Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(7)

He leaned forward, his mouth inches from my ear. “Why would I f*ck a little girl?”

A little girl. The words clashed with the groping hands and crude words I’d heard for the past week. With the hotel suite and the dirty bathroom pipes. “I’m not,” I said, my voice raw. “I’m not a kid.”

Two words, barely a breath across my temple. “Prove it.”

He stepped back, and I saw in his eyes that he didn’t believe I’d do it. He didn’t believe I’d undress. He didn’t believe I’d follow through with any of it.

And maybe he wasn’t wrong to doubt me.

The thought of baring my body to him was terrifying. Flat chest and slim hips. Nothing to offer a man, unless the men were drunk and popping pills. They’d been so worked up they would have f*cked a blow-up doll. Philip was very sober—and absolutely focused on me.

I forced myself to grasp the hem of the T-shirt and pull it over my head.

It fell beside my feet.

I wasn’t wearing a bra. There hadn’t been one in the pile on the bed, and I didn’t need one anyway. He could see my breasts, how little there was.

My fingers were already working at the clasp on my jeans when he stopped me.

He touched my arm gently. “Ella, was it?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Only then did I look and see the bruises covering my skin. Dark and mottled. Ugly. A tear fell down my cheek.

“Not only little,” he said. “Broken too.”

I stumbled back as if he’d hit me. That was what it felt like—a wound deeper than those other men could have made. They could only touch my skin. He hurt me where I was already raw and bleeding, where I was all alone. My stomach turned over, and I was afraid I might throw up in his office.

Blindly I groped for my T-shirt. It landed in my hand, and I realized he had bent to pick it up.

Shoving it over my head, I ran out the door of his office. I would never step foot in there again. I would never speak to him again. I never wanted to see him again.





Chapter Six

THE MAN FROM last night was in the kitchen, this time wearing an apron, with some kind of classical opera thing playing from speakers I couldn’t see. The room was spacious and beautiful, the kind you would only find in magazines. The wood cabinets looked hand carved, with real knots in the wood and a few subtle designs at the corners. The appliances were all stainless steel and gleaming. It didn’t feel lived-in or used at all, but there was a pile of brownies on the counter that proved it was. Adrian was bustling around with ease.

He looked up, and I tensed, prepared for him to throw me out—or insult me like Philip had done. Instead his expression softened. “Come in, come in. You must be starving.”

My stomach grumbled in response. “I am,” I admitted. Days of living on whatever leftover takeout they decided to toss on the floor for me had taken its toll. My muscles felt shaky even when I wasn’t moving.

“We’ll start with coffee, then? Or hot chocolate? How does that sound?”

“That sounds amazing.” I found myself reluctantly charmed. I didn’t want to like this butler, this cook, this piece of rich-man hierarchy that Philip had built for himself. And I felt even more out of place when I said, “Hot chocolate, please.”

He winked and made a steaming mug.

I breathed in deep, comforted by the sweet scent. Even this was rich-man hot chocolate, a lush chocolate flavor and creamy base, with no tiny marshmallows in sight—but it was delicious. The best I’d ever tasted. “Thank you.”

He slid a small plate with biscotti toward me, but we heard a sound at the door. I turned, relieved to see that it was Shelly joining us and not Philip. Of course judging by her expression, she had spoken with Philip. I had no doubt that Philip had told her how I humiliated myself.

“Would you like some coffee?” Adrian asked her.

“I’m good,” she said evenly, but she was clearly here on a mission. The look she gave him was direct: go away.

Adrian gave her a look in return, though I wasn’t sure what that one meant. He did leave us alone, though. I focused on my drink, using the biscotti to stir it around and create a little brown whirlpool.

Shelly sat across from me at the rustic table. “Wanna tell me about it?” she asked.

I was not going to spell it out for her. “About what?”

“Any of it, sweetheart,” she said, sounding tired. “What happened with Philip. Why you were working for Henri. What your damn name is. You’re killing me here.”

Guilt seized my chest. “I thought if I could…” If I could seduce Philip, then you wouldn’t have to. “I didn’t want…” I didn’t want you to pay my debt, the way that I had to pay my father’s.

I dropped the entire soggy biscotti into the mug. And as for the rest of it, working for Henri, I hadn’t been working. Not really. I’d been forced, and I had fought back.

I placed my palms flat on the table, feeling the hand-scraped texture underneath. “Like you said, if I had just done what I was supposed to do, you wouldn’t be in this mess. I didn’t want you to have to…have sex with Philip because of me.”

She looked away. “It’s not so bad.”

That wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. “I wouldn’t know.” The men in the penthouse had touched me. They had been planning on having sex with me, but I’d fought them. And then Shelly had come. I was still a virgin. “Apparently even when I want to seduce someone, I do it wrong.”