Accidentally in Love With a God (2012) Read online

  He pushed his upper body up, pinning me with his bare hips. “I don’t respond well to humans who don’t do as they’re told, but keep wiggling. I like it.” His cock began to harden, and I realized only my towel stood between us.

  My panic mode went into overdrive. I needed to buy time so I could wake up. I needed to divert his attention away from any possible thoughts of the unthinkable. This was not going to happen. No way. Now how. Not even in a dream.

  I relaxed my body and looked him in the eyes. “Is it true?”

  “What?”

  “That men who force women to have sex are also into animals too? I read it in an article. Goats, sheep, you know. Should I baaah for you so that you feel more at home? Baaahh.”

  Okay, that was a really weird thing to say. But it was all I could come up with, and the startled, disgusted look on his face said it all. I’d completely grossed him out.

  His expression quickly shifted to anger, and then he backhanded me.

  Dream or no dream, it stung like hell. Blind, stupid rage burst from inside me. “Fuck you.” I tried to position my knee to kick him but was immobilized by his weight. “Tommaso! Tommaso!” I screamed. Maybe, by some miracle of God, I’d scream in real life.

  “Shut up!” He gave me another brutal slap across my face; blood gushed from my nose. “If you run, I’ll find you and kill you!” he screamed in my ear and began cutting off the air from my lungs with his powerful hands.

  “I won’t run,” I croaked.

  “Good girl,” he said, then released me.

  I curled into a ball and cupped my nose.

  “Emma, what the hell?! Are you okay?” Tommaso stood above me, a look of horror strewn across his face.

  I took a deep breath, relieved to feel the air returning to my lungs. I ran my fingers over my nose and thankfully found it intact, but the painful residue of his strike lingered.

  Hands down, that was the most god-awful nightmare I’d ever had. “Just a bad dream.” Hiccup!

  “You sounded like someone was strangling you.” Tommaso sat at my side, his hands leapfrogging over the various parts of my body inspecting for damage. Thankfully, I wore pajamas.

  I sat up and buried my head in the oasis of his broad chest.

  Reluctant at first, I felt him slip his arms around me and tighten. “What happened, Emma?”

  I hiccuped for several moments while trying to wrangle a coherent thought. “I can’t explain it.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” He stroked the back of my head, following the length of my curls.

  “Both. But, please, don’t go. And don’t let me go back to sleep.”

  ***

  When I opened my eyes, it was late morning, and I found myself alone. Tommaso had not only left me, but he’d let me go back to sleep. Figured. Why should I expect he’d do me any favors?

  I looked over at the bathroom door, almost too afraid to enter. What if I was dreaming again and that monster was in there? And where was Guy? He’d said he’d never let anything bad happen, yet here I was. A mess. Afraid. Being held against my will. Worst of all, he didn’t care about me enough to even send a letter, or call. Nothing. He just dumped me off in this place. He didn’t care about me. Never did. And it hurt. It was a brutal wake-up call. I had to fend for myself now.

  I cautiously tiptoed to the bathroom and flicked on a light, letting out a sigh of relief to see the room empty. I looked in the mirror. There were no marks of any kind, but my mind still felt the pain. My neck and nose were tender and sore, like I had invisible bruises.

  I ran my hands over my face and then studied red veins in my bloodshot eyes. A tiny sparkle around my neck caught my eye. It was an intricate silver chain with a black stone amulet the size of a nickel. I stared at it for several moments.

  “It’s supposed to help with the nightmares,” said a voice.

  Tommaso was standing in the doorway wearing black jeans and t-shirt that stretched snugly across his chest and the swells of bicep. If that fabric could talk, it would say, “Lucky me.” He wasn’t the solid six-foot-nine mass of fiercely intimidating muscles like Guy, but he was a lean, well-built man. The kind any woman could appreciate. Except for me, who was too busy hating men.

  “I brought you breakfast.” He held up a paper bag and gave it a shake. “Fresh bagel and cream cheese.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He was actually letting his guard down, and I was feeling way too fried to resist any act of kindness, even from my captor’s minion.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “I thought it would be a nice day for a walk. Why don’t you eat, take a shower, and I’ll be back for you. Just knock on the door when you’re ready.”

