Page 17 of Game of Revenge

“Buenos días, Dolores. Me sirves el desayuno aquí, por favor,” he said as he took a seat next to me.

Of course, he asked her to serve him breakfast in the kitchen.

Dolores hurried, setting some plates and cutlery in front of him. She quickly put the food and the drinks down. I was hoping she would stick around, as I did not want to be alone with Alejandro, but Dolores guiltily avoided all eye contact with me and left the room in a rush.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” remarked Alejandro.

“Every now and then.”

Why would he know? We weren’t friends. But perhaps he and his team of degenerates had been watching me for a while before taking me. That thought sent a shiver down my spine. I shook myself a little bit.

“It seemed like you knew what you were doing,” he said with an air of surprise on his face.

What did he want?

“How long were you lurking in the background for?” I snapped.

“Long enough,” he said with his usual mocking smile.

He was staring at me, his eyes tracing every curve of my body with a brief focus on my shoulder bruise. I shifted in my seat, aware of the slow heat rising through me, unnerved that, for some reason, his inappropriate gaze made me wonder what it would be like for him to touch me.

I couldn’t look away for too long, not just because the man looked like some sort of Greek god, but it was more so the primal, angry look he had in his eyes as they ran over my body and my face that scared and captivated me. I felt naked in his presence, and while I wanted to look away, I was also fascinated. No one had ever looked at me like that before.

“I assumed you always had someone to assist with your every need,” he mocked, interrupting my reverie.

I took a deep breath, trying to find it in myself to be cordial. This man knew how to rile me up in just a few seconds. I bit my lower lip to resist the urge to retort. I could point out that, from what I could tell, he had resorted to crimes and who knew what else to amass his fortune, considering the size of the mansion he used for kidnapping purposes, but it wasn’t worth it.

“I started learning when I was a teenager. I decided to take it more seriously when I was in college in New York,” I admitted. “Richard was paying for part of my studies, and I didn’t want to owe him any more than I already did.”

“Why don’t you call him Dad?”

“Because he is not my dad,” I snapped back at him.

“I see,” he said, deep frowns forming on his forehead, eyes glancing in my direction, a look of confusion in them.

I stopped paying attention to him and focused on my food, doing my best to ignore his persistent questioning gaze. Perhaps letting my disdain for my stepfather be known wasn’t the right approach. Maybe I had made a tactical mistake.

“What did you study in college?” he continued. I was glad for the change in conversation.

“Hotel management and English at NYU. And I got my MBA a month ago from Stanford.”

“Impressive, and here I thought you were just your father’s little wallflower,” he teased, leaning back into his chair to face me better.

“You know nothing about my life,” I snapped back. “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people you don’t know—especially when it makes you, I don’t know, a sexist for assuming that my goal in life is to stand around and look pretty.”

He clenched his jaw and got up from his chair slowly. “Enough with the name calling Amelia,” he warned.

“Enough with the stereotypes, then,” I retorted, standing up, as he was getting too close.

I took a few steps back, trying to get as far away as I could but suppressed a gasp when I felt my back hit the cold wall.

He grunted, closed his eyes, and shook his head, both hands on his hips. He slowly looked at me, as if running out of patience, and took a step in my direction.

“Let's try this conversation again, shall we?”

What was perhaps meant to sound like a pleasant optional invitation to converse sounded more like a threat to me. He paused, as if waiting for me to consent, but he proceeded anyway as I remained silent.

“Why hospitality management?”