“I had no idea.” She takes a sip of milk, an adorable white mustache forming above her full upper lip before she dabs it away with a napkin.
“Most don’t. Then, if you were to be questioned by the police about a certain disappearance of a family member—maybe a Dante Bachman—”
Her eyes widen in recognition. “Say, whatever happened to that guy? He left the family, what was it, three or four years ago? Bronson kept the whole thing so quiet we Beauties just kind of let the gossip drop.”
“He was under criminal investigation. Can’t say what for. Anyway, as soon as we found the feds sniffing around, we all thought it best if he took a walk, so to speak.”
“Where is he now? How is he doing?”
“He’s well. Has a golden tan and a kickass tattoo across his chest.”
She eyes the black swirls marking my own bare skin. A light flush creeps into her cheeks as she swallows down her food. Her gaze leaves mine and she says, “Tell me more about your Parish.”
“We’re a small band of Bachmans who live on an isolated island off the coast of Greece. One the government is paid off to assume and report as uninhabited. We have many of the same rules, lifestyle similarities, but it’s more...” I pause, trying to find the right words to describe my tribe, “family oriented.”
She eyes my chest once more, her blush deepens. She squirms a bit on her seat and begins to ramble nervously. “Like the Hamlet? In Connecticut? That’s where all the couples who want to procreate from the Village go. Have you heard that Sasha and Carter may be taking the leap? Apparently, Carter has baby fever and is dreaming of little ankle biters running amuck. They wanted to go last year, but with... Brett’s passing... Bronson needed Carter to stay on. They’re talking about going at the end of this year—think about it, Sasha could be pregnant by the next memorial.”
“At the Parish, the children coexist with Bachman life. Sure, they are sheltered from the more delicate domestic marriage elements, just as other children are, but it’s not a suburbia like the Hamlet. It’s a seaside village.”
The truth is I live in a breathtaking manor by the sea, fit for a king. It was a bit opulent for my personal tastes, but the residents of the Parish insisted my home be lavish. I let them plan it out. The Parish grew fast, men traveling hundreds of miles to find me, to pledge themselves to the Bachman Brotherhood. Myriad people with an eclectic mix of talents. Carpenters, bankers, gangsters, chefs. Some because they wanted the peace and security our lifestyle brings to their wives, their marriages. Others seeking fortunes to send back to their poorer villages, enamored by the Robin Hood nature of our crimes and willing to lay down their lives to bring elderly relatives prosperity. The man all look to me as if I’m a god, bringing them fortune and contentment. Their loyalty to me is second to none, but I find the attention unnerving. I love leading the people, but I’m not one for the limelight.
Word got out around the other islands and the Parish grew, the income grew, and with it, the homes. Marble, stone, glass facing the blues and greens of the sea, the breeze blowing in at night. A beautiful sun-kissed people, wearing linen and dining alfresco each evening on the verandas of their mansions. Tanned children chasing one another on the shore beneath the setting sun.
But I don’t tell her that. I’m getting too much of a kick out of watching the look of horror on her face whenever she speaks of my backwards little island.
So I tell her a version of the truth, and let her interpret it as she will. “I don’t live in a hut, but we do build our own homes. We live a simple life. Our food, our fun, all comes from the sea. We fish for our meat. We swim and boat and play games on the shore. We all work together, play together. Help raise the children together. It’s a very cohesive environment.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Sounds miserable. Give me Fifth Avenue and a good Bloody Mary brunch any day. Also, I love electricity and indoor climate control—tell me you have those things.” She looks at me, wide-eyed.
It’s too fun watching the look of horror spread across her face. I continue teasing, bending the facts for my enjoyment. “We have some electricity. A tap of running water here and there. One or two of the huts have plumbing. But no, no air conditioning. We leave our windows open at night, enjoying the breeze from the Aegean. I could take you there someday. If you’d like. I think you’d love it.”
