Page 81 of Billionaire's Promise
I hurry my pace, reach the door to the studio, key in my passcode and push open the door. I step in, push the door firmly closed behind me, climb the stairs and reach my studio. Once inside, I lock the door, then head inside the dressing room. I place my handbag on the dressing room table and change into my yoga pants and a sports-bra—good thing I always keep a change of clothes here.
Back in the studio, I choose the track and turn up the volume.
The rhythm from the Maga remix of Eminem'sAss Like That, fills the space. I know, I know, not conventional belly dancing music, but I've always eschewed the more classical belly-dancing numbers in favor of an eclectic mix of tunes to which I can really shake my booty.
I shake my hips, bump, grind, stretch again, then launch into the dance. Raise my hands, shimmy, grind-grind-grind, sink to my knees, head down, throw my hair back, spring up. Twirl on my toes, round and round, spread my legs, shake my booty. So, it’s not just belly dancing, but a mix of moves I’ve picked up along the way. A lot of it from watching music videos, classical dancing, taking classes in other different dance forms—salsa, merengue, tango, and other eastern dance forms, like Kathak. Also, ballet—which I’d never been able to master, but which had helped me discipline my moves… Which, combined with the sensuous grace of belly-dancing, helps capture the eye of the person watching and keeps them riveted—at least, so I hope. My heart begins to pump harder, sweat beads my brow, flows down my back. The rhythm picks up and the beats thunder in my veins. I push myself to go faster, slam my feet into the wooden floor, twirl, whirl, pirouette, shimmy—the song ends in a clash of cymbals and I throw myself down, head down, hair in a cloud about my shoulders, my breath coming in gasps. That’s when I hear the sound of scuffling. What the—? I jump up as the sound of a thud reaches me.
There’s a banging on the door and I freeze.
Who could it be? I reach for my phone and switch off the music. Silence descends. I head for the door, glance through the peephole and freeze.
The man standing there wears a suit. He’s staring straight at me. He has a bandage on his forehead. What the—? It’s one of the guys who attacked me at the bypass the other day. He stares at the peephole, then raises his fist to bang on the door again.
A small cry bubbles up. I push my knuckles inside my mouth.
I stumble back, grab the phone, go to dial Baron’s number, then remember. Shit, I deleted it.
That’s when something slams into the door. Shit, he’s going to break it down.Shit, shit, shit.I dial Isla’s number; it goes straight to voice mail. He crashes into the door again and I hear it crack. Fuck, this isn’t good. This is not good. I should have heeded Baron's advice and moved my studio somewhere safer, especially after that subway attack. But the rent on this place wis so cheap. It’s a steal. Now I know why. Clearly, I had left myself wide open and vulnerable. Oh, hell.
I pull up Summer’s number; that’s when the door crashes open.
The man stomps into the studio, and the phone slips from my hand.
I glance around the space for a weapon, anything that I can use against him. He shakes his head, "Don’t even think about it." He stops in front of me and I swallow.No, no, no, this can’t be happening. Why the hell had I given Archer the slip? Why had I not thought this through better? Why had I been so upset with Baron that I had compromised my own safety?
The guy looks me up and down. "What have we here?" He reaches for me, and I scream. I bring my knee up, kick him in the groin. He doubles over and I rush past him. I am almost at the door, when I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. I scream as he kicks my legs out from under me. I fall over, turning my face so my cheek connects with the hard floor, instead of my nose. The breath rushes out of me. Sparks flare behind my eyes. I lay there, stunned, when he grabs my arm and begins to drag me inside toward the dressing room.
I try to yank free, but my shoulder screams in protest. A groan rips out of me. He pulls me toward the dressing room, shoves the door open and throws me inside. I slam into the wall, hit my other shoulder against the hard surface. The pain reverberates down my spine. My head spins. I lose my balance and fall onto the dressing table, which shudders. I slide to the floor and my handbag falls next to me. I snatch it up, hurl it at the intruder. He laughs, even as he catches it, and tosses it over his shoulder.
I lay on the floor as he prowls closer to stand over me.
29
Baron
I am on my way to her house, when my phone rings. I hit the handsfree. "Archer?" I ask.
"Baron, I’m sorry, but she gave me the slip."
"What?" I frown. "What do you mean? Where is she?"
"I’m at her house right now, and she’s not here."
I swerve to the side and a car honks angrily as the vehicle passes me by. I hit the brakes and the car screeches to a halt. "What do you mean she’s not there? Where could she be?"
"Not sure. Maybe...the studio?"
I release the brakes, peel onto the road, and take a U-turn.
"I’m on my way there now."
"I’m sorry about this. I literally lost sight of her for a few seconds, and she took off."
"We’ll talk about that later," I snap. "Just get to the studio."
"On my way."
I disconnect, step on the accelerator and head for her studio. My heart begins to pound; adrenaline laces my blood. "Fuck." I slap my palm on the steering wheel. I knew it; knew I shouldn’t have trusted anyone else with the job of watching her. But Archer is good. He is better than me when it comes to surveillance shit. It’s why I’d asked him to keep an eye on her. But no one can protect her better than me. No one. And I had been too up my own arse to think clearly. I should have known she wouldn’t accept anyone else to watch over her. Shit, if something were to happen to her. No, it’s fine. She’s fine. She has to be.
