Читать книгу One Night With The Prince: A Royal Without Rules - Шантель Шоу, Fiona McArthur - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

THE CHARITY BALL in London was, of course, as tedious as every other charity ball Pato had ever attended. He smiled. He posed for obligatory photographs with Lenz and the chilly Lissette, as well as with any number of other people whose names he forgot almost before he heard them. He then contemplated impaling himself on the dramatic ice sculpture near the lavish buffet to see if that might enliven the evening in some small way.

“Restrain yourself,” Adriana replied, in that stuffy voice that he found amused him far more than it should, when he announced his intentions. Pato angled a look at her.

She stood beside him as she had all evening, never more than three steps away, as if she’d put him on an invisible leash and was holding it tight. Her lovely face was smoothed to polite placidity, she knew exactly how to blend into the background whenever someone came to speak to him, and she held her mobile phone tight in one hand as if she planned to use it to subdue him if he made a break for it. She’d been nothing but irritatingly serene and unflappably professional since she’d returned to the palace with her packed bag this morning. And all this time, across the span of Europe and the whole of London, she’d managed to avoid looking at him directly.

Pato found her fascinating.

“Restraint?” he asked, noting the way her shoulders tensed beneath the cap sleeves of the elegant black sheath she wore when he spoke. Every time he spoke. It made him want to press his mouth to her collarbone, to lick his way up the curve of her neck to the subdued sparkle of small diamonds at her ears. “I’m unfamiliar with the concept.”

She smiled slightly, but kept her attention trained on the dance floor in front of them. “Truer words have never been spoken, Your Royal Highness.”

He laughed. He liked it when she slapped at him, when her voice was something more than cool, smooth, bland. He liked when he could sense her temper, her frustration. He found that the more he told her how bored he was, the less bored he actually felt.

Pato knew he was on dangerous ground. He didn’t care. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.

A curvy brunette in a slinky dress slithered up to him then, her heavily kohled eyes sweeping over Adriana dismissively before she leaned in close and ran her hands over Pato’s chest.

“Your Royal Highness,” she purred, her lips painted a sultry red that matched the fingernails she ran along the length of his tie. “We meet again. I knew we would.”

Pato smiled indulgently. He had no idea who she was. “And you were right.”

Beside him, he felt Adriana bristle, and he enjoyed that immensely, so he picked up the brunette’s hand and kissed it, making her lean even more heavily against him.

“Dance with me,” she commanded him in a sultry voice.

Pato didn’t feel like dancing and he wasn’t particularly fond of commands, but he could feel Adriana’s disapproval like a cold wind at his back, and so he smiled wider.

“I’m afraid I’m here with my own version of an electronic ankle bracelet,” he said blithely, turning slightly. He indicated Adriana with a nod of his head, and was pleased to notice she flushed. At the attention? Or was that the sweet kick of her temper? And why did he want so badly to know? “It’s like a walking house arrest.”

The brunette blinked, looking from him to Adriana and then back.

“What did you do?” she asked, wide-eyed, no doubt plotting her call to the tabloids as she spoke.

“Haven’t you heard?” Pato asked, his eyes on Adriana and the way her hand tensed around her mobile as she glared out at the crowd. “I’ve been very, very naughty. Again.”

The brunette made some reply, but Pato watched Adriana, who dragged her gaze to his then as if it hurt her to do it. Even better, her meltingly brown eyes shot fire at him.

“There you are,” he said quietly, with a satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide. He smiled when her eyes narrowed. He tried to make his voice sound like a supplicant’s, but what came out was more like lazy challenge. “Am I allowed to dance, Adriana? Is that permitted?”

“Stay where I can see you,” she ordered him, all smooth command, as if she really did have him under her control. His smile deepened when she turned a cool gaze on the brunette. “Please don’t force me to invoke Kitzinian law, ma’am. No leaving the ballroom. No public displays. Keep it clean and polite. Do you understand?”

The woman nodded, looking slightly dazed, and Pato laughed.

“My very own prison warden,” he said, as if he approved. “I am duly chastened.”

He pulled the brunette into his arms as he took to the floor, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Adriana, who stood where he’d left her, looking calm and unruffled. Serene. She even gazed at him across the swell of bodies, a kind of victory in her dark eyes. He felt it like a direct challenge.

