the sense he rarely has time to himself, even to sleep.
True to his word, though, I get a call from Mr. Santiago at MoraBanc. When he informs me the balance in my new trust account is ten million dollars and asks which currency I’d like to start receiving funds in, I laugh and laugh until he gets uncomfortable and tells me he’ll call me back at a better time.
Sloane gets someone to take over her classes for her at the yoga studio, and she and Stavros sail the Mediterranean. The news coverage of the shooting dies down. I’m dying to discover what the police know about that night at the restaurant, but the only information I can get is from the local paper. It isn’t much.
One thing that’s odd is that none of the four men who were shot were able to be identified. They didn’t carry any ID, and their fingerprints and faces weren’t found in any police database, in the US or abroad. The guns they carried were unregistered. Forensic dental examinations didn’t turn up a match.
Even before they died, all four were ghosts.
I wonder if Kage is a ghost, too, existing only by reputation. The dreaded Kazimir Portnov, able to strike fear in the hearts of hardened killers merely by the mention of his name.
I try not to think of all the terrible things he must’ve done to earn his reputation.
I try not to wonder what a man like him would see in a girl like me. What he thinks a small-town schoolteacher can give him that he can’t get anywhere else.
And despite all my worry, by the time Christmas Eve arrives, Detective Brown hasn’t knocked on my door again.
I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
Feeling a little sorry for myself that I’m alone on Christmas Eve, I make a nice dinner. Roast chicken with red potatoes, a salad with champagne vinaigrette. The chicken is my mom’s recipe—the one Kage somehow knew is my favorite—and it tastes delicious.
It also makes me feel worse, sitting there at my kitchen table with only Mojo for company.
Picturing myself five years in the future doing exactly this same thing as Kage traipses all over the globe—who knows where, doing who knows what—I get so depressed, I open a bottle of wine and finish it.
I call my parents in Arizona, but their voicemail picks up. They’re probably over at a friend’s house, toasting with eggnog, eyes bright with holiday cheer.