I squirm around, attempting to sit up. My feet and hands are numb from having the blood cut off and my whole body aches from being forced to stay in the same position for the last twelve hours. I play the game I’ve been playing from the start, which is pretending I’m not a prisoner, and that this is all fun and games to me.
“I smell pancakes!” I call out with exaggerated glee.
I’m satisfied when Mr. Tacone appears in the doorway, amusement playing over his face. He looks sexy as hell in crisp shirt, open at the collar, and his perfectly ironed dress slacks. “You like pancakes, little hacker?”
“I love them,” I profess. “And I’m starving. And about ready to chew my own foot off to get out of these things. Please?” I hold out my hands and put my puppy dog eyes on.
Tacone’s lips twitch. He pulls the nail clippers I used yesterday out of his pocket and clips off both zip ties.
I gasp at the sensation of blood returning to my hands and feet. “Ooh oh ow!” I drop my face back into the covers and roll it back and forth, squirming around and moaning.
After a few minutes, the terrible pins and needles dissipate and I sit back up to find Mr. Tacone just standing there, watching me.
“It’s your fault, you know,” I shoot at him, rather than feel embarrassed of my behavior.
“I’m aware,” he says mildly. A true sadist.
I admit, it turns me on.
He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Come on.”
I step gingerly on my feet, gasping some more, and follow him to a modern kitchen with gleaming quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances.
A plate stacked with pancakes is on the breakfast bar. I immediately plop onto a barstool, like this is the morning after a date.
Oddly, it seems to work. He offers me a mug of coffee, then arranges three pancakes on a plate and slides it in front of me.
“Oh my God,” I say, digging in without even waiting for the butter and syrup he’s passing over. “I’m so hungry and this smells so good.” My mouth is full now, so he may not have understood a word I said.
I look up to find him watching me, same as ever. “It’s an act, right?”
“What is?”
“The crazy thing. I don’t mind it. Actually, I find it cute. I just don’t buy it.”
My fork hovers in midair and I forget to chew. Funny that I’ve never been called on it before and this guy sees through me right away.
I set the fork down. “I have a disorder. Does it make me this nuts? Hard to say. How do you separate it all out?” I don’t know why the hell I’m philosophizing with a mafia man who kidnapped me.
He lifts his chin at my plate. “Mangia.” Clearly not going to partake in the philosophizing.
“Did you eat?”
He starts like he’d forgotten about serving himself. “No.” He fixes a second plate but doesn’t sit down. He remains standing across from me, staring me down as he butters his cakes.
I go back to eating, hoping he’ll drop the previous conversation.
He does, but he shocks me even more when he says, “I like you, Caitlin. It’d be pretty impossible not to.”
I make a dissenting sound in my throat. “I know at least a thousand people who’d disagree with you on that.”
He frowns, then shakes his head.
“I know there’s a but coming.”
“Oh there’s definitely a but, sweetheart.”
I suck in my breath at his brusque tone. Here it comes.
“I brought your computer and all your tech equipment. You have until 5:00 p.m. tomorrow to return the money with interest. If you comply, I’ll let you walk.”
I go cold all over. “I can’t.” I shake my head. “I don’t have it. I used it for tuition.”
“I know you did, doll. Yours and your brother’s.”
He lets that drop like an anvil between us. My fork falls out of my fingers.
He knows about Trevor. Fuck. I was hoping the fact that Trev took his adopted family’s last name would keep him out of it. I was careful to funnel his money through a separate fake scholarship fund, too.
Dammit.
He just shakes his head slowly. “You don’t want me to spell it out, doll. Hell, I don’t want to spell it out for you. But you and I both know what I’m capable of. Right?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can hardly breathe. Somehow, I manage to nod.
“So get on that computer of yours and get me the money. The clock is running.”
I feel like puking or crying or both at once.
This isn’t good. Not at all.
It’s a totally different game with Trevor’s life at risk. I didn’t care that much about mine. This life hasn’t shown me all that much worth savoring so far. But if Trevor died because of me… well, I can’t even think about that. My mind whirs on the problem.