Descent (Black Heart Romance)

I’m angry at the man for being complicit in this whole scheme—he’s probably the one who stole my cat in the first place—but he’s also the only resource I have for information regarding the lunatic who won’t leave me alone. “This is where he lives?” I ask stiffly, looking up at the gleaming onyx tower.

“Yes, ma’am. He owns the building.”

My eyes widen and my gaze jumps to Hollis. “The whole building?”

Hollis nods again, then escorts me to the door. “Bought it when he decided to move in. He’s not much for renting. He likes things to be entirely his.”

“Sounds a bit spoiled,” I murmur.

Hollis smirks, but doesn’t disagree. “He can afford to be.”

The lobby door opens, and a bald man in a suit emerges to hold it open for me. “Welcome home,” he says, even though he must know I don’t live here.

“Thank you,” I say, more nicely since presumably this man wasn’t involved in the catnapping. “I’m visiting Calvin Cutler. If I don’t come back down in an hour or so, please call for help.”

“She’s kidding,” Hollis interjects quickly.

Whether I am or not, the man guarding the door accepts Hollis’ word for it and nods his head. “Of course.”

Hollis takes my arm in a firm grip and escorts me a little more aggressively across the lobby. “I wouldn’t advise doing things like that,” he tells me. “Calvin wouldn’t like it.”

“Why should I care what Calvin likes?” I return.

He shakes his head in disapproval, like I’m too simple to understand a basic truth.

I ignore him and look around the lobby. Well, I suppose it’s a lobby. It feels more like an elite gentleman’s club than an apartment building. I can’t even imagine living in a place like this. It doesn’t seem homey at all, but I suppose maybe the actual apartments have more warmth.

My nude heels click against the cool marble floor as we take a hallway toward the elevators.

There’s an older couple ahead of us. The woman is stylish, the man’s barrel chest is wrapped in an expensive-looking suit. The elevator doors open and they step inside. I start to take a step forward, but Hollis pulls me back, his firm grip never leaving my arm. “Not that one,” he says. At first, I think he just doesn’t want me in the same elevator as other people since I might ask for help, but then he adds, “The penthouse has a private elevator.”

He has to enter a passcode to gain access to the elevator we get on.

Once we’re inside with the doors closed, he finally releases my arm. Knowing it’s because I stand no chance of escape now, my tummy begins to flutter with nerves. I fidget with my handbag as we make the journey to the top of the skyscraper, trying to focus on seeing Marie and ensuring she’s safe, not whatever else might happen tonight.

There’s a soft ding to announce we’ve reached our intended floor, then the elevator doors open to a white-walled gallery, cold and blank but for the paintings hanging up on its walls.

As we step into the room, my gaze skates across several paintings. They’re all interesting, but my attention is snagged by a brightly-colored painting that seems to show a woman with big eyes hiding in her bed with a warped mirror showing her reflection behind her. The pattern on the wall in the background is familiar. I’m nearly certain it’s a Picasso—a copy of one, anyway—but I haven’t seen this particular painting before.

“Do you know what this one is called?” I ask Hollis.

It’s not Hollis who answers, but Calvin himself, standing in the archway to my left. “The Mirror by Picasso. Do you like it?”

His presence makes me tense, but I keep my gaze trained on the woman in the painting. “She looks afraid.”

Dark amusement hangs from his words. “That’s why I like it.”

It’s a depraved thing to say, but since his lips are tugged up at the corners when I look at him, I tell myself he might be kidding.

Probably not, though.

He’s also holding my cat. In his black suit, stroking her fluffy little head, he looks like a super villain hell-bent on taking over the world. Marie appears to be his willing accomplice. She preens as he strokes her, the little traitor.

Abandoning the painting, I approach him and hold my arms out. “May I have my cat back?”

He doesn’t hand her over, and while Marie looks at me, she makes no effort to leave his arms as he continues to stroke her head.

I cock an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“I’m not forcing her to stay,” he points out. “What can I say? Your pussy likes me.”

Huffing in annoyance, I slide my hands under Marie’s fluff and lift her into my arms. Once she has been extracted from his hold, she tilts her head and nuzzles my neck. “The Stockholm syndrome is wearing off already, hm?” I murmur, nuzzling her back. Her softness soothes my soul, but I’m still a bit miffed about her enjoying him petting her. “He kidnapped you, you know? You’re not supposed to like him.”