The words strangled in his throat. That wouldn’t go over well for a woman who was used to being completely independent. At this stage, she’d rebel.

His mind whirred uselessly in the search for words to convince her, flailing. It was hard to concentrate on persuasive words when his head was filled with a very clear vision of her dead in a pool of her own blood, gunned down by Rutskoi or by one of Cordero’s thugs. Or worse, with elbows and knees blown out just like Leather Coat had promised. It was a Cordero trademark.

No. They would never get their hands on Grace. Not while he lived.

Drake tried to modulate his voice, put some convincing in it, but it wasn’t easy. He was used to commanding, not convincing.

“Grace, I’m afraid you won’t be able to be at your friend’s service.” He bit down hard on the words I won’t let you. “It’s way too dangerous to show up at a specific place at a specific time. My enemies would know exactly where to get you.”

Grace straightened in her chair. “If you believe that, then I can’t even go back to my apartment.”

Damn. He’d hoped it would take a day or two of stalling before she came to that conclusion. It was true. Like the title of an old American novel he’d seen in a bookstore, she could never go home again.

“I’m afraid that’s—” His cell rang and he held up a finger. Only his men had this particular number and no one called him unless it was absolutely necessary. He looked at the number and frowned. Boris, the head of the four-man team sent to guard Grace’s apartment.

“Yes, Boris?”

“Not Boris, boss.” Ivan’s image came on the small screen, voice grim. “He won’t be calling you again. We came late.” Ivan turned his cell around and the blood froze in Drake’s veins.

It was a scene of utter destruction. A door blown off the hinges, a bloody mass on the floor, identifiable as Boris only by his black boots, utter chaos inside the apartment visible beyond Boris’s bloody legs.

After an initial surge of rage at seeing his employee dead and Grace’s apartment trashed, Drake felt himself go into combat mode. The switch was immediate, complete. He became a machine for combat, unhampered by emotions. Emotion held no place in this chilly land of calculation and maneuvering.

“Go further into the apartment,” he said coolly, then turned the cell phone around so Grace could see it, too, see the wreckage of her apartment. She gasped, but he didn’t touch her to comfort her, didn’t shift his gaze from the screen. She didn’t need to be consoled. She needed to be frightened. She needed to see this to understand what she was up against. It was brutal, traumatizing, but far more effective than any words he could possibly say. His words might not convince her, but this would. What was on his screen was one big danger sign that only an insane woman wouldn’t heed.

Ivan walked slowly through the apartment, recording the destruction.

Interesting, Drake thought coolly. The wreckage was controlled and systematic, carried out with a knife. It wasn’t vandalism, destruction for destruction’s sake. There was an agenda here—pure intimidation. Whoever had done this wanted to terrify Grace, hit her in her most vulnerable points. All her artwork was destroyed, all her clothes, even her shoes. All personal things.

The message was clear. We’ll destroy you next. So be scared, because we’re coming.

Her eyes were riveted on the small screen. “My God,” she breathed.

“Go into the kitchen,” Drake ordered Ivan, not surprised when he saw that her plates and glasses were intact. Whoever had done this hadn’t wanted to make any noise. Further proof that it wasn’t a mad rampage, but a carefully thought out campaign to smoke Grace out of hiding, rattle her badly.

Or rattle him.

Fools.

Drake wasn’t rattled, he was as cold as ice inside.

The attack outside Feinstein’s gallery had been an attack on him. This was nothing new. His life had been threatened before, many times. He’d survived all the attacks and lived to have his vengeance.

But this—this was an attack on Grace.

Someone had just made a huge, huge mistake.

Drake narrowed his eyes. Grace had gone completely white, down to her lips. Her hands were shaking.

“Why—” Her voice was barely above a whisper and she swallowed heavily. “Why would anyone do that to my apartment? Why destroy my paintings? Why?”

He got up and went to a sideboard, coming back with two glasses of Jack Daniel’s, a taste American officers had given him, his a double shot.

One thing the scene of destruction had done was make his hard-on disappear. Sex with Grace would come, and soon, but right now he had enemies prodding his defenses, representing a direct threat to her. She didn’t need his arousal, she needed his focus to keep her safe.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand and curling it around the cut crystal glass. Her hand was chilled and he held his hand around hers for a moment to warm it up. “Drink that down and I’ll answer your questions.”

She obeyed him, chugging the shot down in one long swallow. Good girl.

A touch of color came back to her face.

He drained his own glass and put it on the table, then moved his chair and sat down right across from her, their knees touching, holding her hands in his.

“Grace.” He waited a second, to make sure he had her full attention. By sheer willpower he managed not to wince at the expression on her face.

This was not her world. She was as lost as if she had just landed on an airless, lightless planet and been attacked by wolves. She watched his face carefully, instinctively understanding that he was at home on this planet.

“Something bad has happened and unfortunately, you are caught right in the middle of it. Some very dangerous and, above all, very ruthless men are gunning for me and are now gunning for you. You saw what was done to your house, right?”

She nodded, eyes locked on his. He knew she was seeing the coldness in him; he could only hope she was seeing the regret.

“They wouldn’t hesitate to do that to you. Slowly. As a way to get to me. I will keep you safe, I promise. But you must do as I say and you must stay in a fortified perimeter where I can protect you, which right now is this place. Access is by a code very few people know, and they are people I trust. Guards are posted outside at all times. The windows are bullet-resistant. No one can get to you here, trust me, but you’re going to have to stay put. You can’t go to Feinstein’s memorial service, you can’t go home, you can’t go to any friends. As a matter of fact, until I start straightening this situation out, you can’t leave this building. I wish with all my heart that things could be different, but they aren’t. All I can say is that I will try to make you as comfortable as possible. I have staff on call twenty-four/seven, and all you have to do is express a wish and it’s yours, as long as it doesn’t involve you going out.”

“I’m—I’m a prisoner?”

Damn. Yes, she was, but he didn’t want her to think of herself in that way.

He brought her hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss on her palm. Shocked and scared as she was, the pulse in her throat speeded up a little.

Thank God. Just as soon as was humanly possible, he was going to start fucking her, binding her to him with sex. He was going to get into her and stay in her as long as he could, until they breathed the same air, until their hearts beat together, until it would be unthinkable for her to leave his side.

“I want you to think of the outside world as a prison, Grace. And in here you can do exactly as you please. In fact—” Drake reached out to the intercom and waited for Shota’s voice.

“Sir?”

“Shota, besides the other things I told you to buy tomorrow morning, I want to add art supplies.”

“Sir?” Shota sounded resigned.