When the interminable dance was finished, he murmured the appropriate things to the brunette, forgot her and then prowled back over to the assistant he’d never wanted in the first place. This time, she looked at him as he approached. More than that, she met his eyes boldly. He didn’t know why that should affect him far more than the way the lush brunette had leaned against him throughout the dance, trying to entice him with her curves.

“You don’t know who that woman is, do you?” Adriana asked when he reached her side, her tone mild. Polite. Pato knew better than to believe it.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“But you slept with her.” Something like panic flared in her dark gaze, intriguing him even as she blinked it away. The tips of her ears were red, he noticed, up there near her swept-back blond hair, and her eyes were too bright. “Didn’t you?”

“Probably.” He arched a brow at her. “Are you asking that in an official capacity, Adriana? Or are you jealous?”

“I’m merely curious,” she said with a sniff, sounding as if she was discussing something as dry and uninteresting as his daily schedule. “I imagine, at this point, you can’t walk across a single room in Europe without tripping over legions of former conquests.”

“Well,” he said. “I rarely trip.”

“It must be difficult, at this point, to find someone you haven’t already been intimate with.” She smiled at him, that killer smile he’d seen before, sweet and deadly, which was supposed to be a weapon and instead delighted him. “Then again, it’s not as if you can remember, anyway, can you?”

Pato stood there for a moment, that same jagged restlessness beating at him, making him want things he’d given up a long time ago. Making him hard and wild, and shoving him much too close to a line he couldn’t allow himself to cross.

And still she smiled at him like that, as if she could handle this kind of battle, when he knew she was completely unaware of how much danger she was in.

“Ah,” he said in the low voice he could see made her shiver, and then he smiled as if she was prey and he was already on her. In her. “I see.” And he was closer than he should have been. He was much too close and he didn’t care at all, because her eyes widened and were that intoxicating shade of the finest Swiss chocolate. “You’re under the impression that you can shame me.”

They stared at each other, while laughter and conversation and the music kicked around them. Her lovely face flushed red. He saw the flash of that same panic he’d seen before, as if she wasn’t at all as controlled as she pretended, but she didn’t look away. Brave, he thought. Or foolish.

Pato lost himself in her dark gaze then, electric and alive and focused on him as if nothing else existed. As if he was already buried deep inside her, and she was waiting for him to move.

That image didn’t help matters at all. He blew out a breath.

“Come,” he said shortly, annoyed with himself. He turned on his heel and started across the great ballroom, knowing she had no choice but to follow, to keep him on that absurd leash of hers. And she did.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she fell into step with him. He didn’t think that hint of breathlessness in her voice was from walking, and it carved out something like a smile inside him.

“It’s like we’re chained together, Adriana.” He couldn’t seem to find his footing, and that was a catastrophe waiting to happen. And still, he didn’t care about that the way he knew he should. “Think of the possibilities.”

“No, thank you,” she replied, predictably, and he indulged himself and wrapped his hand around her upper arm, feigning solicitousness as he moved her through the door that led out toward the gardens. She jumped when he touched her, electric shock and that darker kick beneath it. He knew because he felt it, too. Her skin was softer than satin, warm and smooth beneath his palm, she smelled faintly of jasmine, and he shouldn’t have done it. Because now he knew.

Her eyes flew to his, and it punched through him hard, making him want to push her back against the nearest wall, lift her against him, lose himself completely in the burn of it. In her.

“Are you sure?” he asked, as they moved from the bright light of the ballroom into the soft, cool dark outside. He led her across the wide patio, skirting the small clumps of people who stood clustered around the bar tables that dotted it here and there. “Five minutes ago my sexual escapades were foremost on your mind. Don’t tell me you’ve lost interest so quickly.”

He looked down at her, and made no effort to contain the heat in him. The fire. He felt a tremor run through her, and God help him, he wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in years.

“I didn’t realize you were so sensitive about your scandalous past, Your Royal Highness,” she said, in a rendition of her usual cool he might have believed, had he not been looking into the wild heat in her gaze. “I’ll take care not to mention it again.”

“Somehow,” he murmured, his grip on her arm tightening just enough to make her suck in a breath, just enough to torture himself, “I very much doubt that.”

