The top floor of a sky-rise luxury apartment is where I call home. It’s the only dwelling on this level. My poor, rich roommate—emphasis on either term—has never worked a day in her life. When Miranda’s funds decreased, she sought a roomy. But countless Cosmopolitans, couture dresses, and posh lounges are her religion on a Saturday night.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, heightening my senses, particularly, my hearing. I catch the faint footsteps somewhere in the otherwise secluded apartment. I call out, “Hello?”
So, if someone responds to the greeting, you’re screwed, Aria.
Fisting a chef knife, I add a tentative threat: “I have a . . . gun!”
My fingers drag across my tresses, tangling in thick roots, desperate for of a touch-up.
Faint steps echo out. I stammer, “Miranda, if that’s you . . .” You will see the side of me I hide from everyone else.
Barefoot on chilly, opulent limestone, I navigate through the vast expanse of the home. I stop in the hallway, which leads to my side. Miranda kept the balcony wrapping around the north, east, and south side of the building. While I possess a lone terrace, perfect for early mornings in my art room. Light bleeds from that very door.
Jutting the knife downward, I snatch open the door, hoping to catch Messy Miranda. She’s so worried about my ability to pay rent. I’ve caught her snooping around my area since signing the lease a half year ago.
“Miran—” My gaze collides with olive-green gems. A case of anxiety whisks me to my first obsession. No amount of therapy ever remedied the guilt. Older siblings have an unwritten obligation. I failed ReAnna.
During some flashbacks, I lose sight of ReAnna and her abductor in the commotion of a hot summer’s day. Or I freeze. The ending never changes. ReAnna’s never to be seen or heard from again.
Touch reality or faint. My seesawing vision slows as my fingers clash against the ornate, glossy doorframe. Exuding false confidence, I demand, “How did you get in here?”
Despite my past, I’m not crazy. Miranda draws imaginary lines and counts beans. Her fixation on division made me anal, too. This is my haven. Miranda has hers. And the attractive Cuban dominating my art room doesn’t belong here.
He’s thick. A dangerous kind of thick that can bulldoze straight through me. Taller than my musings from afar—I’ve “stalked” him from a distance this entire time. A leather jacket outlines his imposing shoulders and biceps, tapering down to a narrow waist. Dark-wash denim encases muscular legs and a scrumptious ass. I know, I’ve seen that ass from afar. He’s the entire package, every physical attribute on any woman’s list. The sight of him heats up the adrenaline already coursing through me.
His face is flawless deception: angelic, devilish, and sends goosebumps flying over my arms. Summer-kissed skin, and a sharp jaw. Stubble accentuates a beautiful, hostile mouth. The Cuban has ruined the lives of women with that mouth. He’s the perfect predator.
“I said ‘how did you get in here?’ ” Never mind the delirious question of how, as opposed to why, I’m astonished I can utter a single word.
At my standing desk, the Cuban picks up a photo. The image captures an attractive vessel. Him. He flicks the photo of himself toward me. It dashes at my feet. Then another and another.
My first obsession fucked my mind over—ReAnna’s disappearance.
My second fixation is piling up at my feet.
Photos glide across the floor. All of him. The camera lens worshiped his angles: his face, his chiseled chest. The Cuban god. If he plans on flinging all the photos to me, it will take him forever.
“Those are my personal property,” I grit out.
The Cuban pulls on a rolled cigarette. A sweet, musky scent snakes from captivating lips as he plucks another photo. He flicks it into my general direction.
“They are mine!”
“Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria?” His warm, alluring tone puts top-shelf whiskey to shame. In quick strides, he walks with heavy booted steps over renderings of his face. He stops in front of a canvas painting, which had taken an entire week to create from another photo. The Cuban snatches it from the easel, staring at the creation of himself. My panties percolate at the sound of a low, angered growl building in his throat.
Bold brushstrokes match his swagger. I’d spent more money on gold and mocha pallets to paint him in these past months than I had in my entire undergrad at NYU. There are a thousand renditions of his photos into my favorite medium—paint—in this room. So, if he plans to pick them all over, that’ll take forever too.
I don’t mind forever, as long as he doesn’t murder me.
My hips widen as he takes another drag from his handmade cigarette. Then, without a word, he shoves his fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, si?”
“You need to leave—”
“Or what, Aria?” His Latin accent plays my name sensual, slow. I’m painfully aware of how enthralling the devil is. Though his stance is threatening, I remind myself not to . . . fear him. Never mind the natural reaction, desire.
Focusing on the painting, he lights one side with his cigarette. Cinders curl into an insignificant flame. Letting the scrap fall, the Cuban crushes the furious little spark with his boot.
“We should tell the authorities how you stalked me. Took photos, painted me without consent, si!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” I snarl.
He taps 9-1-1 into his cellphone. He poises his finger over the call button, and my jaw clamps. “Let’s do this, Mami. You say I’m breaking and entering.” His chuckle is a low rumble in his colossal chest. “This room depicts something else altogether.”
Flushed with heat, I level my gaze on the notorious killer. “You’re the stalker. Murd—” My voice breaks. He’s a murderer who collects beautiful women.
As he inhales his cigarette, smoke clouds the magnificent structure of his face. “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination. This will end bad for you.”
“You’re
