Her face flashes in my mind’s eye—a grimace on her lovely features at the sight of my arrival. I heave a heavy sigh. Getting one fiery redhead in line may prove more difficult than running an entire community of criminals.
It’s been hours of travel, and now I pull up the shade of the small, round window. I’m greeted with the New York City skyline. We are growing closer to the Village. We circle the family runway, landing without so much as a bump. I grab my bag and head for the doors. The spring air rushes past me, as I make my way down to the car I have waiting.
My old truck.
A billionaire who prefers old beaters to Mercedes. Sure, I usually pick up Tess in one of my sports cars, but whenever I’m back in the Village for an extended period of time, it’s my old jalopy Thunder I have waiting for me.
I climb into the cab, turn the waiting key in the ignition, and let her roar to life. Drive down the familiar streets to my brother’s house—now Tess’s house. I park the truck on the street. I let myself into the rowhome via the black access pad by the door. My prints have always been on this pad. Every house has four people who have fingerprint access to the home—Bronson, the husband, the wife, and the next man in line, should something happen to the husband. Some wives are aware. Some aren’t. We never told Tess—she’d have gone ballistic. Something to do with thinking I’m a total asshole?
I toss my bag down onto the floor in the foyer. I’ve packed light. I don’t think I’ll need to be here long. Just enough time to get her whipped back into the folds of the family, then I can go back to my Parish.
As I enter the kitchen, tension rises in my shoulders. It feels so bare—as if this room hasn’t been used in ages. I open the fridge. It’s spotless, been wiped clean. The alcohol is gone, as per my instructions to Bronson.
But there’s no food.
I open drawers, doors. Nothing. Not a single bit of nourishment is in this house.
My stomach roils. I should have come sooner.
I make a few calls. Roll a few heads. It’ll be taken care of within the hour.
I make my way upstairs to her office. The desk is tidy, but something out of the ordinary catches my eyes. The window ledges, shelves, bookcases, are littered with empty wineglasses. Unease grows within my belly. How much has she been drinking?
I make another call.
I walk into her living room. I’m happy to see the adjustments I’ve ordered are complete. My gaze lands on her new white leather couch. I take a seat. Throw my arm over the back of it. I’ve heard she spent a cool ten grand on it. I’m surprised to find the damn monstrosity is actually comfortable. If I sit too long, I may fall asleep. I get up, stretch. Climb the next set of stairs to be sure the instructions I’ve given for the bedroom have been followed. They have.
All at once, jetlag consumes my body. The long hours I’ve traveled having just caught up with me. I lie down on the bed, folding my hands behind my head. Ignoring the familiar scent rising from the sheets—the lavender soap she orders from France.
I let my eyes close. Just for a moment.
I’m awakened to the sound of shrieks. I jump from the bed, rubbing the heavy sleep from my eyes. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been out. There’s moonlight shining in the windows—I must have slept for hours.
Yawning, I stretch my arms high up toward the ceiling. Loosening my aching jaw muscles. I have a terrible habit of clenching my teeth—a side effect of a high-pressure job. I ignore her as she goes on and on about my rudeness, breaking into my home, didn’t your mother teach you to use a phone, what a brute you are for sleeping in my bed, and how you could have scared me to death—killed me with a heart attack—just like your brother!
That one almost makes me laugh. It would take a hell of a lot more than heart failure to do in this little spitfire. I do a few standing side bends. Allow her to carry on with her nonsense. She’ll be subdued soon enough.
When I’m fully awake, my muscles limber, I take a good long look at her. She’s finally done yelling. She’s standing in the center of the room, hands on her hips. Her very narrow hips. I take a closer look at her face. Her cheekbones are even more pronounced than last year. Rosy patches rest on her skin from the exertion of her outburst. Beautiful against the red of the cloth of her dress.
Breathtaking as always.
But she’s thin. Much too thin. I feel a sinking in the bottom of my heart.
Then she opens her mouth.
“Well. What are you standing there for? I said, get the hell out of my bedroom.”
“Our bedroom, now,” I say sleepily.
