It occurred to her that Volkan was a sharp man. He read her expression as easily as if she voiced her complaint out loud, which made it difficult to believe that he wasn’t orchestrating every interaction between them. He was too intelligent not to anticipate her desire to escape him. She would have to stay on her toes, try to hide her true intentions from his sharp gaze and mind.

“Where… where will we sleep?” she asked softly, not wanting to ask the question that might lead to another painful sexual encounter but needing to know.

“Through here.” He took her hand and pulled her into another room. It was quite beautiful, with vaulted ceilings and a bed piled high with white and grey pillows and a fluffy white duvet. Double doors led out onto a large wraparound balcony.

He showed her the ensuite and explained that there was another washroom, a guest room, and an office off the living room.

“It’s twice the size of the apartment I shared with four roommates,” she mused, looking around in awe.

“Don’t remind me,” he growled.

She looked at him. “Remind you that I had roommates?”

“I don’t enjoy knowing that you lived with other men before we were together.”

And I don’t enjoy being kidnapped, but again, here we are. She kept her snarky comment to herself though, and instead asked, “Who’s Caria?”

His shoulders stiffened and he pushed her into the living room again. “No one,” he said shortly.

“The look on your mother’s face tells me she wasn’t no one,” Yasmin said insistently and when he gave her a look that suggested she better stop speaking about the mystery woman, she hurriedly added, “I’m curious, that’s all. She seems important, and I want to know who she is to you.” She added a pout, hoping he would think she was just jealous and not mining for information.

He stared at her for a long moment, then his shoulders seemed to relax. He strode to the wet bar and poured two drinks: a glass of red wine and a shot of whiskey. He handed her the wine, which she took and set down on the coffee table. Now seemed like a bad time to drink. If she started, she might not stop until this whole alternate universe she found herself in faded away.

“I suppose it’s better you hear about Caria from me,” he said, his voice resigned. He downed his whiskey, set the glass on the coffee table and leaned back, resting his arms across the back of the couch. Touching the ends of her hair, he continued, “Caria was my ex-wife.”