Page 60 of Passion and Revenge

I know all about Stockholm syndrome, but it isn’t that. There has always been an attraction between us, and we’ve fanned its flames by giving in to it.

I should hate him.

I shouldn’t feel pleased that he put in all this effort for me.

“Wine?” His voice breaks into my reverie, and I blink at the bottle of red wine in the crook of his arm.

“Yes, please,” I reply. “Are we celebrating something?”

“I saw the dress and thought it would look good on you. I was right, by the way,” he says. “And then I realized I had to create an occasion for you to wear it.”

“Thank you,” I tell him honestly. “I love it.”

Then, I glance down the sides of the building. The nearest building is quite a distance away, and I wonder where exactly we are.

“Cagliari.”

I raise a brow at him.

“We are in Cagliari,” he explains. “This area is being redeveloped by a company I own. I ordered them to stop construction for now so I can have the area to myself.”

My mouth drops open, and I turn my gaze back to the city. There’s really nobody for miles. Even if my foolhardy plan to escape had worked, I would have quickly found out that I was stranded.

“No one knows I own this building because the company is a subsidiary, and I own it under a different identity.”

I sit back with a smile I don’t feel. “You really thought your plan through. There’s not a single plot hole.”

His blue eyes find mine and hold them, and then he says seriously, “You’re the plot hole in my plan, Sienna.”

When he finally looks away, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I’m the plot hole in his plan? What does that mean? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but at the last moment, I decide I’m too much of a coward because I’d rather swallow my burning questions than ruin dinner.

After dinner, with my hand in his, we take the elevator to the eleventh floor. He types in the code for the door in one of the apartment complexes and allows me to precede him.

“What is this place?” I ask, squinting into the dark space.

Behind me, he drags a lever down, and the lights flicker on. There are no windows in the apartment. It’s just one large box with endless rows of paintings lining the walls.

I spin around, taking in the splash of color everywhere. Then, I caught sight of the paintings he had me evaluate on the day I was taken.

“The Revelation would have made a good addition to your collection,” I tell him sadly.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

I flinch and then duck my head to hide the hurt from his words.

His feet come into view, the tip of his shoes kissing mine, and then he grabs me by my jaw and raises my head until his electrifying eyes are on mine. “The Revelation is better than everything in this room. And that’s why it’s not here.”

My forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean? You have paintings by great artists and?—”

“Sienna,” he cuts in, “if only you could see your work through my eyes. Your paintings would have made the rest of my collection look like cheap knock-offs, which is why they have a place of honor as the only works of art hanging in my home.”

I go from confusion to doubt to surprise in the span of seconds. And finally, my heart soars. “Y—you have them?” I step forward and press my mouth to his. “Thank you, Ale.”

He doesn’t tense like the first few times I used the nickname.

As I turn to explore the space, his fingers drag down my spine, which is exposed by the non-existent back of the red dress.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

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