At some point, he was going to have to figure out why this woman got to him like this. But not tonight. Not now.

She pulled her arm from his grip as he steered her between two tables, as if concerned they couldn’t make it through the narrow channel side by side. But she rubbed at the place he’d touched her as if he’d left behind a mark, and Pato smiled.

In the deepest, farthest shadows of the patio, he found an empty table, the candle in the center, which should have been glowing, unlit. But he didn’t need candlelight to see her as she deliberately put the table between them, keeping as far out of his reach as she could. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he studied the flush on her cheeks, the hectic sparkle in her gaze.

And then he waited, leaning his elbows on the table and watching her. Her pretty eyes widened. She shifted from one foot to the other. He made her nervous, and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t like it.

“I wasn’t trying to shame you,” she said after long moments passed, just the two of them in a far, dark corner, all the nerves he could see on her face rich in her voice. And there was something else, he thought as he studied her. Something he couldn’t quite identify.

“Of course you were.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did.”

She looked stricken for a moment, then dropped her gaze to the tabletop, and he watched as she crossed her arms as if she thought she needed to hold herself together. Or protect herself.

“What are you ashamed of, Adriana?” he asked softly.

She flinched as if he’d slapped her, telling him a great deal more than he imagined she meant to do, but her expression was clear when she lifted her head. That mask again. She let out a breath and then she opened her mouth—

“Don’t lie to me,” he heard himself say, and worse, he could feel how important it was to him that she heed him. How absurdly, dangerously important. “Don’t clean it up. Just tell me.”

“I’m a Righetti, Your Royal Highness,” she said after a moment, her dark eyes glittering in the shadows. “Shame runs like blood in our veins. It’s who we are.”

Pato didn’t know how long they stood like that, held in that taut, near-painful moment. He didn’t know how long he gazed at her, at the proud tilt of her chin and the faintest tremor in her lips, with that darkness in her eyes. He didn’t know how she’d punched into him so completely that her hand might as well have ripped through his chest. That was what it felt like, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want this. He couldn’t.

“Adriana,” he said finally, but his voice was no more than a rasp. And then he saw figures approaching from the corner of his eye, and he stopped, almost grateful for the intrusion into a moment that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

She dropped her gaze again, and hunched her shoulders slightly as she stood there, as if warding off whoever had come to stand at the table a small distance behind her. Pato didn’t spare them a glance. He didn’t look away from Adriana for even a moment, and the fact that was more dangerous than anything that had come before didn’t escape him.

He wanted to touch her. He wanted to pull her against him, hold her, soothe her somehow, and he felt hollow inside because of it. Hollow and twisted, and stuck where he’d put himself, on the other side of an incidental table and an impossible divide, useless and corrupt and dismissable.

A fine bed he’d made, indeed.

And then she stiffened again, as if she’d been struck, and Pato frowned as he recognized the voices coming from behind her.

“Was that wise, do you think?” The cold, precise tones of Princess Lissette, her faint accent making the words seem even icier. She sounded as blonde and Nordic as she looked, Pato thought uncharitably. And as frigid.

“I’m not sure what wisdom has to do with it.”

There was no mistaking his brother’s voice, and the ruthlessly careful way he spoke while in public. The dutiful Crown Prince Lenz and his arranged-since-the-cradle bride stood at the next table, a candle bright between them, the warm glow doing nothing to ease their stiff, wary postures.

There were worse beds to lie in than his, Pato knew, eyeing his brother. Poor bastard.

“One must strive to be compassionate, of course,” Lissette continued in the same measured way. “But even I know of her family’s notoriety. Do you worry that it reflects badly on your judgment, your discernment, that you selected her to be your assistant when she is widely regarded as something of a pariah?”

Pato went still. Adriana seemed turned to stone, a statue, her eyes lowered as she bent slightly forward over her crossed arms.

“Look at me,” he ordered her in an undertone, but she ignored him.

Behind her, an uncomfortable silence swelled. Pato saw his brother begin to frown, then remember himself and fight it back. His ice princess fiancée only gazed back at him calmly. Pato wanted to order them to stop talking, to point out that Adriana was right here—but he didn’t trust that the princess would stop. Or that she wasn’t already aware that Adriana stood at the next table. And he didn’t want Adriana to be any more of a target. A dim alarm sounded in him then, questioning that unusual protective urge, but he shoved it aside.

