Chapter 7: I Don't Remember

She crept down the hallway, found a massive open-plan living space....all windows and modern furniture and a kitchen that probably cost more than her car. And there, blessed salvation, the elevator.

Private elevator. Of course. This was a penthouse. His penthouse.

She practically ran to it, jabbed the button.

Nothing happened.

She hit it again. And again. Panic rising in her throat.

A small screen beside the elevator glowed to life: BIOMETRIC AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED

No.

She stared at it, her heart sinking. Fingerprint scanner. Probably facial recognition too. The kind of security system that cost a fortune and meant that only authorized people could come and go.

She was locked in.

Literally locked in.

"Going somewhere, cara mia?"

Eve spun around, her back hitting the elevator doors.

Dimitri stood in the hallway she'd just come from, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his bare chest. He wore only black silk pajama pants that hung low on his hips, revealing the cut V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His hair was mussed from sleep, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his silver-gray eyes were amused.

Amused.

Like this was funny. Like her panic was entertainment.

"Let me out," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake. Much.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I don't want to be here."

"Don't you?" He pushed off the doorframe, moving toward her with the predatory grace of a big cat. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. "You seemed very eager to be here last night."

"I was drunk."

"You were honest." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell him...that masculine scent that had been all over her skin when she woke up. "Alcohol lowers inhibitions, piccola. It doesn't create desires that don't exist."

"I want to leave."

"No, you don't. You want to run away from what you felt last night. There's a difference." His eyes traveled slowly down her body...the wrinkled dress, her bare feet, the way her hands clutched her purse like a lifeline. "Did you find your contract?"

She lifted her chin. "That contract is illegal. I was drunk. It's not binding."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. Any lawyer will tell you...."

"Will they?" He smiled, and it was sharp. "Feel free to call one. I'll wait."

She pulled out her phone, realized again it was dead. "My phone...."

"Needs to be charged. There's a charger in the kitchen." He gestured. "Help yourself. Call anyone you like. A lawyer. The police. Your brother, even, though I don't recommend that one."

The casual confidence in his voice made her stomach twist. He wasn't worried. At all.

Because he knew something she didn't.

"What did you do?" she whispered.

"I ensured that you got exactly what you asked for." He took another step closer. "You wanted to feel wanted. You wanted someone to take control. You wanted to stop being perfect Eve Thorne, good girl, perfect wife. So I gave you what you wanted."

"By tricking me into signing a contract I don't remember!"

"I didn't trick you. I presented you with an offer. You read it. You signed it. You even...." his smile turned wicked "...thanked me afterward."

That couldn't be true. She wouldn't have...

But the signature was definitely hers. And she remembered almost nothing after those orgasms that had shattered her into a thousand pieces.

"You took advantage of me," she said, backing up against the elevator door.

"I took what you offered." He closed the distance between them in two strides, planting his hands on either side of her head, caging her in. "And now you're mine for six months. Unless, of course, you have fifty million dollars lying around?"

She couldn't breathe. He was too close. Too big. Too overwhelming.

"I'll call the police," she said desperately. "I'll tell them you coerced me."

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"Go ahead, cara mia. Call them. Tell them that you walked into my club, drank yourself into a stupor, climbed into my lap, begged me to touch you, and signed a contract agreeing to belong to me. Tell them how I made you come on my fingers. On my tongue. How you screamed my name and told me you wanted to be mine."

Her face flamed with heat and shame.

"And then," he continued, his voice dropping to something dark and intimate, "I'll show them the security footage."

Her blood turned to ice. "What?"

"My club. My security system. Cameras everywhere, including the private lounge." His smile was pure sin. "Everything is recorded, piccola. Every word you said. Every sound you made. Every time you begged for more."

Oh God.

"You wouldn't," she breathed.

"I would. To protect what's mine? I'd do much worse." His thumb traced her jaw, a mockery of gentleness.

"So go ahead. Call whoever you want. But know this: the only person who can release you from that contract is me. And I have absolutely no intention of doing so."