“My employer,” he says softly. “What will you make me do?”
The question runs through every nerve ending, a flame on dry wood. I’m left burning with the suggestion of all the things I could make him do. The things his dark eyes challenge me to say.
There’s only air in my head, only water in my veins. I’m made from earth, swept away by the wind of him, made into something new. “I’d make you clean off your boots.”
He doesn’t even glance down. He must know they’re caked with mud. That he leaves large black marks across the marble. He must feel how heavy they are as he walks.
“And you have to address me—” My words falter under the weight of his amusement. “You have to address me with respect. My name is Emily.”
“What if I like calling you princess?”
A hitch in my chest. Longing. Fear? “It doesn’t matter what you like.”
He takes two steps toward me, unstoppable, the glint in his eyes more of a warning than a promise. “What if you like me calling you princess?”
“I don’t,” I say, closing my eyes against the lie. More is at stake than the garden or the front room, than the help or the household. It feels like I’ve been fighting this my whole life.
Air brushes my arms as he circles me. His voice comes low and hard, almost a growl. “You’re lying, princess.” A calloused finger pushes my wet hair back, strokes down my temple. I imagine a darkened line over clean skin, something to hold onto when he leaves.
A tremor shakes my voice. “I would definitely make you leave the house. You belong outside.”
Outside where it’s sunny and beautiful and free.
“You’re probably right,” he says, his lips almost touching my shoulder. I can feel the heat of his breath as if that sunshine is bottled up, as if he releases a little bit just for me. “But I think you like me inside. I think you like me calling you princess. And I think you like me dirty.”
With a soft gush of cool air I feel him leave the room.
It’s several more minutes before I can open my eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
The mobster turns to look at me, his eyes dark. “What grade are you in?”
Even I have to admit it’s a little creepy to have him talk to me like I’m a little girl. Meanwhile the woman next to him has skin like porcelain and wide brown eyes. Her dark hair falls in ringlets. It feels almost weird to check out her body, even though when I do, it’s clear she’s all grown up.
She might be older than me. But only by a year or two.
“Emily’s a sophomore at Tanglewood College,” Dad says, waving a hand like it’s not worth discussing.
I know the real reason he doesn’t want the conversation on me. Because I’ll shout something wild, like the sky is purple. Or I’m a captive in this house. Or maybe I’ll just tell this Sergio that my dad isn’t trustworthy enough to do business with. The deal might still go through but pulling out all that paperwork, all those diagnoses to discredit me would be a pain in the ass.
Sergio doesn’t take the hint. “College?” His glacial blue eyes run over me as if he re-examining me, placing me where the girl beside him is, drawing a shiver to the surface of my skin. “What are you studying?”
Dad presses his lips together, unwilling to field this one.
“Geography,” I supply. “Specifically earth sciences and sustainability.”
There. I told the truth and I told it as simply and straightforward as possible.
Gold star for me.
A derisive noise punctuates my words. I keep a blank smile on my face, accustomed to my father’s opinion of my major. I’m not really sure what would have made him happier, though. I could have said fiction writing for a little inside joke, but I don’t think he would have laughed.
“You’re interested in the environment?” Sergio asks.
He sounds doubtful, though whether of my interest or the merits of the environment I can’t tell.
“I’m interested in the interplay between human society and our eco-system. How we use the resources and what we impart back to the earth. In particular my focus is on global food and farming.”
Now there’s surprise. “Farming?”
“It’s shocking to me that there’s still hunger in the year 1995, sir.”
“Ah,” he says. “Charity work. Anastasia is on the Tanglewood Society for the Arts.”
And with that, I’m carefully boxed and tucked away. Placed on a shelf alongside society wives who plan parties for the elite to give away a tiny percentage of their money.
The worst part is that I’m not even sure he’s wrong. It’s my dirty little secret that while studying the terrain and history of every region on the globe, I’ve never stepped one foot outside the city limits of Tanglewood. I can’t go anywhere without permission I’m never going to get.
