by RC Boldt
An image of me in Nico’s bed assails my brain in technicolor. Although, this time, it’s vastly different from the other night.
In this image, our arms and legs are entwined, and he’s bare chested, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my cheek soothing me to sleep. His lips dust against my forehead, arms tight around me, holding me close as though I’m something precious.
The visceral reaction has my cheeks burning with heat, and I clear my throat. “I was fine.”
I wasn’t. It took me forever to fall asleep, which included employing a ton of mind-over-matter techniques. I’d finally felt an odd sense of calm come over me just after midnight.
“Be careful, Olivia.” He utters my name in that low, gruff voice that coasts over me in a silky caress. He called me Olivia—not Professor. My initial response is to pipe back with a wiseass remark, but his troubled expression has me halting.
Holding his eyes, I answer softly. “I will.”
He surveys me from head to toe before giving a curt nod, then spins around and disappears down the hall.
I’m left standing in the opulent foyer wondering what the hell just happened. Is he concerned something might happen to me before he’s able to get Santilla out in the open?
Or—the question lurking in the recesses of my brain—does he actually care for me?
I’m no closer to determining an answer by the time Goliath walks me to my office.
As I sink into my chair, one of our secretaries, Madeline, knocks on my open office door. In her hand is a while you were out note. The dear woman is in her upper sixties and prefers to take messages by hand instead of noting them in our department’s messaging system.
“Professor Wright?”
Her silver hair is perfectly coiffed as usual, and her lipstick is Plum Delight, which she’ll share with any individual who comes within a ten-mile radius of her.
“I received a message the caller said was urgent.” She walks over to my desk and hands it to me, brow furrowed. “I thought it was odd that she didn’t give me a number, but she said you already knew it.”
“It’s fine, Madeline.” I accept the note with a practiced smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course. And let me know if you’d like me to place your lunch order with the others.” With a bright smile on her face, she waves and pulls my door closed behind her.
I glance down at the message, and when my eyes lock on to Madeline’s neat cursive handwriting, I freeze, my lungs seizing in my chest.
It’s urgent that you call your CPA at J.S. & Associates
today during your morning office hours.
Well, then… It’s expected that I place the call from my office phone. After a quick Google search, I find a single listing for J.S. & Associates in Miami. No address accompanies the listing—only a telephone number—and I’m not the least bit surprised.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. Eight thirteen. My brain scrambles before reassembling, and I ready myself for who I predict will be on the other end of this call.
Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number and wait. It rings five times before someone picks up.
“You are prompt, as well as beautiful and smart.” Satisfaction drips from Santilla’s accented voice. “You make me proud.”
“You shot at us.” My tone is calm and cool. “Why?”
“Ah, mi hija.” My daughter. I barely resist a full-body shudder at her words and how they incite a flood of sickening distaste. “I had to see for certain how convincing you are in a spur of the moment.” The smile in her voice oozes through the phone. “Well done. He’s quite enamored with you, now that you saved his life.”
Forcing myself to maintain a placid demeanor, I let out a bored sigh. “Of course, he is. I’m smart enough to have a powerful man like him in the palm of my hand. I am a Santilla, after all.” After a millisecond pause, when I speak again, there’s an edge to my voice. “Even if I wasn’t previously aware of it.”
She releases a heavy sigh. “Darling, you know I would’ve come for you sooner had I known. But”—her words turn icy—“your father deceived me and stole you from me.”
I greet her response with silence before shifting gears. “You know why I’m with Nico?”
“Of course. He wants to get to me by using you.” The patronizing quality in her voice grates on my nerves. Then she mutters, “Cabrón.”
Well, there’s certainly no love lost between the two. If she hadn’t already taken a shot at him, calling him a bastard would serve as a prime indication.
“I need your help, Livvie.”
My fingers clench the phone tighter at her casual use of my nickname. My parents called me Livvie, and I’d kept it past my college days. The ones who don’t refer to me by my nickname—the chancellor, Dean Harrod, and most everyone connected with the university—call me either Miss Wright or Professor Wright.
Nico’s the only one who calls me Olivia.
Johanna continues. “I need you to keep me informed about Nico’s business.”
“And what do I get out of it?”
“Well, let’s see.” I mash my lips together at her flagrant smugness. “I’ll refrain from letting my men hit you in the crossfire. I think that’s fair.”
“I was hoping for a little more than that.”
“I—”
I quickly interrupt. “Like maybe we could get acquainted. As mother and daughter.” This has her going pin-drop silent. “Since we were robbed of that opportunity. Give it some consideration. Now, I need to prepare for my first class of the day.” I pause before adding, “Is it okay to call you again? If I have something to share?”
“Of course,” she answers smoothly. “And don’t worry about Nico getting word of this call. We’ve ensured it will show that you called the registrar’s office…to check on something for a student, of course.” Her tone is cloaked in haughty arrogance. “Enjoy your day, darling.” Not waiting for a response, she ends the call. I place the phone in the cradle on my desk and stare at it for a beat.
