“I’m no one of importance,” is her instant answer.
I’ve said those exact words to someone in the past, and it was a lie, too. “If you’re so unimportant, why the need for a fake name?”
“Sorry—Killian—but Juliet is my real name.”
Her eyes flash. Her tone is defiant. Every time she looks at me like that, with all that fire and fuck-you attitude, I want to push her down and pin her underneath me and kiss that smart mouth until she’s begging me to kiss her everywhere else.
“And Jameson? Is that your real last name?”
She presses her lips together and incinerates me with her stare.
“That’s what I thought.”
She stands abruptly, abandoning the whiskey glass on the countertop and wiping her palms on the front of her jeans. She announces, “I’m leaving,” and turns and heads toward the elevator doors, walking quickly with a stiff back and tense shoulders.
I let her go and pour myself another drink.
In a few minutes, she’s back. Seething. “The elevator’s locked.”
“Aye.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
Her voice rises. “I want you to let me go. Now.”
I study her. There’s an edge to her voice and a glint of panic in her eyes. It’s almost as if she thinks I’m…
When it dawns on me, I feel like a complete idiot for not realizing it sooner.
She’s afraid of being kidnapped.
Not raped, like I thought when she was freaking out in the taxi cab. Though that’s likely part of it, too. But mainly her anxiety seems to revolve around being taken—and held—against her will.
Fear of becoming a hostage is a very specific kind of fear. One ingrained by a specific kind of upbringing. And possibly a specific kind of training.
Her words come back to me again.
“Our fathers are all bad people. Very bad people. The kind who don’t care who they have to hurt to get what they want.”
I thought she meant drug dealers, perhaps, or some other kind of commonplace felon. Maybe even a soulless billionaire CEO. But added together with the acid disdain in her voice every time she calls me a gangster, and the unnatural calm she displayed during the car chase and gunfight, and her paranoia about becoming a victim of kidnapping—and, frankly, everything else—I think my little thief is the offspring of someone a tad worse than I thought.
Watching my expression, she demands, “What?”
“Juliet,” I say thoughtfully. “That’s an Italian name if I’ve ever heard one.”
“No. It’s English.”
“Not if it’s given to a girl born into an Italian family.”
As if she’s been slapped, her face turns white.
Bingo.
Something on my face makes her take a step back, shaking her head, her eyes wide.
“I won’t hurt you. There’s no need to try to run away.”
Her voice is strangled when she speaks. “Please let me go.”
I say firmly, “Juliet, I don’t care who your father is.”
She freezes in place as if turned to stone. The pulse in the side of her neck is flying.
Keeping my tone low and unthreatening, I say, “I won’t hold you against your will. I swear to you. But I need to find out who exactly was behind that attack and deal with him—or them—before you can go. For your own safety, as well as mine. All right?”
Her throat works. Her hands shake. I fight the urge to cross to her and take her into my arms and gesture to the corridor beyond the kitchen instead.
“There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. You can stay there. I won’t disturb you.”
When she doesn’t move, I add, “The door locks from the inside. The frame is reinforced with steel. No one can get in unless you let them in.”
“Are there cameras?”
“No.”
She licks her lips, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether or not to believe me.
“There’s also a gun in the nightstand. It’s loaded.” I add mildly, “Judging by how you held that rifle, I’m guessing you’re familiar with firearms.”
She narrows her eyes at me. She’s probably wishing she had a gun in hand right now.
Then she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “How long do you think it will take you to find out what you need to know?”
“A few hours, at most.”
She blinks. I hope it’s because she’s impressed.
“So I could…maybe just…relax for a while until you’re done?”
I incline my head, watching her try to maintain her composure and fight against the urge to run screaming to the front door. Except there is no front door, which she’s already well aware of.