“This will all go much smoother, I think,” Lenz said finally, an edge to his voice, “if you do not speak of things you don’t understand, Princess.”

“I believe I understand perfectly,” she replied with cool hauteur. “You took a traitor’s daughter as your mistress and flaunted her in the face of Kitzinian society, for years. What is there to misunderstand?”

“Adriana Righetti was never my mistress,” Lenz snapped, his tone scathing. Even derisive. “Credit me with slightly more intelligence than that, Lissette.”

There were other voices then, calling out for the happy royal couple from some distance across the patio, and Pato watched in a quiet fury as his brother pasted on his usual public smile, offered his arm to his fiancée—who smiled back in the same way as she took it—before they glided away. He had the wholly uncharacteristic urge to smack their heads together.

Then he glanced back at Adriana, who still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Look at me,” he said again, with an odd urgency he didn’t understand.

She lifted her head then and the pain on her face stunned him into silence. He could see it in her dark eyes, slicked not with embarrassment but with a kind of grief.

For a moment he was lost. This wasn’t the tough, impervious Adriana he’d grown accustomed to over the past days—unflappable, he’d assumed, thanks to growing up a beautiful Righetti girl in the sharp teeth of Kitzinian society. But then, suddenly, he understood.

And didn’t care at all for how it made him feel.

“My God,” he said flatly. “You’re in love with him.”

* * *

Adriana woke up in a rush and had no idea where she was.

She was on her stomach on an unfamiliar bed in a sunlit room she’d never seen before. She blinked, frowned, and realized as she did both that her head ached and that she’d neglected to remove her eye makeup the night before. What—

There was a slight movement behind her, a small shift against the mattress.

She was not alone in the bed.

Adriana froze. Then, very slowly, her heart pounding, she turned to look, somehow knowing what she would see even as she prayed she was mistaken.

Please not him. Please not him. Please—

Prince Pato lay sprawled out on his back, the sheets kicked off, naked save for a pair of tight navy blue briefs that clung to his narrow hips. The light from the skylights bathed him in shades of gold, and she couldn’t quite take in that perfect, hard-packed flesh of his, so close beside her she could almost feel the heat he generated, and could see the rough shadow of his beard on his jaw. She couldn’t make sense of all his fine masculine beauty, much less the picture of sheer abandon he made, sun-kissed and golden and stretched out so carelessly against the crisp white sheets.

She was in bed with Pato.

Her mouth was too dry; her eyes felt scraped and hollow. She felt fragile and broken, and had no idea how to pull herself together enough to handle this. Adriana was afraid she might be sick.

In a panic, she whipped her head around, yanked back the sheet and looked down at herself, not sure whether to be horrified or relieved to discover that while she wasn’t naked, she wore only the matching cranberry hip-slung panties and bra she’d had on beneath her gown at the charity ball.

The ball. Adriana fought to keep breathing as images from the night before began to flood her head. Those strange, intense moments with Pato. His hand on her arm. The way he’d looked at her, as if he could see straight into her. Then Lenz’s voice, so disgusted, so appalled.

She couldn’t think about Lenz. She couldn’t.

Had she really done this? Had she decided to become what she’d always been so proud she wasn’t? With the one person in all the world best suited to debauch her—or anyone, come to that—completely? He did it by rote, no doubt. He could do it in his sleep. No wonder she couldn’t recall it.

Adriana turned to look at him again, as if she might see her own actions tattooed on his smooth skin, and she jolted in shock.

Pato was awake. And watching her.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She pulled the sheets up to her neck, fought the urge to burst into tears, and stared at him in horror.

Pato’s golden eyes were sleepy, his hair a thick, careless mess, and still he fairly oozed the same sensual menace he had the night before, when he’d been dressed so elegantly. He studied her for a long moment, and the great, wide bed felt like a tiny little cot, suddenly. Like a trap. Adriana’s pulse beat at her, and she forgot about her headache.

