"Where were we?"
Natalie cleared her throat softly. There wasn't a chance in hell she was going back over there after that exchange. "You were going to get some sleep. And I'm going to give you some privacy. I'll check on you later."
She didn't wait for his response as she turned and slipped away.
****
Later that night, Marco sat at his desk in his study with a glass of bourbon within easy reach. His headache was gone; he'd never really had a fever. Tanya's box finally lay opened and discarded. Inside had been a stack of twenty glossy pictures of her, scantily dressed and posing for a lover's enjoyment.
Had he cared about her at all, he might have found them alluring, and if not that, then at least amusing.
He found them neither alluring nor amusing.
He tossed them in the trashcan beside his desk.
It was time for him to get rid of her. She didn't appeal to him anymore, he'd lost all interest in her body, and all that she was capable of anymore was annoying him.
She stood in the way of what he really wanted, and he couldn't let the situation continue.
Yeah, he needed to get rid of her and he needed to do it tomorrow. There was absolutely no sense putting it off any longer.
And suddenly, even tomorrow seemed too long to wait.
He'd do it tonight.
He'd been drinking, steadily making his way through the bottle of bourbon since his little housekeeper had fled from him as if the fires of hell were chasing her.
He shouldn't drive. But he wanted to get the damn thing over with.
He picked up the phone and arranged for a car.
****
Natalie walked into living room the next morning and knew something wasn't as it should be. The laptop Marco carried back and forth to work sat on the coffee table, and it was open. The screen was black. Was he really sick? Yesterday, she hadn't fully believed it.
She heard a noise from the back of the penthouse, and slowly turned to investigate.
His bedroom door was shut, and she hadn't noticed that earlier. She heard something drop and then a deep curse.
She should knock. She really should knock on his door and make sure he was okay.
There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell. She turned and fled to the safety of the kitchen.
****
Twenty minutes later, she was taking a stab at normality by sipping a cup of coffee and making a grocery list when Marco walked into the room. His eyes were bloodshot and there was the beginning of a bruise on his right cheekbone. Her eyes flared at the sight. She sat the pen down and swiveled the barstool away from the island where she sat and focused her attention on him.
"Coffee." The one word demand was deep and rough and resonated with animalistic pain.
She stood up warily and poured him a cup of black coffee, the way she knew he wanted it. Moving back toward him, she set it on the island, within his reach.
She went back to her seat, and picked up her pen to camouflage the inappropriate emotions churning in her stomach. But she couldn't focus on the grocery list, knew she wouldn't be able to focus, and was sharply aware of him reaching for the barstool across from her and sitting down on it.
The room seemed to shrink in direct proportion to the nearness of his large body.
He picked up the cup and took several sips without looking anywhere but into his cup.
Finally, her curiosity got the better of her and she couldn't stand it any longer. "What happened to you?" she questioned softly.
Flinching, he looked in her direction through eyes that were squinted. "You don't need to worry about Tanya any more. She won't be coming here again."
Incredulity spread through Natalie. "I wasn't--worried." She licked her lips and butterflies went wild under her breastbone as she wondered, what exactly, this meant.
"It's a moot point. She's out of my life."
"I'm sorry." She felt completely helpless; she had no idea what to say to him. She was dimly aware she shouldn't be feeling a bubble of euphoria bouncing around in her head. She swallowed and focused on the situation at hand. "What happened to your face?"
He reached up and felt the mark and grimaced in annoyance. "Tanya happened."
Shock hit Natalie between the eyes. "She hit you?"
"Yeah."
"Did--did--"
He narrowed his eyes on her and gave her a disparaging stare. "Did I hit her back? No."
"I'm sorry--I didn't mean--"
"No? Sounded like it." The statement was filled with accusation.
"I'm sorry." Natalie knew she must sound like a broken record, but nothing in her limited experience with him gave her a clue how to act.
"I need aspirin," he groaned as his forehead fell into his hands.
"You need ibuprofen for the swelling," she said softly, standing to get it.
"Aspirin."
She went to the drawer where an assortment of over the counter medications were kept and threw over her shoulder, "Ibuprofen."
"Natalie!" he shouted, his voice filled with retribution.
She spun around to face him, her hand landing on her throat.
"Don't argue with me. I've got a goddamn hangover and I want aspirin, now!" His voice was a thundering snarl, filled with menacing threat.
She stood in shock at his tone, and felt her face drain of all color. Her eyes filled with tears of hurt and repressed anger and she turned back to the drawer to get him what he demanded. She found a bottle of aspirin and popped the lid open with mounting rage.
She stood three feet away from him, and turned back to face him, uncontrollable tears that managed to piss her off even more, making wet paths down her cheeks. She watched him as he looked at her over his coffee cup, no doubt taking in the tears. A black frown came down heavily over his features, as if everything were her fault.
It was too much for her to take.
She threw the open bottle at him with a sweep of her hand and white pills spilled all over the island and all over him. "There's your aspirin, asshole."
Turning away from him and the mess she'd just made, she exited the room without delay, not nearly brave enough to hang around and see how he reacted.
His answering snarl of fury as his chair grated across the floor followed her from the room. Cold, dark panic slammed through her and she knew he was about to chase her across the penthouse.
She didn't stop to think. She just ran. She ran down the hall toward her bedroom, ran inside and slammed the door and locked it as quickly as she could.
He began banging on her door immediately. The vibration of what sounded like his fist hitting the wood above her head where she leaned sent her skittering back and away from the door in silent disbelief. Her heart raced and she froze, staring at the door, rooted to the spot.