Sinful Infatuation

Sinful Infatuation: Chapter 2

April 9

Nicoletti Estate

Long Island, NY

10:00 a.m.

It was the feeling that something was deeply wrong that awoke her from her blissful sleep. In fact, that was the issue. Since when had her periods of brief, insomniac-like slumber been classified as “blissful”? A New Yorker through and through, Jourdain had learned how to operate on four hours of sleep and a venti cup of caramel macchiato from Starbucks.

The second thing, the one that sounded the warning bells in her head, was the simple yet jarring fact that she was not in her bedroom. Wide brown eyes took in her lush surroundings. The room, decorated in hues of black, gray and red, was the perfect exemplification of decadence. From the wall to ceiling row of windows, dazzling chandelier to four-poster California king size bed in which she currently inhabited, the room practically shouted its lavishness. Back in the cramped apartment she shared with her fiancé Maxwell, their room could hardly compare with this; in fact, their room consisted of a queen size bed, a lamp, and a rickety dresser.

And the third thing, the final thing that made her--- a jaded New Yorker with a “been there, done that” attitude--- actually gasp, was the fact that she was naked in this mysterious bed…

“Shit!” Jourdain exclaimed.

“Ah, you’re up,” said a deep voice that was becoming annoyingly familiar.

Jourdain gasped again and looked towards the door to see Matteo, standing there with a smug look, in a freshly pressed designer suit. Jourdain subconsciously smoothed down her hair and wiped her face before fixing him with a dark glare. Her heart was beating exceedingly fast as she took in the situation and started drawing conclusions.

“What did you do?” She asked, horrified and angry. Matteo just lifted an eyebrow as if to say “isn’t it obvious?” Suddenly her phone rang, indicating a text message. She reached for it and began scrolling through. Jourdain swallowed the rising bile when she noticed fifteen missed calls and twenty-five unread text messages from her fiancé and a couple from her mom and friends. After reading ten “where are you” messages, Jourdain had to look away. She closed her eyes and pressed the cool face of her cellphone to her forehead as the implications started to sink in. What the fuck happened last night?

Running her left hand through her hair, Jourdain noticed something else that sent her already frantic heart into high gear. Her engagement ring, a cozy one-carat, was missing. She looked up at Matteo, who was watching her intently. “What the fuck happened last night?”

Again, he raised that infuriating brow. Jourdain growled in irritation before clutching the bed sheet to her chest, awkwardly trying to wrap it around her naked body. She shuffled towards the window as Matteo looked on amusedly. Her heart dropped when she didn’t see the familiar polluted air, taxis or skyscrapers, in fact, all she could see was a disturbingly manicured, healthy green lawn that seemed to stretch on for miles. And were those gardeners… “What kind of sick bastard are you? Are we even in New York anymore? What the hell happened Matteo?” Jourdain exclaimed with increasing hysteria. Matteo stayed stoic by the entrance, watching her as if she were the most interesting thing ever.

She shuffled over to him, and slapped his perfect face. “Answer me, dammit!” Matteo glared at her as a red print began to blossom on his left cheek, before grabbing her and hauling her up against his chest. “Don’t. Ever. Hit. Me. Again,” he growled, warning. Jourdain, too consumed by her hysteria, failed to heed it. As she reached up to do it again, he caught her hands and forced them behind her back. With one hand grasping her hands, another hand grasped her jaw in a firm hold. “What did I just say, Jourdain?” She stared into his intense green eyes, momentarily stunned by their splendor. Her eyes traveled down his slightly broad, yet still perfect, nose to the most perfectly shaped lips she’d ever seen on a man. “Has something caught your interest, Jourdain?”