“We both know I wouldn’t last one day in the Parish. I’ve very comfortable here, with my rowhome, leather couch, and online shopping.”
The shopping. Another reason Bronson has brought me here. I change my tone to the one I think of as father figure, narrow my brow, and say, “Which is a subject we need to discuss.”
She stops chewing, mid-bite, fear washing over her face.
“That’s right. I’m putting you on a budget.”
She plops her sandwich down, swallows, and declares, “I’m in no need of a budget. I’m an accountant with plenty of money in the bank and nothing but time on my hands to spend it.”
“I think that’s precisely the problem. With Brett gone, you need a void to fill with your energy. Something that will bring you joy. Something other than clicking an item into a cart.”
Her nose crinkles adorably. “You mean, like a hobby?”
“Yes. Maybe something even, I don’t know... active?”
A fiery blush rises in her cheeks. “You mean... like what we just did?”
My cock twitches at the memory of our fucking. The truth is I don’t yet know where things are going between Tess and me and I don’t want to cross that bridge, knowing I’m fully invested and she’s still a recovering widow. So I suggest, “You could join me on my morning runs.”
“I don’t sweat. And I’ve never understood people jogging about, running down roads as if they’re being chased by someone. It’s pointless. Ford invented the car for a reason.”
“Running is excellent for your cardiovascular health and your mental well-being. Come with me tomorrow. We’ll start slow.”
Her brow creases. “Absolutely not. And I’m stuffed. I can’t finish another bite. But thank you. It was delicious.” She pushes her plate toward me.
I pick up the other half of her sandwich, putting it onto my plate. I’m still hungry. I’m going to make her run with me in the morning, but there’s no sense in telling her that now. I finish the sandwich and stand to begin cleaning the kitchen. To my surprise, Tess joins me, putting away the food, wiping crumbs from the counter.
That spanking has done her some good. That and the good hard fucking she so desperately needed. And it was my pleasure to deliver it.
The image of her over my lap flashes in my mind, the blood flows to my crotch. I want to take her again and again. Rock her body all night long. But I don’t know if that’s a wise decision. Though I’ve crossed the boundaries I’ve set for myself, I’ll not do it again. Ignoring my cock, I say, “Let’s get you to bed.”
She shoots me a glance. “I really think you should sleep on the couch. You know—be a gentleman.”
The jetlag begins to set in again. Every muscle in my body feels heavy, leaden. I need to go to sleep. Now. “Not a chance. Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.” I take her hand in mine, lead her up the stairs.
When we get to the bedroom, she hovers by the doorway. I say, “It’s okay. I’ll get dressed in the closet. You can have the bathroom to get ready.”
“Thank you. I know it’s silly... after everything we’ve just done. But I need the privacy.”
“I understand.” I grab my bag and head to the master closet, shutting the door behind me. I toss my bag on the floor. Take off my shirt and fold it over the chair she’s got by her dressing table. Press my hands into the massive jewelry counter, resting my weight. My gaze rises to my reflection in the mirror before me.
The swirling black tattoo stares back at me. Reminding me of home. My other Brotherhood. The one I’ve built from the ground up with my bare hands. The place where I make the rules. Where I lead my people the way I see fit.<
br />
I miss them.
But not as much as I should.
But why don’t I miss them more? Why am I not craving the sound of the sea, the salt air? The heady conversation? Bantering over decadent food and copious amounts of wine?
It’s not just the sex. Though it was fucking fantastic.
Somehow, a simple grilled cheese sandwich eaten at the bar in her kitchen was the most fulfilling meal I’ve had in years.
When I’m in her presence, it seems as if no one else exists.
I shake my head. Rub my forehead. Slip out of my trousers. Change into a fresh pair of boxer briefs from my bag. Neatly fold and leave my clothes. I figured she’s had enough time to ready herself and I head back into the bedroom to face her.
I open the door, calling, “Are you decent?”
“Yes. I’m the only decent one in this house, thank you very much.”
