Page 3 of Stolen By the Mafia King
The waiter is stammering an apology but Lambeth’s jacket is shucked off within a second, then his tie. Methodically he undoes his wine-covered shirt, button by button. First his neck, then the dip of his throat, then the top of his chest is revealed and I don’t think I’ve taken on any oxygen since that wine spilt. He strips the shirt off and I stare at his muscled shoulders, wide chest and hard stomach that tapers down to a light dusting of dark hair. His golden skin is crisscrossed with scars and his muscles are defined.
My mouth goes dry.
The waiter has fallen silent, backing away, eyes full of terror. We all wait for the consequences, but I am shamefully entranced by Grant Lambeth’s bare torso. I’m admittedly a bit sheltered, but I’ve never seen anything like him.
Lambeth looks up and brushes the waiter away with a satirical look and a drawl that he needs to be more careful. Then he transfers his observation back to me.
But he’s partially unclothed. Aggressively naked. It ought to make him vulnerable to be without his suit, but it doesn’t. It just underlines how utterly in control of this he is. Calm in the face of the provocation of wine being splashed over him, he doesn’t need to overreact. He is the undisputed king.
The only way to cut the tension in this room would be with diamond-coated chainsaws. Despite my calming exercise earlier, I can barely breathe. My skin is tight. My limbs are stiff.
I cannot do this. My heart rate is galloping, as ungainly as the horse in that oil painting on the wall. The sight of him has ripped my nerves to shreds. With Grant watching me so intently, I’ve no hope of remaining composed and not screwing up. Fuck. I’ll reveal myself and end up married to David Bree-Fogg and no. That must not happen.
“Please excuse me while I go to the ladies’ room,” I murmur. It’s a little early, but I’ll take my chances. Much more of Grant’s eyes on me and his terrifying presence and I’ll be shaking so hard I’ll vibrate off my chair.
“Of course,” Grant replies, like this is his event.
My brother keeps his head down. I thought I’d smile goodbye to him, but the last time he ever looked at me will be when he scowled because I used the wrong fork with the starter. Fine.
David though, he makes my skin crawl. He watches me stand with this look that says spying on girls in bathrooms is his thing. Gross.
The kingpin’s gaze flickers to mine for no more than a quarter of a second as I sweep past him. It feels like a warm caress. But it’s nothing. Fleeting. Careless. The merest judgement of whether I am a threat to him and his enormous wealth and power. I’m not. I’m getting out.
I don’t look back.
In the central stall, I tear off my shoes and toss them out the window. Then I hoik up my dress, grip the small window frame, and pull myself up. It’s a lot bloody harder than I anticipated, wriggling through a gap this tiny. I guess I’ve been eating too many pies?
My dress is not designed for the job, and neither is my body. The frame pinches into my flesh. My legs dangle and flail like ill-placed curtains in a draughty window. By the time I’m dragging my hips through the small gap, I’m panting, my hair is absolutely everywhere and tangled, and my butt may never be rounded ever again. But I’ve planned well. Though the window is high inside, the ladies’ loos are right at the back of the building, and the bin I’d seen the last time we had dinner here and hoped would still be, is present. Otherwise I’d have been risking falling onto my head.
Don’t get me wrong, freedom would be worth it, but I’d prefer not to start my new life with concussion.
I half fall, half drop myself onto the closed lid of the big black dumpster bin, and take a second to catch my breath. The ground hits me with a crack up my legs when I jump, but there’s no time to wince. I shove my feet into one shoe then hobble to the other, smooth down my dress and dart my gaze from side to side. I’m alone.
One yank and my finger is released from the engagement ring that has felt like a noose. I drop it carelessly onto the tarmac. Hopefully someone who needs the money will see it, and it’ll bring them more joy and luck than it did me. I’m better off without it. With more confidence than I feel, I try to strut down the alleyway to the quiet end where I’m due to meet the London black cab. Once I find that taxi and I’m in, I’m good. I’m safe and away.
I spot the distinctive shape of a black cab and my chest almost heaves with relief. Nearly there.
Five steps. Three. One.
“Hi!” I say with false cheer to the driver, a middle-aged woman with a T-shirt that saysBosslady. “For Jessa, right?”
The woman nods and gestures to the back. I open the big black door and step hastily in. Then my blood turns to ice.
Sitting in the back of the cab is the kingpin.
2
GRANT
Jessa yelps and half scrambles, half falls into the door that I slam behind her. I pull her flush to my chest and she fights me, squirming, twisting and clawing like a wet sudsy wildcat kitten.
Moments later, the cab is taking us home and I’m sitting on the seat with Jessa held on my lap, still brawling, grasping at anything to escape, kicking and yelling.
“Stop it,” I order softly. She redoubles her efforts and I release her with a sigh. Jessa lunges for the door, pumping the handle to no avail, then bangs on the window.
“Help! Somebody!”
“It’s obscured bulletproof glass,” I tell her. “You can’t break it and no one can hear you.”
