His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”
“Guess you should’ve done your research before you kidnapped me,” I say.
“Had it been my intention to bring you here, I would have.” He licks his bottom lip.
Instead of replying, I glance at the bracelet around my wrist. The turquoise stone continues to pulse in his presence. I tug the sleeve of my cardigan to cover it. An uncomfortable weight settles on my shoulders, and a familiar tightness fills my chest. I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. I notice a slight shake in my hands and an increase in the pounding of my heart. I think I’m having a panic attack.
Tristan regards me with an odd expression. “Aurora?”
I shake my head and turn away, looking out the window as I try to force myself to breathe. Not a minute later, I feel his presence behind me and refuse to turn around.
“What are you studying?” he asks.
My forehead creases. “I . . . what?”
“Your major,” he clarifies. “What is it?”
I take a deep breath. “Business.”
“What year?”
“Fourth.” I take another breath, relieved to find my heart rate returning to a normal pace. “I’ll graduate in the spring.”
“Impressive. What are your plans after graduation?”
I laugh, leaving his question unanswered. I’m not about to bond with my kidnapper.
I turn around. “What are you doing?” I know what he’s doing, he’s talking me through my panic attack.
“Making conversation,” he answers.
“Well, don’t. We aren’t friends. After this situation is dealt with, we will never speak again,” I say, all of my anger and confusion backing the fierceness in my voice.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Does your pseudo sense of control over the situation make you feel better?”
I scowl and look away. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”
“A person learns a lot about someone when they pay attention.”
I need to get out of here. “You’ve given me the bracelet and your phone number. I know what I’m supposed to do. Now take me home.”
“All right, all right.” Tristan picks up his jacket and pulls it back on, buttoning the front, and nods toward the elevator. I follow him but stay on the opposite side. I may not be afraid of him, but that doesn’t mean I want him in my personal space.
The elevator stops on the main level. When we step out into the lobby, it’s clear I’m in one of the fanciest hotels in the city. The white marble floor and crystal chandeliers are a dead giveaway. A few men in dark suits pass by, nodding at Tristan, but shooting me hungry looks. Great. More arrogant men who stare at me like I’m something to eat.
“This is yours?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise. Under different circumstances, I would use this opportunity to pick his brain about business, but I’m not about to ask him for help.
“Yes,” he answers.
The lobby has a subdued atmosphere that comes with wealth. I’ve never considered a career in hotel management, but I feel an uncomfortable sliver of respect for my kidnapper. I immediately want to slap myself and insist it’s strictly professional interest.
Or Stockholm Syndrome.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Westbrook,” a chipper voice greets Tristan.
He smiles politely. “Good afternoon, Gloria,” he says and dismisses her with a nod. The older-looking woman walks over to the lunch buffet in the attached dining room.
“Friend of yours?” I ask with an arched brow, following him out the door.
“Her husband passed away a little over a year ago. She’s been staying here ever since,” he explains.
“That’s terrible,” I say. “And expensive.”
He stops at the curb in front of a fancy black town car. “My driver will take you home.”
I nod. It suddenly feels awkward, like I should say goodbye or something, which is insane. This wasn’t a pleasant visit or a meeting between friends. I’m lucky to be standing outside and not locked in that room.
Tristan opens the backseat door for me and stands behind it, waiting for me to get in. I slip into the car and buckle my belt.
Tristan leans inside. “Remember our deal, Aurora.”
I force a brilliant smile. “Has anyone ever told you how much of an ass you are?”
He mirrors my smile. “No one alive.”
I roll my eyes. “Good one.”
He closes the door and steps back onto the sidewalk. Keeping my eyes on Tristan, I tell the driver where to go. As we pull out into traffic, I watch as Tristan stands at the curb until I’m out of sight.
I stare out the window for a while before I realize I’m crying. I wipe the tears away only for more to fall. I’m no longer running on adrenaline. It’s quiet, and I have time to think. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I look, well, like a girl who was kidnapped and held captive for hours. My hair is in a tangle of messy, matted curls, and both my eyeliner and mascara have smudged almost all the way off since the party last night. The sight of myself sobers me up.
I glance at the clock on the dash; it’s just after noon. Last night seems like a long time ago.
I was kidnapped.
The driver clears his throat, and I startle from my reverie, unaware that the car has stopped moving. I glance at him for a moment and then go through the motions of undoing my seatbelt and opening the door to get out.
I wrap my arms around my waist and hug my cardigan closer as the car pulls away. It’s September, and the weather is still warm, but I’m shivering.
Allison isn’t home when I get to our room. I consider texting her but realize I don’t have my phone. Dammit. I must’ve lost it at some point during my escapades. I make a mental note to go out and get a new one. I don’t have the money for it, but I need a cell phone.
My eyes can’t stay away from the bracelet snaked around my wrist. The charm stares at me and makes my heart pound unevenly. This entire situation is so insane. I still can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t risk putting any of the people I love in danger.
After a shower, I change into a pair of high-waisted shorts and a plain black tank top. I’m blow-drying my hair when I hear the door slam shut. I turn the blow-dryer off and peek into the bedroom to find Allison tossing her purse onto her bed.
She turns and looks at me. “There you are. You disappeared last night.”
Not by choice. “Yeah, I sort of met someone, and we went somewhere quiet to talk.”
She gives me a suggestive look and wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, I got you.”
I cringe. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sad I missed your walk of shame,” she teases.
I frown. “Thanks.”
“Are you hungover?” she asks.
I wish that’s what this was. “No. I’m fine.”
“You look like you need some strong coffee.” Her eyes flick across my face. “Dark circles for days.”
“I’m fine.” Okay, now I am lying. To my best friend. To her face.
“Okay then,” she mumbles.
I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m—”