Page 18 of Caught By the Kingpin
It’s not a question about whether he stalked me, or an answer. But it skirts too close for me. What if it wasn’t him? The crispy-soft buttery pastry in my mouth means I don’t have to reply.
I think I’m almost willing to admit—to myself at least—I like that he watched me. If it was him. And sure, not having to tell him what I want to eat for breakfast is a bonus, but it’s not the main reason. The truth is, the thought he’s gone to trouble for me is the smell of perfectly-baked cupcakes: mouth-watering anticipation of comfort and delight.
What would it be like to bite into that proffered cupcake? To accept the promise of what he offered rather than going to Scotland?
True, he gave me up very easily, offering to send me north in the morning after he chased me last night. Will he still do that? The croissant suddenly feels dry in my mouth. I take a sip of orange juice, and despite it being fresh and sweet, all I can taste is the sour.
“When am I leaving?” This is like a band aid. Easier to cope with if I rip it off and make it hurt all at once.
Marco puts aside his laptop and comes over to the bed, towering over me. His height and the evident strength of his body makes my tummy squirm and my nipples stand to attention. He’s gorgeous and I’m entirely in his power.
“Whenever you like,” he says eventually. “You’re not a prisoner.”
I gulp. “Now.”
Marco’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t comment. Just gestures for me to go with him, holding out his hand. His palm envelops mine with strong warmth.
I manage to not cry as I leave behind that delicious breakfast and sunlit bedroom where Marco slept with me, his arm possessively over my waist.
I should have said tomorrow, or never, because I’m desperate for more information about my captor. Trying to take in all the details of his home is futile. I crane my neck as I follow him downstairs, admiring abstract art and elegant sculptures in the modern but warm house. I’m still wearing my cotton pyjamas and hoody as we enter the marble-floored entrance hall and I wrap one arm uselessly around my ribcage.
A murmured request to a man waiting for Marco’s command and a black limo purrs outside.
My heart is breaking. I don’t want to do this. He’s really going to let me go? After all his declarations last night. This morning. Whenever.
He leans over and brushes a kiss on my hair. “It’s okay.”
It’s not. I have this feeling like I missed out the baking powder in my cake mixture. I’ve missed something important and it’s all flat.
“I’m here,” he murmurs. “Though my fingers might not be for much longer unless you stop trying to break them.”
“What?” It’s only when he lifts our joined hands that I realise I’m gripping onto him like he’s the only thing holding me onto the planet. “Sorry,” I mutter, tears prickling as I begin to withdraw my hand.
He doesn’t let me, lacing our fingers together and squeezing.
“Come on.” With his other arm, he holds me to his chest and carries me out to the limo, our hands still linked together. I don’t want to let go.
He ducks into the limo and sets me down on the leather seat.
I have what I was aiming for. My savings, my father gone and not able to hunt me down. Freedom.
I needhim. The kingpin who saw me, saved me, caught me, and has cared for me.
“Marco…”
He sits next to me and my heart pulses.
“What?” he asks casually, pulling me into his body. “You didn’t think I was letting you go alone, did you?”
Yes. Idiot that I am, I thought he was sending me to Scotland, not accompanying me. Thank god. I have longer with Marco before the consequences of my poor, if seemingly rational, decisions materialise.
“How long does it take to get to Scotland?” I ask because I am apparently all in for torturing myself.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Six hours. Ish. But we need to make a couple of stops on the way.”
Stops? What for?
9
