darkened bedroom of the hotel suite. The small amount of grilled chicken she’d managed to choke down an hour ago now made her stomach churn ominously as she stared at the telephone.
The glowing red numbers of the clock beside the phone calmly changed from 2:13 to 2:14. Despite the fact that she was nauseous from fatigue and more than ready to sink into bed and sleep until morning, it wasn’t the middle of the night. It was only mid-afternoon.
It was smack in the middle of the workday.
In fact, Michael Trotta was probably back from lunch, probably in his office right this very minute.
Just a phone call away.
The grilled chicken made a slow circle in its unending dance of horror, and she reached out to touch the phone with one finger.
She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to spend another minute playing this frightening game. She wanted to call a time out and find the road that led back to her real life. She wanted to push her way behind the curtains and remove herself from this alternative reality in which she’d found herself trapped.
She wanted to pick up that phone and call Michael Trotta. She wanted the destruction of her cars and her house to be a giant mistake. She wanted to find out thatsome not-too-bright thug named Lenny or Frank or Vince had misheard Trotta’s instructions and set those bombs.
She wanted her life back.
She’d prefer the evil she knew over this horribly frightening uncertainty.
She didn’t want to live in Ohio. She wanted to stay here, where maybe someday she’d have a prayer of a chance of adopting Jane.
She couldn’t give up hope. It was close to hopeless, she knew, but she couldn’t give up.
She wouldn’t.
Alessandra glanced at the door to the main room of the suite. It was open a crack and dim light streamed in. She’d wanted to close it, but Harry had told her not to. Even when she showered, even when she used the facilities, she was supposed to leave the door unlocked.
Welcome to privacy hell.
When Harry had informed her of the open-door rule, she’d glanced up and for the briefest of moments their eyes had met and locked. His were probably the darkest, blackest shade of brown she’d ever seen, filled with a weariness that seemed at least a million years old, permanently shadowed from the loss of a child and the death of a woman he probably still loved. Her heart had twisted, imagining the open rawness of his pain, and in that instant, time had seemed to twist and turn, too. For the slightest fraction of seconds, for a segment of time too small to measure, she was back inside her house, just out of the bath, flames and smoke around her, Harry’s rock-solid body pressed against hers, his callused hands warm against her still-damp skin.
His touch had felt sinfully good.
She stood up abruptly, banishing that memory to thefarthest reaches of her mind. She didn’t want to feel anything for Harry O’Dell, particularly not this odd compasssion. Compassion and … lust? No, she was tired. She was still in shock. He’d lost a child and she felt sorry for him. That was all this was. Compassion. Period.
Lord, she hated this. She didn’t want to be here.
And one phone call—just one—could clear up this entire misunderstanding.
She picked up the phone.
“Calling anyone I know?”
Alessandra jumped, and the phone handset rattled in its cradle.
Harry pushed the door open even farther and stepped into the room. His face was harsh and grim, his eyes as cold and devoid of life as the farthest reaches of outer space.
“I was just …” She didn’t know what to say. He knew exactly what she was just about to do.
He stared at her, nearly boring an ice-encrusted hole into her with his zero-degree gaze, waiting for her to continue.
And she could only think about the way he’d looked at her before, the heat in his eyes, the way he’d touched her.
Alessandra knew she looked good. Not great, but passably good. George had made a quick run to the drugstore
The glowing red numbers of the clock beside the phone calmly changed from 2:13 to 2:14. Despite the fact that she was nauseous from fatigue and more than ready to sink into bed and sleep until morning, it wasn’t the middle of the night. It was only mid-afternoon.
It was smack in the middle of the workday.
In fact, Michael Trotta was probably back from lunch, probably in his office right this very minute.
Just a phone call away.
The grilled chicken made a slow circle in its unending dance of horror, and she reached out to touch the phone with one finger.
She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to spend another minute playing this frightening game. She wanted to call a time out and find the road that led back to her real life. She wanted to push her way behind the curtains and remove herself from this alternative reality in which she’d found herself trapped.
She wanted to pick up that phone and call Michael Trotta. She wanted the destruction of her cars and her house to be a giant mistake. She wanted to find out thatsome not-too-bright thug named Lenny or Frank or Vince had misheard Trotta’s instructions and set those bombs.
She wanted her life back.
She’d prefer the evil she knew over this horribly frightening uncertainty.
She didn’t want to live in Ohio. She wanted to stay here, where maybe someday she’d have a prayer of a chance of adopting Jane.
She couldn’t give up hope. It was close to hopeless, she knew, but she couldn’t give up.
She wouldn’t.
Alessandra glanced at the door to the main room of the suite. It was open a crack and dim light streamed in. She’d wanted to close it, but Harry had told her not to. Even when she showered, even when she used the facilities, she was supposed to leave the door unlocked.
Welcome to privacy hell.
When Harry had informed her of the open-door rule, she’d glanced up and for the briefest of moments their eyes had met and locked. His were probably the darkest, blackest shade of brown she’d ever seen, filled with a weariness that seemed at least a million years old, permanently shadowed from the loss of a child and the death of a woman he probably still loved. Her heart had twisted, imagining the open rawness of his pain, and in that instant, time had seemed to twist and turn, too. For the slightest fraction of seconds, for a segment of time too small to measure, she was back inside her house, just out of the bath, flames and smoke around her, Harry’s rock-solid body pressed against hers, his callused hands warm against her still-damp skin.
His touch had felt sinfully good.
She stood up abruptly, banishing that memory to thefarthest reaches of her mind. She didn’t want to feel anything for Harry O’Dell, particularly not this odd compasssion. Compassion and … lust? No, she was tired. She was still in shock. He’d lost a child and she felt sorry for him. That was all this was. Compassion. Period.
Lord, she hated this. She didn’t want to be here.
And one phone call—just one—could clear up this entire misunderstanding.
She picked up the phone.
“Calling anyone I know?”
Alessandra jumped, and the phone handset rattled in its cradle.
Harry pushed the door open even farther and stepped into the room. His face was harsh and grim, his eyes as cold and devoid of life as the farthest reaches of outer space.
“I was just …” She didn’t know what to say. He knew exactly what she was just about to do.
He stared at her, nearly boring an ice-encrusted hole into her with his zero-degree gaze, waiting for her to continue.
And she could only think about the way he’d looked at her before, the heat in his eyes, the way he’d touched her.
Alessandra knew she looked good. Not great, but passably good. George had made a quick run to the drugstore
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