Fury wells in her, brightening the pink splotches on her cheeks. “Like hell it is. If I can’t keep you from staying here, I’ll tell you one thing that is for certain. You’re sleeping on the couch.”
“The very same couch I’ll be taking my belt off and whipping your bare behind over when you’re naughty?” I ask.
Her face goes red. She’s momentarily speechless. Probably for the first time in her life. When she finally speaks, she stumbles over her words. “I—I, ah... er, no! I mean, yes—you should sleep on the couch.”
I raise a brow. “I’ll be sleeping in this bed.”
She gives a little harrumph noise. Looks as if she wants to stomp her foot. “Then I’ll sleep on the couch.” She marches over to the bed, grabbing pillows, tugging covers from the mattress.
I walk over to where she’s destroying the beautifully made bed. I take the pillows from her hands. Put them back. I grab her wrists. Hold them tightly. Her eyes lock on mine, anger laced with fear, but she holds her tongue. I say, “That’s enough.”
A longing to control her burns to my core. My fingers tighten around her delicate wrists. Her breath catches. Her eyes flash, then quickly, she breaks our gaze. She’s decided to drop the issue.
I release her.
She rubs her wrists as if I’ve hurt her.
I haven’t—not yet.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her thin frame. A girl who was once all curves and fire and sass. She stands before me, disappearing. I say, “Let me take you to dinner. A little thanks for letting me crash at your place.”
“I’m not letting you crash. We both know this is Bronson’s orders and as a helpless Bachman woman, apparently I have no rights or say-so in the matter. So crash. Crash away. Crash being a very accurate description for your enormous shirtless self just barging in here and making yourself right at home! Lying on my bed... and... I’m not hungry. Go out by yourself.” She gives a little harrumph, then plops down on the side of the bed, facing away from me.
I sit beside her. She scoots away. Crosses her thin arms over her chest. I say, “You need to eat. You’re skin and bones.”
She ignores me.
I soften my voice, saying, “Tess, I know how difficult this is for you. You’re a strong woman—the strongest I know. But you’ve been through hell. I’m just here to help you get back on your feet. I won’t be here long—I promise.” I stand from the bed. Move before her so I’m in her direct line of sight. I hold my hand out to her, expecting her to slap it away as I say, “Come with me. Keep me company while I eat.”
Her gaze flutters up to meet mine. There’s something within those deep brown beauties that resembles trust. To my surprise, she puts her hand in mine. Our fingers interlock and that feeling washes over me. The one I’ve successfully ignored for a long time.
I want to hold her. To feel her body press against mine. Instead, I say, “I know the perfect place.”
Chapter Four
Tess
I’m over the shock of finding Rockland snoozing away in my bed. Telling me we’ll be sharing a room. Forcing me to go out and eat. Making me ride in that broken-down piece of scrap metal monster truck he’s named Thunder.
My sex drive has disappeared, lowering another level with each rise of my depression. Except for when I remember that brief moment, his hands on my face, his lips meeting mine.
Then there’s an awakening in my throbbing womb that will not
be ignored.
So I choose to never, ever think of him.
And if I won’t have him in my thoughts, I certainly won’t have him in my house. I’ve just got to get through the memorial this weekend, prove to everyone I can handle myself again, then get rid of him. Send him back to whatever backwards primitive lifestyle he’s living.
First things first—get through the next few days. Show him and the Village—and Bronson—that I’m of sound mind and spirit. That I’ve made a miraculous recovery and that enacting the hierarchy is unnecessary. That their concerns are unwarranted. Rockland can stay a few days, see how well I am. Today is Thursday, the memorial is on Saturday. He should be boarding the private jet and off on his way by Sunday.
It’s only four days. I can do this. I can play nice.
I start by processing the shock of my surroundings. He’s taken me to a dive diner. The half-lit sign above the tacky red awning proudly proclaims Roscoe’s. There’s no bar in sight.
We settle into a booth in the corner. I look around. The crowd seems to mainly consist of the sixty and up crowd. It smells of coffee and fried meats.
