Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)
“Are you okay?” I ask him, confused and a little worried. I don’t know why he’s putting his shirt back on. Is this part of the game? Maybe I’m sneaking into his room at the end of a long day, thinking he’s asleep and I can rob him, but the sexy man of the house is awake and undressing for bed. Yes, that sounds fun. I’m going to suggest that, just as soon as he answers me.
I nearly jump out of my skin when his bedroom door opens. I want to scoot back and dive under the blankets since some asshole is barging in unannounced, but Rafe’s bed is made, and I can’t get under them easily while I’m cuffed.
Rafe turns, not appearing at all surprised by the intrusion, or the sight of Adrian walking into the bedroom. I open my mouth, a breath away from demanding to know what the hell is going on, when I see my lock box tucked under Adrian’s arm. My heart drops like an elevator with a snipped cable, exploding as it hits the floor.
Oh, God.
Oh, no. No, that can’t be my lock box. This cannot be happening.
My gaze jumps to Rafe, and all the warmth has left him. He’s gone completely cold, his face carefully blank.
Oh, my God, it is happening. I’m going to die. They’re going to kill me. Rafe is going to kill me.
He didn’t invite me here to get back together. He went through my things. Why? Why would he search my apartment?
My stomach is in knots, my chest heaves as I struggle to breathe; I feel on the brink of an anxiety attack, and no one has even spoken yet. All the memories of Rafe that I relived on the way here swirl around me like a tornado of torment, and I want to throw up.
Adrian hands the box to Rafe and walks over to the dresser, picking up my cell phone, peeling off the case, and messing with my phone.
Rafe’s cool gaze lands on me and he saunters closer. I need to speak. I need to beg for a chance to explain. I need to say something but I feel like I might pass out, and all I can think about is where my next breath is going to come from.
Rafe stops in front of me, opens up the box so I can see inside. I don’t look. I already know what’s inside. Shame wraps around me like a blanket, and I look up at Rafe instead, my eyes pleading.
“Please let me explain.”
As coldly as if I’m a stranger, Rafe tosses the book shaped lock box on my bed and demands, “Are you a cop, Virginia?”
32
Virginia
I shake my head vehemently, looking up at Rafe, desperate for him to believe me. “No. I’m not a cop. I swear to God, I’m not a cop.”
“You’re not FBI?”
“I’m not FBI,” I promise him. “I’m a waitress, Rafe. That’s it. Just a waitress.”
He jerks his gaze at the open lock box on the bed next to me, so I follow his gaze. It was unlocked and opened when he tossed it, so all the contents are spilling out all over his bedding like the filthiest of secrets. “Why would a waitress do all that?” he asks.
I look past him at Adrian, then back to Rafe hesitantly. I need to get him to do me a favor. Something small. I need to stay alive long enough to explain myself, and in order to do that, I need him to remember some kind of fondness for me. Some kind of good will.
Swallowing and looking up at him, I ask, “Can I... can you get me a shirt or something to cover up? I’m practically naked.”
“No,” he answers coldly. “Answer my fucking question.”
“I know this looks bad,” I tell him. “But Rafe, it’s not what it looks like.”
“No? ‘Cause it looks like you’re a fucking rat. It looks like you’ve been gathering evidence against my family, using your position in my life and in my restaurant to eavesdrop. When my men think they can have their fucking guards down, when they think they’re among friends, it looks like you’re recording every fucking move they make. You have an eidetic memory, Virginia?”
I look down at the floor, swallowing. “It’s… that’s what I called it when I told Laurel. Technically, eidetic memory isn’t like a diagnosable thing, but…”
“But you remember everything,” he states. “Every fucking thing. You remember every word I’ve ever said to you, don’t you?”
I nod slowly. “Yes.”
“And my men?”
I nod again.