“I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I made to your modesty,” Pato said in that drawling way of his, as if he was too lazy to bother enunciating properly. He waved at the form-fitting briefs he wore. At that flat abdomen of his, the crisp dark hair that disappeared beneath the fabric. She jerked her eyes away, and his mouth curved. “I think you know very well I prefer to sleep naked.”

Adriana felt dizzy, and part of her welcomed it. Encouraged it. It would be such a relief to simply faint dead away. To escape whatever morning-after this was. She lifted a hand to her head, only belatedly realizing that her hair had tumbled down from its chignon, and was hanging around her face in a wild mess that rivaled Pato’s.

Somehow, that made it worse. It made her feel like the wanton slut she must have become last night. Was it possible to share a bed with Prince Pato and not be a wanton slut? Her chest felt tight.

He watched her as she pushed the mass of blond waves behind her shoulders, his golden gaze like a flame as it touched her. More images from the previous night flashed through her head then, as if the heat of his gaze triggered her memory, and she frowned at him.

“You got me drunk,” she accused him.

Blaming him felt good. Clean. Far better to concentrate on that and not the images flickering in her head. Some dark-paneled pub, or possibly the kind of rich man’s club a prince might frequent, thick with reds and woods and the shots of strong spirits Pato slid in front of her, one after the next, his golden gaze never leaving her face. His elegant hands brushing hers. That wicked mouth of his much too close.

“You got you drunk,” he corrected, shifting over to his side and propping his head up on one hand as he continued to regard her with that lazy intent that made her belly fold in on itself. “Who was I to stand in your way?”

A dark street, laughter. Her laughter, and the wicked current of his voice beneath it. Her arm around Pato’s waist and his lean, hard arm around her shoulders. Then being held high against his chest as he moved through some kind of lobby...

This was awful, Adriana thought then, her chest aching with the sobs, the screams, she refused to let out. This was beyond awful.

“My God.” She said it again, despite the decided lack of any divine intervention this morning. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the blow. Preparing herself, because she had to know. “Did you—? Did we—?”

There was nothing but silence. Adriana dared to open her eyes again, to find that Pato was staring at her in outrage.

She shuddered. “Does that mean we did?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“First of all,” he said, in that low voice of his that curled around her like a caress, and she couldn’t seem to shake it off, “I am not in the habit of taking advantage of drunk women who pretend to detest me when they are sober, no matter how much they beg.”

His gaze was hard on hers, and Adriana felt caught in the heat, the command, that surely a wastrel like Pato shouldn’t have at his disposal. Eventually, his mouth moved into a small, sexy grin that shouldn’t have tugged at her like that, all fire and need in the core of her, then a shiver everywhere else. She couldn’t seem to think, to move. To breathe. She could only stare back at him, her heart going wild, as if he was holding her captive in the palm of his hand.

“And second,” he said silkily, “if we had, you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.”

“Oh,” Adriana said faintly, not sure she was breathing. “Well. If you’re sure...?”

Pato shook his head. “I’m sure.”

She believed him. He was only looking at her now, all that gleaming attention of his focused on her. He wasn’t even touching her, and she felt branded. Scalded. Changed. She had a perfect memory of his hand on her arm, the heat of it, the punch of it, the way everything inside her had wound deliciously tight. She believed him, and yet there was something inside her that almost wished—

Stop, she snapped at herself, off balance and scared and much too close to falling apart.

Adriana realized belatedly that far too much time had passed and she’d done nothing but stare at him, while he watched her and no doubt read every last thought that crossed her mind. He was lethal; she understood that now, in a way she hadn’t before. He was lethal and she was in bed with him and somehow by the grace of God she hadn’t succumbed to his darker nature or, worse, hers...

Adriana frowned. “Did you say I begged?”

Pato smiled.

“For what?” she asked in an appalled whisper. “Exactly?”

He smiled wider.

“This can’t be happening.” She was barely audible, even to her own ears, but she felt each word like a stone slamming through her. “Did I—” But even as she asked, she shut herself off. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“You begged very prettily,” he told her then, that wild gleam in his eyes, which made her feel much too hot, too constricted, as if she might burst wide-open. “If it helps.”

It helped confirm that she hated herself, Adriana thought, that old black wave of self-loathing rising in her and then drenching her, drowning her, in all the ways she’d let herself down. Blood really will tell, she thought bitterly. You’ve been fooling yourself all these years, but in the end, you’re no better than any of them. Righetti whores.