  “You’re going to let me out of this room?” My mind started thinking about plans for escape.

  “Don’t get any ideas. This entire estate is gated with a hundred motion detectors and a small army of guards.”

  Oh, shoot. Maybe I could sneak a phone call in then.

  “And the only outside lines are safe behind lock and key,” he added.

  What. Was he a mind reader? “I’m not planning anything, I’m just happy to get out of this room,” I lied.

  He raised one brow, clearly not believing me. Smart man. “Tommaso?”

  “Question time?”

  “How did you guess? What exactly are you?”

  “Are you asking if I’m human?”

  I nodded yes.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “But you know Guy isn’t, and that doesn’t concern you?”

  “No.”

  “Are there more like him?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Is his kind dangerous?”

  “Lethal.”

  “Oh.” How did I figure he’d say that.

  “But,” he added, “not lethal for you unless you give him a reason.”

  “You mean lethal but with a conscience?” I could almost grasp that concept—I’d seen Lord of the Rings five times. Viggo…yummy.

  Tommaso nodded. “Something like that.”

  “And there’s still no way you’ll tell me who, or what they are?” I asked.

  “Not today.”

  “But why? I mean—why are you so afraid?”

  “Emma, I am an Uchben. We’re never afraid.”

  Oh, goody! A real piece of information. He’s an Uchben! Wait… “What the heck is an Uchben?”

  He smiled just ever so slightly. “We are an ancient society of warriors who serve Mr. Santiago and his…associates.”

  “Are you dangerous?”

  He smiled proudly and opened the door. “Absolutely.”

  My stomach did a flip. “But in a good kind of way, right?”

  “Just knock.” He turned and shut the door.

  ***

  I got the feeling there was a lot more to Tommaso’s story, some dissonance stirring just beneath the surface of his immaculate exterior. Whatever it was, however, was his problem; I had my own issues to deal with, like my family’s safety and my life being smashed into sad little pieces. Not to mention, I didn’t know where Guy was—but he and I had a huge score to settle—and my life wouldn’t be fixable until I had answers. Maybe he was out hunting Maaskab. Maybe he’d already found a clue about my grandmother.

  I scarfed the delicious, chewy bagel and took the world’s fastest shower; I was still in shock from the nightmare. I threw on a pair of jeans—yes, another stupid thong, too—a tee-shirt, and flip-flops. They hadn’t brought me much in the ways of outfit options, but I was much more concerned about my life than I was fashion. A first.

  I corralled my mass of unruly curls into a knot at the back of my head and then made a heavy knock on the door. A tall man with thin lips and dark brown eyes opened the door. “This way.”

  I followed him down the long hallway, passing several closed doors. I wondered if there were other “guests” staying at the villa.

  We reached a set of Mexican, blue and white tiled stairs that
descended into a great room. It had the same brownish-red Saltillo floors and two soft brown leather sofas, same as in my room. In addition, there was a fireplace large enough to park a car inside and a wall made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an expansive patio with a view of endless, rolling, vine-covered hills. I was half expecting to see a man with a snappy black beret painting outside. It was too gorgeous for words.

  “Is this really Guy’s?” I asked.

  “Yes. He’s had it for a very long time, though rarely stays here. Especially recently, as you’re aware. But the Uchben look after all of his assets and have full use of them. This villa is used for training, off-site meetings and team-building events, you know.”

  “Oh, sure. Uchben. Team-building. Uh-huh. I totally get that.” Just like I got how Guy had this house all along and never told me. And a plane. What else had he hidden? Wait. I know. What species he was or what else he knew about my grandmother.

  I followed the man outside through a set of double doors and down a tiny set of stone steps that led out to a rose garden. The sky was a spotless blue and the morning sunlight felt amazing on my face.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  “For what?” I wasn’t nervous or afraid, but I wasn’t exactly at ease.

