Twisted Lies

Chapter 2

Christian had already lowered the monthly rent for us when we first toured the apartment and mentioned the regular price was out of our budget, so I’d been shocked when he’d proposed our current arrangement after I brought up the possibility of moving out.

It was a little suspicious, but he was friends with my other friend, Bridget’s husband which made accepting his offer easier. I’d been taking care of his plants for five weeks and nothing terrible had happened. I never even saw him when I went upstairs. I just let myself in, watered the plants, and left.

“How did you know I could do it?” He could’ve proposed any number of tasks—run his errands, do his laundry, clean his house (though he already had a full-time housekeeper). The plant thing was oddly specific.

“I didn’t.” Disinterest and a thread of something imperceptible twined through his voice. “It was a lucky coincidence.”

“You don’t seem like someone who believes in coincidence.”

Christian’s lack of sentimentality bled through in everything he did and wore—the sharp lines of his suit, the calm precision of his words, the cool detachment of his gaze.

They were the traits of someone who worshipped logic, power, and cold, hard pragmatism. Not something as nebulous as coincidence.

For some reason, Christian found that funny. “I believe in it more than you think.”

Intrigue kindled at his self-deprecating tone.

Despite having access to his apartment, I knew maddeningly little about him. His penthouse was a study in flawless design and luxury, but it contained little to no personal effects.

“Care to share?” I tried.

Christian pulled into the Mirage’s private garage and parked in his reserved spot near the back entrance.

No answer.

Then again, I hadn’t expected one.

Christian Harper was a man cloaked in rumors and shadows. Even Bridget didn’t know much about him, only his reputation.

We didn’t speak again as we passed through the entrance and into the lobby.

At six foot three, Christian had a good five inches on me, but I was still tall enough to match his long strides.

Our steps fell into perfect sync against the marble floors.

I’d always been a bit self-conscious about my height, but Christian’s powerful presence wrapped around like me a security blanket, drawing attention away from my Amazonian frame.

“No more walking in a blizzard, Ms. Alonso.” We stopped by the bank of elevators and faced each other. His shadow of a smile returned, all lazy charm and confidence. “I can’t have one of my tenants dying of hypothermia. It would be bad for business.”

Another unexpected laugh rustled my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to replace me in no time.”

I wasn’t sure whether I owed my slight breathlessness to the cold lingering in my lungs or the full impact of standing so close to him.

I wasn’t interested in Christian romantically. I wasn’t interested in anyone romantically; between the magazine and my blog, I didn’t have time to even think about dating.

But that didn’t mean I was immune to his presence.

Something flared bright in those whiskey eyes before it cooled. “Likely not.”

The mild breathlessness transformed into something heavier that strangled my voice.

Every sentence out of his mouth was a code I couldn’t c***k, imbued with a hidden meaning only he was privy to while I was left to scramble in the dark.

I’d talked to Christian three times in my life: once when I signed my lease, once in passing at Bridget’s wedding, and once when we discussed my sans-Jules rent situation.

All three times, I’d left more unsettled than before.

What were we talking about again?

It’d been less than a minute since Christian’s response, but that minute had stretched so slow it might as well have been an eternity.

“Christian.”

A deep, slightly accented voice slashed the thread holding our suspended moment aloft.

Time snapped back to its usual cadence, and my breath expelled in one sharp rush before I turned my head.

Tall. Dark hair. Olive skin.

The newcomer wasn’t as classically good-looking as Christian, but he filled out the lines of his Delamonte suit with so much raw masculinity it was difficult to look away.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Delamonte Suit flicked a glance in my direction.

I’d never been super attracted to older men, and he had to be in his mid to late thirties, but wow.

“Not at all. You’re right on time.” A hint of irritation hardened Christian’s otherwise smooth reply. He stepped in front of me, blocking me from Delamonte Suit’s view and vice versa.

The other man raised an eyebrow before his mask of indifference fell away to reveal a smirk.

He stepped around Christian, so deliberately it was almost like he was taunting him, and held out his hand. “Dante Russo.”

“Stella Alonso.”

I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead.

Coming from anyone else, it would’ve been cheesy, but a tingle of pleasure erupted instead.

Maybe it was the accent. I had a weakness for all things Italian.

“Dante.” Beneath the calm surface of Christian’s voice lay a razored edge that was sharp enough to cut through bone. “We’re late for our meeting.”

Dante appeared unfazed. His hand lingered on mine for an extra second before he released it.

“It was lovely to meet you, Stella. I’m sure I’ll see you around again.” His rich drawl contained a hint of laughter.

I suspected his amusement was directed not at me but toward the man watching us with ice in his eyes.

“Thank you. It was nice meeting you too.” I almost smiled at Dante, but something told me that wouldn’t be a smart move right now. “Have a good night.”

I glanced at Christian. “Good night, Mr. Harper. Thank you for the ride.”

I injected a playful lilt into my voice, hoping the callback to our absurd formality earlier would c***k his granite expression.

But it didn’t so much as flicker as he inclined his head. “Good night, Ms. Alonso.”

Okay, then.

I left Christian and Dante in the lobby, the subjects of more than a few admiring stares from passersby, and took the elevator up to my apartment.

I didn’t know what had caused Christian’s sudden mood shift, but I had enough worries of my own without adding his to the mix.

I rifled through the bag, trying to locate my keys among the jumble of makeup, receipts, and hair ties.

I really needed a better way of organizing my bag.

After several minutes of searching, my hand closed around the metal key.

I’d just inserted it into the lock when a familiar chill swept over my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

My head jerked up.

There was no other sign of life in the hall, but the quiet hum of the heating system suddenly took on an ominous tone.

Memories of typed notes and candid photos turned my breaths shallow before I blinked them away.

Stop being paranoid.

I wasn’t living in an old, unsecured house near campus anymore. I was at the Mirage, one of the most well-guarded residential buildings in D.C., and I hadn’t heard from him in two years.

The chances of him showing up here, of all places, were slim to none.

Nevertheless, urgency broke the spell freezing my limbs in place. I quickly unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. The lights blazed on as I slid the deadbolt in place.

It was only after I checked every room in my apartment and confirmed there was no intruder lurking in my closet or underneath my bed that I was able to relax.

Everything was fine. He wasn’t back, and I was safe.

But despite my self-reassurance, a small part of me couldn’t shake the sense that my gut had been right and that someone had been watching me in the hall.