I have to chuckle. When I enter the room, my laughter doubles.
The tiny little thing is lying in her bed, red hair spread over the sheets like a mermaid. Next to her she’s built a wall of pillows, dividing the mattress into two.
I ask, “You’ve built yourself an armor of feathers to keep safe from me?”
“What are you laughing at? My bed, my rules.” She gives me a long hard look, but then her gaze softens as her eyes explore my body. She looks away, muttering, “Don’t you have any decency? Do you people wear shirts out there in the wild? Geeze.” She throws herself over on her side, facing away from me.
I lift the covers, sliding into my side of the bed. I face away from her, the pillows pressing against my back. “This is actually pretty comfortable.”
She gives a snort.
For once, in years, I’m fully content.
But I can’t let it happen again.
I close my eyes, the soft scent of lavender pulling me into darkness.
* * *
Tess
It’s been five days since Rockland arrived. I barely had time to think after that first incredible night we had together. Though he explored every inch of my body, I felt shy waking beside him in the morning. After a quick jog—me more speed walking than running—we were both wrapped into the hosting of Brett’s second annual memorial service.
This second year, the memorial is always held in the home of the loved one. And it basically lasts an entire weekend. A sort of open house with people coming and going all hours of the day from Friday night till Sunday evening. Rockland and I were in charge of hosting the event. We had it catered and despite my complaints, there was no wine brought up from the family cellars for the event.
Too soon, he said.
Dozens of family members to greet and entertain. Well wishes, fielding curious questions about my sleep arrangements from the nosier Beauties. Brunches of meat and pastries. Lunch platters of finger sandwiches and fruit. Dinners of fish and vegetables. Roast and potatoes. Desserts, coffees. The food and people rotated in and out of the house all day and night. Friday and Saturday, Rockland and I fell into bed, exhausted. Sunday when the last guest left, Rockland took me in his arms, twirling me and dancing me across the kitchen in celebration.
We made an enormous bowl of popcorn, hot chocolate piled with heaps of whipped cream. Watched old movies and fell asleep together on the couch.
I was grateful for the distraction of the memorial.
I think I’m starting to have feelings for him. It sounds so childish, so middle school girlish, but it’s true. I’m not sure how else to put it. I’ve never been one to easily sort my emotions, placing them up on the shelf in neat labeled boxes; lust, desire, fondness... love.
Maybe I’m just a lonely widow, crushing on a good-looking man. One who cooks. Makes me laugh. Cares for me. Made my body quiver with delight.
I’m riddled with questions I’ll never ask him. Where do we stand? Did he enjoy the other night or was it just a part of him helping me to sort myself out? How long will he be here? Is he enjoying his stay or is he missing his people? Is he hiding his annoyance of having to deal with me? Ready to go home to his Parish?
Now that the memorial weekend is over, what will our lives look like?
And when will he touch me again?
Now I’ve woken nestled in his arms, my drool dampening his bare chest. I lay my head against him, listening to his soft, steady breaths, and gather my thoughts. It’s Monday morning and I’ve got to get to work. I quietly slip from his arms, letting him sleep. I tiptoe upstairs. Shower. Change for work. A pretty white slim cut dress and pearl earrings, my hair blown out into soft waves. When I emerge from the bedroom, the scent of cooking food greets me at the top of the stairs.
I come into the kitchen, feeling shy after waking in his arms versus my side of the pillow wall. He’s standing at the stove, his back to me, a white towel tossed over his shoulder. He’s cooking an omelet.
“Good morning,” I say. I take my seat at the bar—the same one I ate the grilled cheese at—and sip at the tan-colored coffee that’s waiting for me. A smile crosses my face as my taste buds confirm my suspicions. It has the perfect amount of cream and sugar added to it. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He turns around and when his eyes meet mine, there’s a flutter in my chest—those pesky feelings making their appearance. He looks so at home in his own skin, in my kitchen. His bicep flexes as he slides the omelet onto a plate. He returns the pan to the stovetop to cool. Neatly slices the omelet into two pieces and puts one half on a waiting plate. Places the plate before me and slides a fork next to it.
