Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

art. I listen until my ears are straining, but all I can hear is that faint hum. Well, if help won’t find me, I’ll just have to summon it.

“Help! Heeeeeeeelp! I’ve been kidnapped. I’m tied up in this room. Heeeeeeelp!”

I scream until my throat is raw. I stop every few minutes to catch my breath and listen for the sound of approaching feet. No one comes. What sort of hotel is this? Has Damir booked the whole floor or something and told the staff to stay away? I thrash about in frustration but succeed only in tiring myself out. I’m painfully in need of the bathroom, and now I’m thirsty as well.

I slump back against the pillows, thinking longingly of Mr. Ravnikar’s private jet. Ciara’s probably cuddled gratefully in his arms right now, thanking her sugar daddy for spiriting her away from that nasty, horrible Damir. They’re probably being served lobster and champagne and then having hot fugitive sex in the bedroom suite. I’m glad they got away, but just for a second I want to curse them both to hell for being free and together while I’m tied up at Damir Ravnikar’s mercy, wondering what the hell he’s going to do me.

A key grates in the door. I wriggle upright again. Is it someone come to save me?

The door swings open, and I see the devil smiling back at me.

“Good morning, Bethany,” Damir says, stepping into the room and closing and locking the door behind him. “You’re finally awake. I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”

He’s dressed more casually than when he kidnapped me, in an open-necked shirt and pants. He has a resort-fashion look about him, and paired with the sleek, contented expression on his face, you’d think he was on vacation.

I watch him warily as he comes toward me across the carpet, his hands in his pockets and that same pointed smile on his face.

I lick my parched lips. “How long have I been here?”

“About twenty hours.”

Twenty hours. We could be anywhere. I want to ask a thousand questions, but it’s the one I’m most afraid of that passes over my numb lips. “What are you going to do to me?”

He’s standing right by the bed now, and his smile widens, showing even more of his pointed canines. “What would you like me to do to you?”

It’s like he thinks he’s flirting with me. I ignore the fierce pound between my legs at the sight of him looming over me. “You can start by untying me and letting me the hell out of this room.”

“Sorry. A no to both of those. For now.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

His eyes linger on the handcuffs, and then travel down over my body, as if he’s saying, Everything I want is right here.

“Where are we? What’s going on? Where did Mr. Ravnikar go?”

Damir walks over to the curtains and pulls them open. Instead of a normal hotel room window, this one is round.

I can’t see anything from where I’m lying but sky. Damir helps me sit up a little more, his strong arm supporting my waist. I crane my neck, and instead of a street or a pool, I see…ocean?

“We’re on a boat?”

He gives me a scornful look. His handsome face is very close to mine. “It’s a yacht, Bethany. One hundred and sixty feet. Five cabins. Six decks. Interior dining. Exterior bar with Jacuzzi. Max speed of forty knots.”

I start breathing very fast. Oh, boy. Okay. No one’s going to help me. That’s what I’m dealing with here. It’s just me, some crewmembers who are probably in Damir’s pay, and Damir, a well-groomed, chisel-cheeked madman.

I swallow, and say under my breath, “Fuck.”

Damir sits on the bed with me, propped up against the pillows, his arm still around me. “Where would you like to go? Spain and Greece are beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter, hyper-conscious of his body so close to mine and trying to inch away. That silky cologne of his is invading my nostrils, and I can’t think straight.

Damir pulls my phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. He must have got my fingerprint while I was unconscious and changed the code. He starts reading aloud, and I realize it’s my dating profile bio.

“‘Bethany, twenty-one. Legit snack. International socialite who enjoys the finer things in life. London-based, Parisian soul, New York style. I’m looking for a generous man who knows how to treat a refined lady.’” He grins at me, boyishly charming. “Legit snack?”

“I was being cute.” I look longingly at my phone, wondering if anyone has called it and realized I’m missing. But who would? Apart from Mikhail, no one was expecting to see me today. I haven’t spoken to the other foster girls in over a year. I had no friends at university.

“I see that, baby,” he rumbles, swiping through my pictures. “Parisian soul, huh? I’ve been through your social media and I’ve seen no selfies in Paris. Let me guess. You’ve never been further than Dover.”