  “Tommaso. He’ll be right here.” The man left and went back toward the house. Funny, he wasn’t the least bit concerned I’d run off. He probably guessed I wouldn’t get far.

  I sat down on a cement bench next to a pink rosebush with blooms the size of salad plates. Gorgeous. Then there were the endless hills covered in vines. More gorgeous. The place just screamed relaxation. Did it really belong to Guy? He seemed more like the kind of man who’d enjoy a girl-on-girl mud fight or a relaxing day at the cockfights. Not a vineyard.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled like potpourri—earth, roses, grapevines, and…Polo cologne?

  I heard the low rumble of Tommaso’s voice off in the distance. I stood and tiptoed quietly over the path back toward the house. Just around the corner of the villa was Tommaso with his back to me, talking on his cell. In his other hand he had leads with two horses. I was just about to say, “Uh uh. No way, buddy. No horses for me,” but I realized he was talking about me.

  He nodded. “Yes. She liked my gift—she’s wearing it.” He paused and listened. “He says he’s on his way now.” Another pause. “Yes. I’ll be ready. Everything will be in place.”

  “Yes, sir.” He gave one last nod and flipped the phone shut.

  “In place for what?” I said.

  Startled, Tommaso jumped and dropped the leads. “Jeez. You scared me.” He sighed.

  “Ready for what?” I asked. “Is he coming?”

  His eyes shifted briefly, then he bent to pick up the leads. “Yes. Mr. Santiago’s on his way. My chief just wanted to be sure everything is prepared.”

  Finally. Guy was sooo going to get it when I saw him. First, I was going to jump on his head and tear out that long hair of his. Then I was going to visit his groin with my knee. Again.

  “So what’s this?” I looked at the two horses, one black and the other brown with a white neck.

  “They are horses.”

  I crossed my arms. “Wow. You don’t say?”

  Tommaso’s eyes softened a bit, then he smiled. “They are the best way to see the entire estate.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re being nice to me because I cried and made you hug me this morning? Which, by the way, you were horrible at. Possibly the worst hug I’ve ever had,” I said.

  He gave a small laugh and shook his head. “No.”

  “Then why?” I waited, still crossing my arms. I had no reason to trust these people and this sudden kindness only...well, confused me.

  The man who’d led me outside appeared again, holding up a pair of black, knee-high, leather boots. He handed them to Tommaso and went back to doing whatever the men did around here. Shopping on line for more suits or cleaning their guns?

  “Put them on,” Tommaso instructed.

  “Not until you answer me. I’ve never been on a horse; I was raised in Manhattan. So before I go and risk my neck sitting on top of that animal, I’d like to know why you’re being so nice.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he suddenly looked ashamed.

  “Mr. Santiago called this morning, and I told him how poorly you were doing. He instructed me to make sure you had…” He swallowed. “Fun today. He wants you in a good mood when he gets here.”

  I was being buttered up for Guy’s return? I felt deflated that Tommaso had been told to be kind to me. But why? Tommaso wasn’t my friend. He was just some drop-dead gorgeous, lethal über-assistant. So why the hell would I care if he was kind to me voluntarily or not?

  “Well, tell Guy he can—”

  “Let me guess—kiss your ass? You’ve got quite a mouth, you know that? Were you raised by truck drivers or sailors?”

  “No, by doc—” Suddenly, my heart sank.

  Tommaso’s face turned from a glowing olive to a pallid taupe as he guessed my thoughts. “I’m sorry, Miss Keane. That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have reminded you.” He squeezed my arm.

  I jerked it away and turned back to toward the house. “I’d rather rot in that room, than fraternize with Guy’s little whipping boy. You pathetic fuck.”

  I felt him stalking closely behind. I half hoped he’d say something to retaliate because I needed a good verbal sparring to throw off some tension. Years of living with Guy had made that my instinctual method of release since I wasn’t allowed any others.

  I marched up the stairs and made it to the door of my room before I felt a firm grasp on my shoulder. I reached for the handle, paused, but I didn’t turn it. Somehow, I knew he was very, very angry. Could it be because I called him a “pathetic fuck?”