It smells amazing. I feel a rumble in my stomach—my nonexistent appetite making an appearance. “I don’t normally eat breakfast,” I say.
A dark brow rises, and he gives me that look. “You do now.”
I obediently take a bite. The veggies are crisp, the eggs creamy. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“Just picked it up. Being a bachelor for so long, you figure things out.”
Curiosity rises in me, my chest tightening. Trying to keep my tone light, teasing, I say, “You don’t have women knocking each other over to cook for you?”
He ignores my question. Takes a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice. Gives me a look that tells me that subject is not up for discussion. Pierces a bite of food with his fork and says, “You going into the office today?”
Annoyed by his not answering my question about other women, I say, “No. I dress like this to mow the lawn.”
The look makes a reappearance. “Tone.”
I swallow my food, a lump forming in my throat. Does he have women knocking themselves over to cook for him? “Yes. I’m going in. I went in Thursday, before you got into town. And I’ve promised to be there every weekday. Normal time. Normal schedule.”
“Good girl. Routine is good for you.”
Funny what those two little words, good girl, do to my body. I say, “What will you be doing while you’re here?”
He shrugs. “Dirty work.”
“What’d you mean?”
“Just a few items some of the other brothers have put off. Unpleasant little things that don’t bother me a bit. Plus, it helps to have a face that’s unfamiliar around the city to show up and pull a few triggers.”
“Triggers not being a metaphor, I’m guessing.”
“You know that’s all I can share.”
“What time do you think...” I twist my napkin in my lap, too shy to say what I really mean.
“I’ll be home in time to cook you a nutritious dinner. We’ve got to get a little meat on those beautiful bones of yours.”
My flush deepens and I eat the rest of my meal in silence, his gaze resting on me.
The day passes so quickly, I’m shocked when I look up at my office clock and find that it’s a quarter to six.
I’ve got to get back for dinner. A smile plays on my lips as I stride home. I open the door, kick off my heels, and take in the smell of roasting garlic. I enter the kitchen and there he is. The bare tanned back of rippling mus
cles becoming a familiar fixture in my kitchen. I take a seat on my stool. I’m surprised to find a chilled glass of white wine waiting for me in my favorite cut crystal stemmed glass. Silly, I know, but not wanting to have him tell me it’s a fluke and take this from me, I say nothing. I pick up the glass and take a long sip. It’s cold and delicious and the bright floral bouquet bursts in my mouth.
His back still toward me, he says, “Don’t get too excited. It’s just one glass.” He turns over his shoulder to look at me. Whatever he sees on my face makes him give a chuckle. I put the glass down and he gives me that half-cocked smile. “How was your day?”
He turns back to his cooking and I say, “Great. How was yours?”
He shrugs. “Good. A bit long, but got the job done. Do you like pasta?”
“Love it. That’s probably what formed this ass of mine.”
“Then I’ll be serving pasta every night.”
His flirtatious comment warms me along with the wine. I take another sip and say, “What dish are you making?”
“Doesn’t have a name. Just a little something I came up with a few years ago. The Parish seems to love it. Angel hair spaghetti with garlic, oil, basil, sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, a little parmesan—I think that’s it.”
“It smells heavenly.” I sit, happily drinking my wine and watching him cook as the scent of the food further fills the room. I’ve never really had anyone cook for me, considering growing up my mom thought heating up a can of ravioli or throwing a pastry in the toaster was cooking. It makes me feel warm, protected, cared for.
Flutter, flutter, flutter. Damnit.
I finish the wine. Pout when he replaces it with a glass of iced water. He chuckles. Serves the pasta into two low-sided bowls I don’t recognize. I suddenly feel guilty for all the work he’s doing for me. I say, “You know... you don’t have to go out of your way for me. I can cook—”
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 9