I rest my elbows on the table and I immediately remove them. It’s sticky. I say, “What is this place? You call this a restaurant?”
He says, “It’s a diner, a greasy spoon. But yes, princess—most people consider it to be a restaurant.”
I pick up the menu and the filmy thick plastic cover clings to my fingers.
Gross.
I flip though the colorful pages. Burgers stacked with onion rings. Meat wrapped in bacon. Fried chicken, fried potatoes, fried everything. My skin feels greasy just looking at the pictures. I peek over my menu to get a glimpse of him.
His eyes are locked on me. Watching me. His dark brow narrows with disapproval.
I swallow, hard. Go back to my browsing. On the last page, I find a list of salads.
The waitress appears, her gaze lands on Rockland and she’s practically drooling. The tip of her pencil is between her hot pink painted lips. Her weight shifts on her feet, and jutting one slim hip toward him, she says, “Can I help you?”
I bet you would like to help him... right out of those black jeans he’s wearing.
Before he can answer, I say, “I’ll have a grilled chicken salad. Dressing on the side. And a diet Coke.” I toss the menu toward her. It lands with a smack on the table by her hip.
He says, “She’ll also have a side of cheese fries. And make it a regular Coke.”
I groan. “I’m not eating that crap,” I mutter.
He says, “You need calories. You’re skin and bones and this is the fastest way to get the weight you’ve lost back on you.”
Our waitress has gone from enraptured to looking slightly uncomfortable. She shifts her weight again and says, “Ah—and what will the gentleman have?”
I snort. “What gentleman? Is there a gentleman here?” I squint my eyes, peer around the booth, and say, “I don’t see one.”
He’s staring at me with that dangerous look, the one that makes my ass cheeks clench together on the plastic booth cushion. I start to squirm. His palm slaps the table, making me jump in my seat. He smiles, looks at the waitress, and says, “You guys have a butt roast on your menu? I do love a good roasted butt.”
My face goes up in flames.
The waitress smiles helpfully. “No... I don’t think so, but we do have a pulled pork sandwich. Comes with or without slaw.”
Rockland says, “I’ll have that. Slaw on the side.”
“Disgusting,” I murmur.
He says, “She’ll have a slice of the pie as well.”
Fury rises from within me. “I can order my own damn food, Rockland. I said, I’m not eating that crap.”
He leans in, his dark eyes lock on mine. His jaw clenches. His low voice is laced with a threat. “Is this really how you want to handle yourself?”
My cheeks flush but I stand my ground. “I’ll handle this by having a diet Coke and a chicken salad, thank you very much—”
He holds up his hand, turning to the waitress. “On second thought, I’d like to cancel our orders. Something’s come up. We’ll try again another day.”
Her mouth gapes, her eyes widening. “Ah... Okay—are you sure?”
His eyes have not left mine. He replies, “Very sure.”
“Um... okay.” She scurries off to inevitably gossip with the cook staff. Did you see that hot guy? I think he’s going to do something to that woman he’s with.
Rockland’s out of his seat, looming over me. He holds his hand out to me, to help me from the booth. I shrink back into the padded leather. He reaches further, snatching my hand and yanking me from my seat.
I go quietly. Letting him pull me along by his side. I’ll not make a bigger scene than we already have. Not until we are alone, at least. Then I’m going to give this brute a piece of my mind and tell him exactly where he can stick his piece of pie—
My thoughts are interrupted by the sharp slap of his giant palm on my ass. Right in the middle of the street here in the Bronx—or wherever the hell it is he’s taken me. I jump three feet in the air, my hand going to my ass to rub the sting from it. I shout, “What was that for?” Pedestrians ogle me as they scurry past.
“Just want to make sure you know what’s happening to that sweet ass of yours the second we walk in the door.”
I freeze. White heat flushes up from my chest, burning across my face. Knots form in my stomach. My feet plant into the cement. “What the hell are you talking about? I thought you cancelled our little greasy spoon meal because I refused your hearty helping of cholesterol—which I’m glad for. How can you eat that crap?”
“We left because I’m taking you home to spank your sassy bottom. That’s why we left.”
