Page 15 of Stolen By the Mafia King
He wraps me in a fluffy towel and I perch on the edge of his bed while he briskly dries himself and pulls on clothes.
I’ve never seen a man dress, and I’m fascinated. His big body is so different from mine. Yes, all the things work the same—sort of—but the way he moves and the size of him is fascinating. And his clothes are harsher. More starch and clunks. When he puts in a pair of simple gold cufflinks it draws my eyes to his strong wrists and there’re two hard clicks as they seal the cotton. His trousers close differently too, with a stiff waistband like his clothes have to restrain him. Keep all that stark beauty contained, as though if he wore wafty dresses, his feral-self would escape.
I’ve never seen anyone put on a tie before, but Grant knots it effortlessly, not even looking at the result until he nudges it to the centre with his thumb. Definitely a leash. It’s only when he shrugs into a jacket that I realise I’m still watching him like a maniac. Reluctantly, I pick up my ruined dress. What I’d do for a pair of jeans right now.
“You’re not wearing that,” the kingpin snaps.
And though half a second ago, I was wishing almost the exact same thing, I bristle.
“You destroyed my only clothes. I don’t have anything else to wear.” How are you going to solve this, all-powerful kingpin?
“There’re some things in there.” He flicks his fingers towards one of the wardrobes. “The fit should be close enough.”
I open the door he casually indicated and blink in surprise. There’s a dress. A gorgeous floor-length evening dress in my favourite dusky rose pink. I reach out and finger the silk. It’s unspeakably lovely.
This. This is the type of dress I would’ve chosen as a wedding dress, if I had been able to make my own decisions. I know white is classic, but I adore this soft pink, and the style is elegant without being overly simple. I almost put it on to eat breakfast, but spot the rest of the clothes. There’s a random assortment. Several sets of lingerie in what looks exactly my size, two bralettes with low-rise knickers in white lace in slightly different designs, another in sheer pale almond-pink. Cut-off jeans shorts just like the ones I wore all last summer, and a strappy top. The cutest Fair Isle knit woollen jumper, and a pair of soft cream trousers. A pretty dark blue dress with a floral print. There are even ballet flats in my size. They’re for all seasons and exactly the sort of thing I would buy myself.
It’s so entirely strange, like a fairy tale, and I’m baffled. Delighted, don’t get me wrong. But why are they here?
I don’t enjoy the reasons that come to mind.
I sneak a glance across at Grant. It’s his turn to watch now, but there is something akin to trepidation in his expression. A tension around his mouth.
“Why are there women’s clothes in your wardrobe?”
“You don’t like them?” he asks calmly, one hand casually in his pocket as though it doesn’t matter one way or the other. But he’s unnaturally still.
Could the kingpin be embarrassed about being caught in playboy antics? I look back at the clothes so he won’t see my face crumple. “Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“You know,” I practically hiss. “The woman who visits here often enough to have clothing in your wardrobe. For all seasons and occasions.”
“Sweetheart.” He’s behind me in a second, forcing me roughly around. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he says in that deep voice that makes me want to believe him. “Trust me.”
I don’t. I stiffen in his arms, but I can’t bring myself to move away. His touch feels too good. He’s the first man to ever hold me, and the reminder that this is a temporary thing, whereas there are other women in his life, makes me pout.
He’smykingpin.
“I’m not jealous.” I am such a liar. I am the colour of a forest on a summer’s day. “But she has good taste. I’d like to meet her.”
I’d claw her eyes out if I met her. I’d send her to the moon without a seatbelt. I’d tell her to get the fuck out of the country if she wants to keep all her fingers and toes.
I’m so jealous I could weep.
“Jessa.” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him.
My heart tumbles into those silver eyes of his. They’re so beautiful, I’ve imagined them everywhere.
“Jessa, they areyourclothes.”
I don’t understand but the creature in my chest likes that he uses my name right now. Nothing generic, like babe or angel. My name. Not Jessica Southwark, either. The name that feels like me. Jessa. His using my name might be the only thing preventing me from going into some kind of fit.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. His fingers tighten on my chin. “I bought them for you. I knew you would come here. I arranged for it.”
Oh. There’s so much honesty in his raw tone, I don’t doubt him. “They’re all new then.”
He nods.
