know what?” she said suddenly. “I love ice in my orange juice, so I’m going to run down the hall and see if there’s an ice machine on this floor.”
And then, Marcus thought, she would duck into a stairwell to check in with the man who was trying to control her life.
“Call room service to bring some up,” he told her, still looking at the paper.
“I don’t want to trouble them with something like that. They must be busy getting everyone’s breakfast to them.”
Now Marcus put down the paper. “Then I’ll get some ice for you.”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly and a little too adamantly. She seemed to realize she’d overreacted, because she forced a smile and said, “I’m, ah, I’m starting to feel a bit of cabin fever. A little walk down the hall will be nice.”
“In your robe and bare feet?” he asked, dipping his head toward her attire—or lack thereof.
“No one will see,” she said as she began to sidestep toward the door. “Everyone else is probably sleeping in.”
“Not if they’re keeping room service hopping and using up all the hot water the way you say.” “You know what I mean.” “We’re not sleeping in,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but we—” She stopped abruptly, obviously not wanting to bring up the reason they’d woken early. Or maybe it was just that she wasn’t any more certain about what the two of them were doing than Marcus was. “I mean … even if someone does see me,” she said, trying a different tack, “what difference does it make? It’s a hotel. It’s Sunday morning. There must be plenty of people still in their robes and bare feet.”
Not when there was a blizzard raging outside, Marcus wanted to say. The only reason he and Della weren’t dressed was because they didn’t have anything to change into. But he didn’t point out any of those things. If he kept trying to prevent her from leaving the room, she would come up with more reasons why she needed to get out. And if he pressed her, she was only going to get suspicious of him.
“Fine,” he said, looking at the paper again … and seeing nothing but red. “Don’t forget to take the key.”
“Of course,” she said as she collected that from the dresser, too. “I won’t be but a minute.”
If she was able to make that promise, Marcus thought, then her conversations with Geoffrey must not involve much. Just enough for the guy to make sure she did what she was told.
He waited only until the door clicked shut behind her, then hurried over to silently open it, enough that he could see her making her way down the hall. She’d already withdrawn the phone from her pocket and was dialing one-handed, meaning she’d still be in sight when her conversation began, so Marcus was bound to miss some of it. Impatiently, he waited until she rounded a corner at the end of the hall, then he slipped the metal rod of the chain lock between it and the jamb and stole after her at twice her pace.
When he peered around the corner, he saw her duck through another door that led to the stairwell and heard her speaking into the phone. But she was speaking softly enough that he couldn’t distinguish a word. So he raced after her and halted by the door through which she’d exited and cocked his head close. Unfortunately, he could still only hear incomprehensible murmuring. So, as quietly as he could, he turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack, to see that she had seated herself on the top step with her back to him. So he opened it a little bit more.
“Really, Geoffrey, I’m fine,” he heard her say. “There’s no reason for you to come over. You’d get stuck in the snow if you tried.”
He tried to discern something in her voice that sounded fearful or cowering, but, really, she did sound fine.
“I mean, yeah, the snow is kind of a drag,” she continued, “but it’s not like you ever let me go anywhere anyway.”
So she wasn’t supposed to be out and about, Marcus thought. His suspicions were confirmed.
“I had groceries delivered this week,” she said, “and I downloaded a couple of books. Thanks for the Kindle and the Netflix subscription, by the way. It’s helped a lot.”
It was the least the son of a bitch could do, since he wouldn’t let her go anywhere.
“What?” he heard Della ask. Then she laughed lightly. “No, nothing like that. That’s the last thing I need. Mostly romantic comedies. I need something light and escapist, all things considered.”
She paused, though whether it was because Geoffrey was talking or because she was looking for something else to say, Marcus didn’t know. Finally, though, she began to speak again. “Okay, if you must know, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Love, Actually and Pride and Prejudice.” There was another pause, then she laughed again. “Yes. I love Colin Firth. So does your wife, if you’ll recall.”
It really wasn’t the kind of conversation Marcus had expected to hear her having with a married man who was keeping her a virtual prisoner. But neither did it quite dispel his suspicions that Della was being controlled. What really bothered him, though, was that there was something different in her voice when she spoke to Geoffrey that wasn’t there when she was talking to him. A casualness and easiness, a lack of formality, that she hadn’t exhibited with Marcus. As if she were actually more comfortable with the other man than she was with him. As if she and Geoffrey shared a relationship that was based less on control and more on trust.
Just what the hell was this guy to her? Then Marcus heard her say something that chilled him.
“Look, Geoffrey, how much longer am I going to have to live this way? You told me I’d only have to do this for six months. That was eleven months ago. You promised me that if I did everything you guys told me to—”
Guys? So Geoffrey wasn’t the only one? She was being passed around among a group? Had he really heard that right?
“—that then I’d be free,” she continued. “But I’m still—”
The other man must have cut her off before she could finish, because Della stopped talking and listened obediently without saying a word for several minutes.
He saw her lift a hand to her head and push back her hair with a jerky motion that suggested she was anxious. She murmured a few uh-huhs, then slumped forward with her free hand braced on her knee and her forehead pressed to her palm.
Finally, with clear dejection—and maybe a little fear?—she replied, “Two weeks? That’s all the time I have left?”
Until what? Marcus wanted to yell. What the hell was she talking about? What the hell did the man expect her to do that made her sound so unwilling to do it?
“Then it’s really going to happen,” she said with clear resignation, sounding more reserved than ever. “I’m really going to have to do it.”
Do what, for God’s sake?
“No, I understand,” she said. “I’ll go through with it. I mean, it’s not like I have much choice, do I?” There was another pause, then she continued, “I know I promised. And I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. I just … I didn’t think it would be like this, Geoffrey. I didn’t think I’d feel like this about everything.” More softly, she added, “I didn’t think I’d feel like this about myself.” Then, because Geoffrey must not have heard that last, she said with unmistakable melancholy. “It was nothing important. Never mind.”
Nothing important. Marcus felt a little sick to his stomach. The way she felt about herself wasn’t important. This guy had her so wound around his finger that Della didn’t even realize how unbalanced and unhealthy the relationship was.
Relationship, hell. What she had with this guy was a bargain. She’d said so herself. And it was obviously a bad one. A least on her end.
“So two weeks then,” she said again.