Enthralled (The Enslaved Duet 1)

I waited until he stood beside me at the door to say, “Swear to me.”

He hesitated. “I’ll need some more money.”

I almost smiled; so predictable. “If you’re willing to steal mob money, I won’t stop you.”

He kicked at the door, his knuckles too raw to knock. It opened suddenly, as if someone had been waiting with his or her hand on the knob for us to arrive. A man stood before us, dressed in an expensive black and white suit that matched his salt and pepper hair which was thick and deeply parted, tidily combed, and slicked to one side. He was the least impressionable man I had ever seen in my life; entirely pale like only a Brit could be with bland, fleshy features. Without a word, he stepped aside to allow two men in black to pass through and frisk us.

I could tell Seamus wanted to say something, object or, more probably, make an inappropriate joke, but one haughty look from the butler stopped him. It was easy to ignore the hulking man who moved from behind the butler to pat me down, brushing his thick fingers over my breasts and groin; he was professional and barely paid my face a cursory glance. It was the first time a man had shown himself to be sexually unaffected by my audacious curves, and I was strangely aroused by it. He wore sunglasses even though he had emerged from the cool, dark interior and when he grasped my arm firmly to tug me into the house, I shivered slightly.

We were led through an immense red tiled foyer down a long hallway to a large closed door. They left us there, padding silently away with no indication of what we should do. So we waited in silence because it felt like sacrilege to speak in such a tomb.

“If I promised to change?” Seamus spoke so quietly, his mouth unmoving and slack that even though I was looking right at him, I couldn’t be sure he had spoken.

“You won’t.”

“Do you think I don’t want to, Cosima? That I like being me? Do you think I want to do this, sell my daughter, for Christ’s sake? I love you.” A shaky breath wavered in the air between us. “I love Mama and our family. Don’t take both of us away from them.”

“I really think I’m doing you a favour,” I said, and I did.

I was giving him an out. If he went back to Napoli, he would have to be crazy to think that the family would welcome him with open arms after what he had done. This way, he could leave knowing he had my blessing at least.

Seamus Moore was a lot of things, but crazy wasn’t one of them.

“Fine,” he said. “I promise.”

It should have sickened me how easily he agreed, but I was too busy being relieved. I could feel its effects suffuse my face, my mouth parting on a sweet sigh, my eyes softening like melted butter. There wasn’t enough time between the hush of the lock shifting and the faint breath of the door swinging open for me to rearrange my expression. I didn’t know how I wanted to look like when I met the man who would soon own my body, but it definitely wasn’t like this.

And I could tell immediately by the look in his eyes that he was taking advantage of my disorientation. Thick lashed silver eyes marked and catalogued my body with the efficiency and mild interest of a librarian with a stack of books and the Dewy decimal system. With superhuman senses, he noted the triangle of moles on the left side of my neck and the ripped cuticles around my long nails, the way my modest patterned dress floated around my thin calves. I could see the conclusions too, in those dark eyes: undernourished, stressed, and covered in the thin film of poverty. The familiar burn of shame forged a steely rod of rage in my gut that lodged itself in my throat and made me want to gag.

Blinking slowly, I pulled my eyes from the sticky depths of his gaze and studied the man before me. He had thick, luxurious hair the colour of burnished gold that brushed the collar of his suit jacket and skin that seemed edible like caramel stretched taut over his strong features. Surprisingly, he was almost a foot taller than my abnormal height, and the awesome width of his shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. I catalogued these physical attributes without qualm and easily too. Beauty was my profession, and even in my disorientated state, I could appreciate a gorgeous man.

When my eyes wandered along the square cut of his jaw up to those blade grey eyes again, they were lacquered with mild humour. I bristled, realizing that he had been indulging my curiosity, watching me as I studied his appearance and found him anything but wanting.