Page 5 of Coerced Kiss
“Yes,” I drawl. “We’ll definitely walk you.” Testing the sound of her name on my tongue, I add, “Anyaand I insist on seeing you home safely.”
Anya’s breath catches on an almost inaudible hitch. Yeah. She doesn’t want me to know where she lives. She mistakenly believed the witnesses who peeled out of the bar would scare me away and save her. She’ll learn quickly that nothing I care to know stays a secret from me for long and that no one is ever safe from me.
Livy bats her eyelashes. “You’re such a gentleman.” She motions at Anya’s bag. “Oh, look at that. You’re even carrying her bag for her. It makes me think of those romantic picturesof couples who walk hand in hand with the woman’s shoes dangling from the man’s fingers.” She lowers her voice. “Next time, get a room instead of making out in the street. No one can argue that passion knows no time and has no manners.” She leans closer. “However, a gentleman should always think about a lady’s honor.”
With that reprimand directed at me, she turns up her nose and waltzes down the street.
I slip the knife into the sheath strapped around my waist and tuck Anya against my side. “Let’s go,tesoro.” When she resists, hanging back as I take the first step, I lower my head and brush a whisper over her ear. “You don’t want Livy to get hurt, do you? She seems like a very sweet old woman.”
Fear bleeds into her eyes, making them sparkle like amber garnet. She cares about the old lady. There was complicity in the familiarity with which Livy addressed her. Anya isn’t going to do anything that could get her friend hurt. No, she walks obediently next to me, albeit with a stiff back and stilted steps.
We don’t go far. A few hundred yards farther down, Livy unlocks the door of a Greek Revival style apartment building, letting us into a small lobby that’s decorated with art deco furniture.
Turning to me, she says, “This is where I leave you. I’m on the first floor. Have a good night, kids. You don’t have to worry about the sound. The walls are thick.”
Anya makes a choking sound.
I bid the old lady good night. When she’s gone through a door that leads to a hallway, I turn to Anya. Save for those freckles that are scattered like tiny golden stars over her nose and cheeks, her complexion is flawless. Under the bright overhead light, her youth is undeniable in the smooth, porcelain quality of her unblemished skin and the unspoiled innocence in those captivating eyes. Her pupils are pinpoints of black in a seathat resembles the color of liquor. Of sin. A man can drown in those pools and in the generous curves of her body. She’s not a day older than twenty-three. Like I said, young. Definitely too young for me. And I don’t mean just in age. She’s too young in everything that matters—in experience, in the uglier side of the world, and in the darker desires of men.
Leaning closer, I inhale her scent. She smells like summer—like flowers and sunshine. It suits her. It goes with the warm hue of her hair and the candied taste of her lips.
She bends backward, escaping my proximity.
I don’t let her get away. I step right into her space, catching her around the waist. We’re poised like dancers, and I already look forward to doing this tango with her.
“Which floor,tesoro?”
Her slender throat moves gracefully as she swallows. “Why?”
Fuck, this woman will make the simple act of drinking appear sensual.
A siren sounds in the distance.
I pull her upright, testing her balance before setting her free. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Mistrust and panic spark in her eyes, but she doesn’t falter in holding my gaze.
Clever, brave girl. Still, she should learn to obey.
I make my voice hard. “Now, Anya.”
She jumps. “Second floor.”
Taking her elbow, I guide her down the short hallway and up the staircase. The closer we get to the top, the harder she strains in my hold.
I stop. “Anya.”
At my tone, she stills.
Pulling my jacket open, I show her the knife. “Must I pay Livy a visit?”
She pales further. This time, she doesn’t resist when I lead her onto a landing with two doors. I’m done asking. I don’t believe in wasting my breath. Instead, I wait.
She points at the door on the left.
I push her ahead of me and place her in the corner so that my body cuts off her exit while I go through her bag for her key. Going through a woman’s handbag is like peering into her soul. A bitter memory of French perfume and foil packets of condoms beneath crumpled wads of cash pierces my mind. Yes, I was the asshole who did that, the man who invaded Rachele’s privacy by going through her handbag and her phone.
As soon as the thought forms, I wipe it away. This is Anya’s bag, and there are no rubbers and drugs and more money than most people earn in a year carelessly scrunched up between high-end label lipstick and mascara. There’s only a small purse, lip balm, a foldable toothbrush and toothpaste, and a packet of strawberry flavored gum.