  The air was charged with resentment, and the voices were buzzing in my head like a giant electromagnetic generator. Did they get louder when my adrenaline was turned up? I pushed the noise to the background and, instead, focused on the angry man behind me.

  Several moments passed while we both teetered, waiting for the other to pull the trigger, to push the other over that razor sharp edge between control and turbulent unchecked emotion.

  Okay. I’ll bite. Maybe literally. “Let go, loser—”

  He spun me around, pressing me to the door with the weight of his solid body, his golden eyes flickered with anger. “I am many things, Miss Keane, but I’m no one’s whipping boy. Best remember that.” He pressed his lips hard to mine, and I froze in shock. His lips felt…amazing. I hadn’t been kissed in—well, I was too busy enjoying the feel of a man’s body pressed to mine to count the years, but it had been a really, really long time, and Tommaso’s touch felt like a tall glass of water for my thirsty body. My core fluttered, my toes curled, and nipples hardened.

  Wait! What’s wrong with me? I’m letting another man bully me? I was a man-handle-magnet, even in my sleep.

  Well, dammit, I was getting pretty effing tired of being groped, kissed, flung, bossed, poked, and smacked. “My turn,” I snarled.

  I backhanded Tommaso clean across the face and punched him squarely in his washboard stomach. He let out a loud groan and doubled over, and when he did, I pushed him back with my foot. He fell over just as I slammed the door shut.

  Damn that felt good. But how had I done it? In any case, it felt earthshattering! I threw my body against the door and pushed, bracing for him to burst into the room and finish the fight. I almost wanted him to because I was beginning to feel like I could actually kick his ass despite his extra hundred pounds of muscle and eleven inches of height. Okay, maybe I was feeling overly confident because of the adrenaline, but for the love of all things big and small, there’s only so much one girl can take.

  But I waited, and waited, until I heard the bolt slide on the opposite side of door. I guess he didn’t want a second helping of Emma.

  Chapter TWENTY

 
Later that afternoon, after coming off my girl-power high, my mind began flooding with thoughts about my little predicament. They weren’t good. They were filled with self-pity and worry. The thoughts of a weak person. Pathetic. I needed a distraction, not to wallow. And since there was no television or computer, exploring the bookshelves was the only way to kill time.

  Carefully standing on a small wooden step stool, I picked through each shelf. The place felt more like a hotel—well furnished, but impersonal—so it never occurred to me that these objects might be Guy’s possessions.

  There was the autobiography of Julius Caesar—someone had comically autographed the front page—the Mayan Popul Vuh; the complete works of Kurt Vonnegut, all the Russian classics—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Pushkin—in Russian; and the history of the world in four volumes—hand written. Strange. Very strange.

  Then there were the cookbooks. Shelf after shelf, all dedicated exclusively to desserts.

  My kind of books.

  I plucked out the thickest one, a gray cloth-bound book over a hundred years old, and thumbed the pages.

  Simply put, I didn’t know what to make of it. Dozens of recipes had large, greasy fingerprints and notations in the margins: add extra 1/8 cup butter, too crunchy; replace currants with raisins; bake for additional 5 minutes at three eighty. But only the cookie recipes had them.

  How odd. Were these Guy’s notes? I tried to visualize him with his massive height, shoulders the width of a side-by-side refrigerator, smooth, deep golden skin, ripped muscles—which cascaded down his chest into what had to be the only ten-pack abs I’d ever seen—shiny thick waves of long jet-black hair, his exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, angular jaw, fierce turquoise eyes, full, strong lips, and warrior-hands the size of Frisbees. Oh, not to mention his extremely firm ass, and sinfully large penis that promised to take a girl places only found in the steamiest corners of her sex-starved mind.

  Ay-yai-yai. I fanned myself with my hand and imagined all-that-man, wearing nothing but a tiny, white apron, baking chocolate chip cookies. I mentally slapped myself. “Jeez, Emma. You’ve really lost it. Why don’t you just cue the cheesy disco music while you’re at it?”