Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“You’ll have to wear that for a couple days.”
“I don’t have a couple days.”
“You need to rest—”
“No. I need to get a gun and shoot that motherfucker twenty times in the face! Now get this shit off me.”
“Laura—”
“Nurse!” I had an IV stuck in my arm and other wires connected to my body. I was basically a prisoner in this goddamn bed. “Nurse!”
“Laura.” He got to his feet then gently pressed me against the bed, getting me to lie back again. “Revenge can wait. Right now, you need to rest.”
“Rest, my ass.”
He kept his hand on my shoulder, so I was stuck in place. His eyes dared me to fight him.
Now that I was stuck there with no one to shoot in the face, I felt it—the excruciating pain. The pain meds must have worn off, and maybe that was why I’d woken up. I looked down at my arm again, remembering the moment I’d been shot, the blood that immediately soaked the sleeve of my sweater. I remembered the cold metal against my scalp, the kiss from the barrel of his gun. My rage was tempered by my pain—both physical and emotional.
Bartholomew returned to his seat.
When I looked at him, I realized I wasn’t the only one hurt. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and sat there, his eyes bloodshot and tired like he’d been awake for days. “A bullet grazed me. Just needed a couple stitches.”
“I’m sorry.” It must have happened when he carried me to the car.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been shot anyway. I was due.” His humor was drier than stale bread.
I looked out the window, the plastic blinds closed, little cracks showing the daylight outside. With the adrenaline and rage gone, I was left with a distinct emptiness. I’d betrayed the person at my bedside for someone who didn’t hesitate to shoot me. When I told my father everything, he immediately schemed this entire plot. “He knew I wouldn’t be able to persuade you…” He’d known how it would end. Me on my knees—his gun to my head. And he would keep shooting me until he got what he wanted. I could have bled out and died. He could have hit an artery. I could be dead right now—and he didn’t care.
My own father…didn’t care whether I lived or died.
A day later, I was discharged from the hospital, my arm still in the sling.
Bartholomew must have made an arrangement with Victor, because my belongings had been returned to me. Instead of taking me to his place in Florence, we went straight to the airport and flew back to Paris.
He was attentive but also quiet, barely saying more than a couple words to me.
So deep in my sadness, I didn’t feel like talking much anyway.
We returned to Paris, and his driver took me to my apartment. Bartholomew grabbed my bags and carried them inside.
It’d been so long since I’d been there that it felt like a foreign place. My computer was still on the dining table. The dirty dishes in the sink had been washed and put away. A vase of fresh flowers had been placed on the counter. The bowl on my kitchen island now held an assortment of fresh fruit.
He must have had one of his guys break in to my apartment and stock it.
I felt violated and touched at the same time.
Once Bartholomew put my luggage away, he joined me in the entryway. “Do you need anything?”
The question took me by surprise because I’d assumed he would stay. To do what exactly, I wasn’t sure. But I didn’t expect him to drop me off and then walk out. “No…”
“Call me if you need something.” He moved to the door and prepared to leave.
“Bartholomew?”
He turned back around. His look was like concrete—hard and lifeless.
“You can stay…”
His gaze remained empty. He was neither sad nor angry. There was nothing behind those beautiful eyes. “No, I can’t.”
My eyes darted to different places because I didn’t know where to look. Heat seared the backs of my eyes and down my throat. I could feel the moisture grow deep in my eyes, feel the drops form but remain locked under the surface. “Look—”
“Let’s have this conversation when you’re feeling better.”
Fuck. “I’m not going to feel better for a long time.” I was traumatized by more than the bullet. I was traumatized by how horrible people really were. I’d never been truly loved by anyone in my life—except my mother. “I wish I could take it back—”
“But you can’t.”
“I’m so sorry…”
“I know you are.”
“Please—”
“Laura.” His voice was like a knife through soft bread. “Two of my men were killed. I know your father finds everyone expendable, but I don’t. I’m as loyal to my men as they are to me. I destroyed their trust when I forfeited everything to save you. My flawless reputation now has a mark I can never erase.”