She managed to take a breath, then another one.

And then, through her confusion, one thing became perfectly clear: it was time to accept who she was, once and for all. And that meant it was time to change her life.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she said stiffly, not looking at him. “I’m sorry that I let myself get so out of control and that you had to deal with me. How incredibly unprofessional.”

She scrambled to crawl out of the bed, away from him. This had to end. What was she was doing here, disgracing herself with a prince, when she could be living without the weight of all of this in some happy foreign land like her brothers? She’d been so desperate to prove herself—and now she’d proved only that she was exactly who everyone thought she was.

Enough, she thought grimly.

And there was what Lenz had said, the way he’d said it, but she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to let it hurt her the way she suspected it would when she did.

It seemed to take an hour to reach the edge of the bed, and as she went to swing her feet to the ground, Pato simply reached out and hauled her back by the arm until she was on her side and facing him. No sheet this time to hide behind. Just far too much of her nearly naked body far too near his. Panic screamed through her, making her skin burst into flames.

“You can’t just...manhandle people!” she exclaimed heatedly.

Pato shrugged, and the total lack of concern in the gesture reminded her forcefully that, black sheep or not, he was a royal prince. Pampered and indulged. Used to getting whatever he wanted. He wasn’t required to concern himself with other people’s feelings, particularly hers.

That should have disgusted her. It alarmed her that it didn’t.

“I think we’re a bit past worrying about professionalism,” he said, his voice mild, though his eyes were intent on hers, and his mouth looked dangerous in a new way with his jaw unshaved and his thick hair so unruly.

And all of him so close.

“I need to leave,” she replied evenly. “The palace, the royal family—I should have done it a long time ago.” She started to pull away from him, but he only shifted position and smoothed his hand down to the indentation of her waist. He rested it there, almost idly, and she froze as if he was pressing her to the bed with brute force.

It would have been easier if he had been, she recognized on some level. It would have been unambiguous. But instead he was only touching her, barely touching her, and she couldn’t seem to form the words to demand he let her go. She only trembled. Inside and out.

And he knew. His eyes gleamed, and he knew.

“At least let me get back under the sheet,” she said desperately.

“Why?” He shrugged again, so lazy. So at ease. “You’re showing less skin than you would if you were wearing a bikini.”

“You’ve never seen me in a bikini,” she managed to say. “It would be inappropriate.”

His fingers traced the faintest pattern along the curve of her body, and she could no more help the shiver of goose bumps that rose on her skin than she could turn back time and avoid this scenario in the first place. He looked at the telltale prickle of flesh, his hand tightened at her waist and she let out a tiny, involuntary sound that made his golden gaze darken and focus on her, hot and hungry.

But when he spoke again, his voice was light.

“I hate to be indelicate, Adriana, but I’ve already seen all of this. You’re about eight hours too late for modesty.”

“It’s time for me to leave,” she said, desperate and determined in equal measure. “You never wanted an assistant in the first place, and I think it’s high time I rethink my career prospects.”

Pato only raised a dark brow.

“I have no business being at the palace,” she said urgently. “The princess was right. If I’d had any idea that working for your brother would harm his reputation, I never would have taken the job in the first place. I would never want people to think less of him because of me. I would never want to compromise his reputation, or—”

“You can’t possibly be this naive.”

Something Adriana had never seen before moved over Pato’s face. His hand tightened briefly, and then he released her and sat up in a smooth roll.

He shoved his hair back and pinned her with a glare when she scrambled away from him and to her knees on the far side of the bed, pulling the sheet back over her as she went. She had never seen him look like that. Brooding, dark. No hint of his famous laughter, his notorious smile.

“I’m being rational, not naive,” she countered, unable to tear her eyes away from him when he looked like this, as if he was someone else. Someone ruthless and hard. Not like easy, careless Pato at all. “Your brother was the first person to believe in me, but it was wrong of me to take advantage of that.”

Pato shook his head, rubbing at his jaw with one hand as if he was keeping words back manually.

“I abused his kindness,” she continued, her unease growing. “His—”

“For God’s sake, Adriana,” Pato spat out. “He wasn’t being kind. He was grooming you to be his mistress.”