Anneliese

 

Without comment, he reached back into his bag, rummaged, and came away with a new toothbrush still in its packaging and a travel-sized toothpaste. With the same quick efficiency as how he’d handled his medical kit, he unwrapped the toothbrush, put toothpaste on it and held it out for me.

For a stunned second, I stared at the selfless gesture. Then I looked at him under the light of the moon, and all at once, it was as if I were seeing a completely different man. The sharp planes of his face were still there, each distinctly outlined, but it was as if he had dropped a mask of hardened indifference and let something else surface.

An intoxicating, breath-stealing something else.

I wanted so badly to paint him in that moment that my hand trembled as my fingers brushed against his. “Thank you.”

He said nothing.

What little modicum of decorum I had left surfaced from the shallow pretense of safety that this man’s lethally quiet dominance had buried me under and I realized I could be taking his only toothbrush. “What will you use?”

For only a sliver of time that competed with the elusive moonlight, his gaze dropped to my trembling hand as it perched over his. Ignoring my question, he looked back at me. “Need help?”

If embarrassment had a color and its depth was a brushstroke, my canvas would be wide swaths of Ruby Madder Alizarin. “No, thank you.”

He merely tipped his chin and took the ice packs, tossing them into his bag.

I took the toothbrush.

Then I was suddenly aware of his overwhelming presence and the deeply nuanced intimacy of such a mundane task. Turning my head to brush my teeth, I wondered if I had the skill to paint him. Or even the talent.

Before I could figure out the logistics of how not to spit out the toothpaste in front of him, he was angling me.

With a hand under each arm, he grasped me with a firm hold and turned my torso so that I could lean over and away from him just enough to get rid of the toothpaste.

Trying not to be any more mortified than I already was, praying I didn’t make much sound or that my shifting weight didn’t send us both to the dirt, I spit and used the water I still had to rinse my mouth and the brush.

When I was done, I leaned back up. “Thank you.”

His only response was to stand and take me with him, effortlessly lifting us both as I held on to the toothbrush and bottle of water like my life depended on it.

Again, I didn’t flinch, and again, he didn’t give me a chance or a choice of getting into the car by myself.

He set me in the seat, pulled out the safety belt, and reached to buckle it.

“May I ask you a question?”

He clicked the safety latch, then looked at me.

For being almost colorless, his eyes shifted hue every time I looked at him. So much so, I got lost each time I saw them. Almost forgetting what I wanted to ask, what I’d been wanting to ask since I first saw him on the yacht, I forced myself to focus. “Why were you in the elevator at the Four Seasons?”

“We had a meet.”

“You and the other man you were with?”

“Alpha.”

I remembered the name he’d said earlier. “As in Alpha Elite Security?”

“His company.” Without further comment or explanation, he closed my door and got back behind the wheel.

Seconds later, we were back to his insanely fast driving, and I was sinking in my seat.

He didn’t speak, and I didn’t question him anymore.

A half hour later, high in the cliffs above the sea, with the storm below us, he pulled up to an almost hidden gate that was practically on top of the road. Maritime pines sprouted up behind it as bougainvillea crowded over the top and spilled down a six-foot-high solid stone wall that ran more than a half kilometer in either direction from the gate.

Putting his window down, he punched a code into a small, concealed keypad.

The gate opened inward, revealing a half-circular drive with a majestic glass-and-stone villa beyond with clear views straight through to the Tyrrhenian Sea. The grounds, the trees, the terraces and walkways, the villa itself—it was all lit with architectural lighting, and the scene looked more like a movie set than a safe house.

He pulled through the gate with the same reckless speed as how he drove and swung the sports car around so my side was facing the front door.

Then he cut the engine and opened his door as the gate closed, and all of a sudden, we were plunged into deafening silence.

It happened without warning.

My heart rate spiked, fear crawled up my throat, and I was back on that yacht, looking over the railing.

He got out of the car.

All the questions, the ones I’d been trying to compartmentalize, prioritize, and paint into small, carefully controlled sections of color like I did on my landscapes, they broke their boundaries and bled.

Fear, panic, claustrophobia, the need to take flight—it all came at once, but he’d already opened my door and was standing there with not only his bag of tricks over his shoulder, but also his waterproof backpack and his big gun on the strap.

My subconscious blurted out what it thought I needed to be safe. “I need the car keys.” A Maserati wasn’t going to keep me safe from Carlos.

A SEAL held out the keys.

I reached for them.

He closed his hand. “Where are you gonna go?”

He’d killed two men with exacting precision, rescued me, most likely exploded that yacht and gave me a fake name.

I gave him the truth. “Nowhere that I would tell you.”

“And if the car’s being traced?”

That caught me off guard. And frightened me more. Because now an entire new series of fears were unraveling faster than I could think of them. What if Carlos had followed us? What if he blamed me for whatever this man had done? What if he was already watching us as I sat and he stood, vulnerable and exposed?

I barely formed a reply. “Then I’ll find my way without it.” Could I? Would I be safe?

“With what money?” he asked in the same even, non-emotive tone that was as void of color as his eyes.

Flustered, unsure how this conversation had become a test—one I was never going to pass—I reached for the only familiarity I had left. “Give me my bag, and I’ll figure it out.”

As if I hadn’t spoken, he ripped more holes into my false bravado. “ID? Passport? Cell phone?”

Sudden overwhelming exhaustion mixed with the fear, but neither won. Weakness did. “When did you look in my bag?”

“I didn’t.”

“So you’re assuming I have none of those things?”

He said nothing. He just stared at me with those eyes that were neither the color of smoke nor mist, but just as elusive.

I stupidly, foolishly asked again about the explosion. “What happened to the yacht?” Was he sure Carlos wasn’t dead?

This time, he didn’t answer my question with a penetrating stare. He gave me an order wrapped with the muddied color of threat. “Get out of the car.”

My damp dress sticking to me, my muscles tight, my hair all but forgotten, I didn’t move.

Storm gray swirled with iced slate, and the man who’d named himself after a measurement of drugs became the drug. “Rephrasing. Get out or I’ll take you out.”

My knees quaked, my heart beat erratically, and I shivered hard.

But I didn’t move.

Because I was weak, and he was strong, and I had been wrong.

I didn’t want to die in that sea or run away in his car.

I wanted to drown in his dominance.