Page 45 of Sinister Intentions

And perhaps, more importantly, which version should I fear the most?

The light turned on automatically as soon as I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.

The space was massive, with racks upon racks of clothing lining the walls.

Women’s clothing.

Haute couture gowns hung next to casual T-shirts and jeans—a dizzying array of styles and price points.

My gaze swept over the expansive collection, taking in the shoes, the handbags. I opened a drawer, and sure enough, it was filled with lingerie.

Damn. This was someone’s whole wardrobe. Whose clothes were these? His wife’s? His girlfriend’s?

Strangely, the thought made my stomach twist uncomfortably. I’d done my research on Vince Salvini—or, at least, I thought I had—and there had been no mention of a wife or significant other, but this didn’t look like a short-term arrangement.

Not that it was any of my business.

I shook my head, then turned my attention to the section with more casual attire, drawn to the comfy dresses and soft fabrics. As I ran my fingers over the materials, my eyes caught my reflection in the full-length mirror.

I groaned inwardly at the sight that greeted me. My green strip of hair, otherwise with short strands, was fully exposed.

Where was the wig and ball cap I’d been using to conceal my appearance? And why didn’t he even blink an eye?

Vince knew more about me than I’d intended—another layer of mind-fuckery in this already more than strange situation.

The sound of the shower turning on in the adjacent room reminded me of Vince’s presence, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. I needed to gather my wits and figure out what game he was playing. But first, I needed to get out of my damp underwear and into something dry.

I stripped off my panties. At least, I’d worn a bra today even though the plain white ensemble didn’t scream sexy in the least. Not that any of my other underwear would be considered sexy. I’d never developed an interest in clothes—maybe because my lean, bordering-on-lanky body and smallish boobs looked just fine in jeans, a tee, and a hoodie.

Grabbing a simple pair of black panties and a matching bra, I quickly shed the last remnants of my wet clothing and slipped into the soft, dry fabrics. Well, the owner of these clothes was way more well-endowed than I was. I switched the bra to a sports bra, which at least somewhat fit, then chose a black camisole and a comfy, beige, knitted cashmere set, which looked softer and more feminine than anything I’d ever owned. The gentle caress of the fabric against my skin was a small comfort in the midst of this unsettling situation.

As I smoothed the pants over my curves, I caught another glimpse of my reflection. The short hair clashed with the simple yet elegant set—it was a far cry from my usual attire. But in that moment, stripped of my usual armor, I felt strangely at peace.

Almost like a disguise. Because I, for sure, did not want to look pretty for Vince Salvini. Not at all.

I narrowed my eyes and stared at myself in the mirror.

Whatever Vince Salvini had planned, I would face it head-on.

It was time to confront the man behind the mask and then get out of this apartment as fast as possible.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The scalding water pounded against my back, but it did little to calm the storm raging within me.

My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions, all centered around Jemma Donnelly.

Holy hell.

I couldn’t shake the image of her bound to that chair, eyes wide with terror, body trembling with fear. Had I known what being kidnapped would do to her, I probably would have confronted her right there in the restaurant.

Fuck.

I pressed my hands against the tiles and let the water stream over my head. As if my sins could be washed away that easily.

The sight of her in such a vulnerable state was still twisting my stomach and had awoken something deep inside me: a primal urge to protect her, to soothe her fears. A feeling I hadn’t experienced for anyone aside from my siblings.

Ever.

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