Vindictive #4

4. throne reserved in hell

Samuel Walsh is, all things considered, not a terrible guy. In fact, he's nothing more than a trust-fund baby attempting to start his own business. Granted the business isn't entirely legal—or legal at all, really, but there's no need to get into semantics. When Samuel and I first met a few months ago, there was no denying the attraction. He was charismatic, cute, and, of course, wealthy. And he was, well, fascinated with me from the beginning.

We clicked immediately. He has a sophistication to him—of course, that has everything to do with his upbringing. His father was the CEO to one of the top oil companies in America and his mother was a model and author. He didn't talk about them—but I could guess that the strained relationship between him and his father have a lot to do with Samuel's refusal to work for him after turning eighteen.

Samuel opens the door in a Versace robe. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers and grins boyishly at me.

"Milan," he murmurs, his eyes taking in my appearance. "You're a little more covered than I would have liked."

My lips twitch and I gently pull one of the flaps on my black trench coat to the side, flashing the top of my sparkly black lingerie ensemble. "Then let me in. Your gardener is watching."

Samuel glances over my shoulder to eye the gardener. "You should give him a show."

I laugh and brush past him. "Maybe next time. Wine?"

"On the counter, waiting for you."

"You're a darling."

As I walk through his foyer towards the kitchen, I tug at the belt of my trench. It comes loose and I allow the coat to slip off my shoulders and fall to the floor. I hear him chuckle behind me as I continue to make my way in only the lingerie set and six inch heels. He whistles as he follows behind me, a tune I somewhat recognize but couldn't name if someone asked. Happiness pools in my belly when I see the glass of white wine.

He only breaks out the expensive stuff for me.

I hop up on his counter and pick up my glass, taking a long, slow sip.

"Would I be correct in assuming you will not tell me what happened to your face?"

I tried to cover up the bruising with makeup, and it helped a little but the purple still seemed to show.

I force a smile. "Impatient customer."

"Let me—"

"Whatever it is you are about to offer, Samuel, thanks, but no. I can handle it."

His eyes trail the length of me before stopping. They narrow. "It wasn't just one hit to the face."

He moves towards me, his hand going to my side. I wince when he pressed two fingers against my bruised and tender skin and he pulls away quickly.

"This customer beat you?"

"Samuel."

"Milan." His dark eyes meet mine. "That is unacceptable."

"I've dealt with worse."

He sucks in a sharp breath and leans back. After taking a drag from his cigarette, the fire in his eyes dim and he turns. "You came in a car?"

"Yeah."

"I'll have Benjamin put the coke in the trunk."

"Okay."

Samuel nods and leaves me alone in the kitchen. While he's gone, I sip on my wine and glance around. I'd been here plenty of times, but there is always something different or new with each visit. Samuel had a thing for antiques and art. He moved furniture around a lot because he didn't like routine.