Anna
Samson steps from the car, walks around to my side, and opens the door. I hand him my bag and step into onto the cobblestone driveway. I feel as though I am in some rags-to-riches movie. That isn’t fair, because I was never in rags, but it’s how I feel. One day I’m sitting in my one-bedroom apartment, and the next I’m being carted off to James-Bond-style hideouts and mansions you normally only see on reality TV shows. I look up at the mansion. I’m in awe of it. It towers above me, three stories at least, and the doors. The doors impress me the most, for some reason. Perhaps it’s the only thing I can focus on as a point of reference. They are wide, double doors, painted red with immaculate care, not a single chip or blemish, and the knockers are carved lion’s heads, golden, shining.
“Shall we?” Samson says, offering me his arm.
I take it, and we walk to the mansion, up the steps, past the marble pillars, and to the doors. They open wide before we even knock, and a straight-backed, clean-shaven butler bows shortly. “Sir, madam,” he says.
I look to Samson, wondering if he’ll ever stop being full of surprises, and he shrugs and grins like a child pleased with a painting he showed to his parents. He’s showing off for me, that’s the truth, but I don’t mind. His wealth . . . it astounds me.
Samson hands the butler my bag and leads me inside. The hallway is cavernous, reaching right up to the rafters in the ceiling. A double staircase leads to the second floor. Paintings are hung everywhere, abstract art, just like in the hideout. “You like this particular style, then?” I ask as Samson leads me through to the living room.
“Yeah,” Samson nods. “I can relate to it more than portraits and landscape and all the rest of it. Though I like them, too.” He shrugs, and for a moment he seems embarrassed. “I’m sure you find it strange, a man like me having a passion for art—”
I touch his arm. “Don’t be silly,” I say.
The living room is large and modern, with long white couches, an eight-inch television, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I sit on the couch and look up at Samson, who stands over me, grinning that pleased grin.
“You like it, then?” he asks.
“Like it?” I wave a hand at the mansion in general. “Samson, it’s a goddamn mansion. Of course I like it!” A thought occurs to me. “What about the servants, though?”
“They’ve worked for me for two years now, and I pay them well, above what they normally get. This place is off the official record, too. The servants can be trusted, and even if they couldn’t, they don’t know about River and all the rest of it. You’re safe here, I promise.”
I trust him. I shouldn’t trust a man I’ve known for such a short amount of time, but I do, and right here and now I tell myself to stop worrying over the trust issue. He’s stopped being a killer who drifted into my life one night. Now he’s just Samson, my Samson.
“You were right. This is quite the surprise,” I say.
He looks at me blankly for a moment, and then shakes his head. “This isn’t the surprise, Anna.”
“What? What is it, then?”
I struggle to think what else it could be. A huge mansion, servants to attend me, living a life of luxury I never once dreamed I’d experience.
“Wait here.”
He leaves the room. I watch him go, and then glance once more around the room. I try to calculate how much everything in here must’ve cost. The TV, the furniture, the paintings, the chandelier . . . and this is just one room. How much money does he have? It must be more than a million, probably much more. He’s a killer, I remind myself, but that doesn’t seem to hold any weight now. He may be a killer, but he’s a good man, an honest man, a man who cares about me.
About five minutes later, Samson returns. He’s changed into a suit and trousers, his shirt opened at the collar and showing the top of his muscular pecs.
“I feel underdressed now,” I admit.
“That’s the point.” He leans down, takes me by the hand, and lifts me to my feet. “But don’t worry. You won’t feel like that for long.”
“What have you got planned?” I ask.
He places a hand on his chest, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but he’s smiling from ear-to-ear, smiling like a madman. “I don’t have anything planned.”
“You’re a bad liar, Samson.”
“I’m not,” he says, suddenly serious. “Not usually, anyhow. But around you? Yes, I think so.”
He leads me to the front of the house, through the double doors, and to the porch. The street is empty apart from parked sports cars, a few jogging women (all of them looking like women from The Real Housewives), and the gardeners. We sit on the chairs and when open my mouth to ask Samson what’s going on, he lifts up his hand.
“Patience,” he says. “Don’t worry. It’ll be worth it.”
Ten or so minutes later, a van pulls up. Two men step from the man, both of whom have the same demeanor as the butler who opened the door for us when we arrived: straight-backed, official-looking. They walk around to the back of the van, open it, and take out boxes. They take out six boxes in total, and carry them to the porch.
“Take them into the living room,” Samson says. “It’s on the left.”
“As you say, sir,” the man replies.
All the boxes are carried into the house. When they’re done, Samson reaches into his pocket and takes out two bundles of notes. I watch as he hands them to the men, guessing that each amounts to at least five-hundred dollars.
“That’s very kind, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“What is happening?” I whisper, when the men drive away. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Follow me and you’ll find out.”
We return to the living room. The boxes are stacked neatly on the glass coffee table, six of them arranged invitingly.
Samson nods at the table. “Go ahead,” he says. “I can’t take you out on the town like I want to, not yet, at least. It’s too dangerous. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bring a little glamor into your life, does it? I guess you could say this is my way of saying sorry for disrupting your life.”
I can barely contain my curiosity. I feel like tearing into the boxes with my nails and teeth. Instead I walk as calmly as I am able to the closest one. I feel like a child on Christmas morning, my chest tight and pounding with anticipation. My world, for the moment, has honed down to one focal point: the boxes. I open one, look in, and gasp. The inside of the box reads Tiffany’s, and the box is overflowing with jewelry: pearls, earrings, necklaces, rings. All diamond, all glittering, shining, winking at me. I can’t stop myself: I open the rest of the boxes. Four of them contain dresses and shoes from Neiman Marcus and the sixth holds more jewelry.
“You can choose whatever you want,” Samson says. “Anything. I’ll settle the bill later; I have an understanding with the owners of the stores. They trust me. Anything, Anna, from any of the boxes. Choose it and it’s yours.”
I have been focused for a long time on my studies, on making my way, and no matter what happens that will always be important to me. But that doesn’t mean I stopped dreaming the dreams most women do. Glamorous. That’s the word, and I have to admit, it’s something I’ve never felt.
I choose two dresses, a pearl necklace, diamond earrings, and a diamond ring. I show them to Samson. “Is that alright?” I ask.
“Of course,” he smiles. “Anything for you, Anna.”
I lay my selections on an armchair, and then dance over to Samson.
“Come with me,” I say, suddenly hot. It grips me, the passion only Samson can draw out in me.
“Where?” Samson asks, but he stands up.
“Well, I’m assuming a place like this has a bedroom.”
I lay my hand on his chest, and he nods. “Several.”
“Then lead the way.”
We walk up the double staircase, into the bedroom, and no sooner has the door closed behind us than we jump on each other, our lust exploding.