Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(63)

I look at his hand, tempted to snap at his fingers like a turtle.

But in the end, I take his hand and let him lead me out to the car and take me back to his skyscraper.

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, anyway.



When we get back to the apartment, the first thing Liam does is turn on music.

“What is that?” I follow him into the living room where he’s fiddling with a remote control.

“Gotan Project. They’re based in Paris, but the music is Argentinian electrotango.”

“Electrotango? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“It’s a hybrid of electronic dance music and traditional tango.” He sets down the remote on a coffee table and watches me as I listen, intrigued by the sultry, thumping beat.

“It’s sexy,” I pronounce, which makes him smile.

“It is. And the music isn’t the only sexy thing about Argentina.”

I quirk my lips. “You’re talking about the women.”

“I’m talking about the atmosphere. The culture. The weather. The way Argentinian’s live their lives. They’re very passionate people.”

“You’ve spent time there?”

He lets his gaze linger on me, drifting down from my face to my hips. “Aye. And you’re right to want to go. It’s the kind of place you could lose yourself in and be grateful to get lost.”

He lifts his lashes. Our gazes lock. I can tell he knows something about getting lost.

Looking into his eyes, I’m beginning to think I do, too.

Emotion rushes through my body like an incoming tide. I feel hot, then cold, then panicked, unsure if I should stand still or bolt.

“I think I’ll go study for a while longer.”

He nods and turns away, his eyes shuttering. Then he heads down the hallway toward the master bedroom, loosening his tie as he rounds a corner and disappears.

When he’s gone, I exhale a shaky breath. I’m far out to sea in a leaky boat with a storm coming in, and I know it.

Actually, the storm has already arrived. Now it’s just a matter of seeing if I’ll sink or swim.

In the library, I find my handbag lying on the table beside my laptop. I dig my phone from the bag and unlock it, sighing when I see I’ve got fifteen missed calls from Diego, along with several panicked texts. The last one is in all caps.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY!!!

I dial his number, worried he’ll do something stupid if he doesn’t hear from me.

“Tru!” he shouts the second he picks up. “Thank god! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I promise. Everything is okay.”

There’s a pause, then he exhales a heavy breath. “Jesus. I’ve been totally freaking out.”

“I’m sorry about last night. I had no idea he would—”

“Don’t fucking apologize for him!”

When I’m silent, startled by the viciousness of his tone, he turns sheepish. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’ve just been so worried. Then you didn’t come into work tonight, and I thought…” He’s quiet for a moment, then his voice drops. “I thought he might have hurt you.”

I say with conviction, “He’d never hurt me.”

“Tru,” he replies softly, “don’t be na?ve. We’re talking about a man who’s ordered the execution of dozens of his enemies. He hurts people because he likes to.”

Or maybe because they deserve it.

I’m so surprised by that thought, I remain silent. I don’t want to consider what it means, much less let it come out of my mouth.

“Listen, I know you don’t know much about him—”

“I know enough.”

It’s Diego’s turn to be surprised into silence. After a moment, he says, “So you know he’s the head of the Irish mafia?”

“I do now.”

“But you didn’t before last night?”

“No.”

“So, basically he was lying to you about who he was.”

“He was trying to protect me.”

Diego’s laugh is hard and disbelieving. “You’re too smart to believe that.”

Anger slowly unfurls in my stomach, like a snake with its coils. “Did he hurt you?”

A grudging pause, then: “No.”

“Do you know why?”

Through gritted teeth: “Because you asked him not to.”

“Correct. And if you think I’m a helpless victim here, you’re wrong.”

“You might not be helpless, but you’re still his victim.”

Heat crawls up my neck, making my ears glow, setting my face on fire. “I’ve never been a victim in my whole life, and I’m definitely not one now.”

There’s a long, tense silence. “He’s listening, isn’t he? He’s standing right there with a gun to your head, telling you what to say.”

Slowly, clearly, I say, “No. He’s not listening. There’s no gun. And he’d never presume to tell me what to say. He doesn’t treat me like that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t help that, but it’s the truth.”