He tugs me toward the beat-up truck he’s brought me here in. It’s so high off the ground, he’s got to give me a boost so I can get in. His hands are firm on my ass as he pushes me up into the seat. He shuts the door, gets into the driver’s side, and guns the engine. It’s embarrassing to no end—eyes turn toward us, getting a look at the monstrosity that’s just roared to life. He pops the clutch and pulls into traffic. Since the memorial, I’ve done some snooping. Though he lives in some offshore ragtag village, the man is a billionaire. With several very nice coupes and sports cars. But this jalopy is his favorite.
Lucky me.
I cross my arms over my chest. An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of my knotted stomach. “So now I can’t even order my own food? You’re gonna punish me over every little thing?”
He shifts gears and his eyes cut to mine. “You gonna keep arguing over every little thing?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I am. So deal with it,” I snap.
His hand leaves the clutch. Landing on my thigh and squeezing it, hard. “I am dealing with it. What do you think I’m doing?”
“Being an asshole.”
He smiles at that one. “When we get home, you’re going to strip off all your clothes and lay yourself over that ten thousand dollar couch you bought. Then this asshole is going to whip your ass with his belt.”
“What?” Panic rises within me. He can’t be serious. He’d best not be serious. I stutter, “Th-this is... is... ridiculous. I don’t even need you here.”
“Don’t you? You weigh a hundred pounds—if that. You’re spending money like the duchess of Earl. And you drink like a fucking fish. Yeah—I’d say you’ve taken excellent care of yourself.”
I sniff. “I’m perfectly fine on my own. And it’s my money to do what I will with. Just because you hide your wealth and get your cars out of junkyards, doesn’t mean that I have to pretend to be broke when I’m not. And how do you know anything about my finances?”
“As per the hierarchy, I have access to your accounts. It looks to me like you’ve been doing a little grief shopping.”
“Spying on my bank accounts? Unbelievable! What is with this patriarchal hierarchy bullshit? I’m a grown woman and I�
�ll spend my inheritance as I see fit. Besides, I have more money than I could spend.”
“I’m well aware of how much money you have. I believe I spanked your ass for throwing blocks of cash at me. Remember that, bad girl?”
I’m rolling my eyes so far in the back of my head I fear they’ll get stuck. I ignore his statement and instead between clenched teeth, I hiss the words, “I’m. Fine.”
He shrugs casually. Smiles. Takes the next turn. “Then I won’t have to hang around long, will I? Just get your ass whipped back into shape, then I’ll head back to Greece. Fine with me—the weather is about a thousand times nicer there. But don’t think for a second you can pull any wool over my eyes. I will not be stepping foot off Village soil until I’m one hundred and ten percent sure you’re back on your feet.”
How did he know I was planning on playing him for the fool? Putting on a show to get him the hell out of here, then self-imploding? That asshole knows me better than I think. I can’t tell him that, so instead, I hurl an insult. “You’re like a pit bull—a guard dog or something. All muscles and bark and bite.”
He flashes me a wicked smile. “You’re welcome to cuddle with this pit bull, if you’d like.” He shoots me a glance with those gold-flecked eyes and instantly my panties go damp. “That is—after you get his teeth out of your ass.”
My breath catches in my throat. I squirm in my seat. Turn my head toward the window to avoid his gaze.
I feel hot. Bothered. Furious, yet... curious. The way he speaks, his rumbling words. His assured nature. There isn’t an ounce of worry or concern that he won’t be able to whip me into shape. That my own will will be stronger than his. He has a cool confidence that he’ll be able to tame me.
I have to admit—it’s a fucking turn-on.
We reach the first black gate to the Village. He rolls through. Then the second. Every gate brings us closer to my home. Where he wants me buck naked over the couch. The very idea has my nipples tight as drums against my bra. I cross my legs, press my inner thighs together, try to alleviate some of the mounting pressure growing there.
We rumble onto Second Street. There’s a group of Beauties walking home from dinner. A girls’ night out at a new wine and tapas bar. I was invited and passed. Now I’m wishing I’d accepted the invitation.
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 6