Going into this, I anticipated it would be complicated and treacherous. This, however, is turning into a convoluted clusterfuck of epic proportions.
One thing I know for certain is, Johanna Santilla hasn’t gotten this far by being a figurehead. She’s an intelligent woman—this much is evident by her responses to my questions.
“You shot at us. Why?”
“Ah, mi hija. I had to see for certain how convincing you are in a spur of the moment. Well done. He’s quite enamored with you, now that you saved his life.”
The woman is attempting to play puppeteer with everyone, including me. She ordered that shot fired at Nico, not knowing whether I’d shove him out of the way. Hell, I hadn’t even known.
She believes he’s enamored with me and that I have some influence over him. And while that may be true, I have a long way to go for it to prove useful.
I’ve become ensnared in a tangled web of deception, and the silky strands have dozens of others intricately woven in it.
As with all spiderwebs, though, if a key strand gets damaged, the rest is near useless.
I can only hope I choose wisely.
32
Olivia
It’s Friday—less than a week since the incident with Lorenzo and the shooting. I consider myself lucky I’ve survived thus far.
The knock on my bedroom door comes at six o’clock, just as I’ve changed out of my work clothes.
“Come in.”
Goliath eases inside my room. Eyeing me with concern, as though expecting me to tremor like a scared animal, he makes my skin crawl with his hesitance. The last thing I want is pity or to be treated with kid gloves. I’ve been doing what I do best when life deals me a brutal hand: I continue operating as close to normal as I possibly can. Because if I retreat inside myself, that means the asshole won.
I refuse to award the bastard any victories.
“Bossman wants you to come down to dinner.”
I rai
se my eyebrows, my tone derisive. “Oh, he does, does he?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Goliath’s lips twitch with the barest trace of amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”
With a sigh, I heave myself off the bed. “I’m not dressed for dinner, as you can see.” I gesture to my oversized shirt and sleep shorts. “Please tell Mr. Alcanzar thank you, but I’ll have to pass.”
Goliath visibly hesitates. “Professor—”
I heave out a sigh and decide to go with honesty. “Look. It’s been a hell of a week. I just want to be alone.”
His shoulders slacken, mouth thinning. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he steps out, pulling the door closed behind him.
I scrub my hands over my face in frustration and… Ugh. As if I haven’t been dealing with enough.
With a frustrated grunt, I pad over to the bathroom mirror and inspect the pimple near my hairline. My bedroom door bursts open right as I pull a tube of blemish cream from my toiletry bag.
I whirl around, fingers curling into my palms as Nico storms toward me. Instinctively, I nudge my fisted hand holding the tube behind my back because…let’s be honest. This man’s already witnessed my most vulnerable state. I can’t bear to add to it and let him see me applying damn zit cream.
He stalks toward me, a cavernous crease between his brows. Every purposeful stride is smooth. Eyes flaming with irritation, he stops a foot away, and the bathroom feels as if it shrinks in size by his presence alone.
“Why the hell won’t you come to dinner?”
I stare at him in utter disbelief. “Why would I? Especially when my host is so gracious and comes storming inside my room without knocking?”
“It’s dinner, Professor,” he forces from between clenched teeth. “Not a fuckin’ marriage proposal.”
His words ignite a rush of irritation, and it feeds into my need to regain the upper hand. To reinforce that I don’t have feelings for him.
“With all that’s on your plate, I figured you might have a working dinner. You know…” I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Kill a few rival drug dealers at four o’clock, ship thousands in drugs by five, come home and eat dinner by six. Rinse and repeat.”
He stares at me with a gaze so frosty I’m surprised the bathroom hasn’t iced over yet. “Millions.”
I frown in confusion. “What?”
“It’s millions in drugs that are shipped, Professor.” He steps closer. “Not thousands.”
I stare at him for a beat. “Seriously?” Then I roll my eyes because he’s pissing me the hell off. “Did you grow up wanting to be like this? Did you start out in kindergarten dead-eyeing the teacher’s pet? Or maybe you stole everyone’s blue crayons and then turned around and made them pay in milk money to get them back?”
He eyes me speculatively for a beat before tipping his head back with a throaty laugh. It catches me off guard, the rich vibrant sound dancing over my skin in a velvety caress. “You’re pretty funny, Professor. Y’know that?”
I shift, uncomfortable with his change in demeanor. His eyes dart down to the hand behind my back, and a scowl descends over his features. Suspicion bleeds into his expression. “Whatcha got in your hand?”
Exasperated by him storming in here and attempting to bully me into having dinner with him, I raise my chin a notch. “Nothing you need to worry about. Now, I’d like to get back to my beauty regimen, so you can go”—with my other hand, I make a shooing motion—“and enjoy your dinner and reflect on all the millions in drugs you shipped today.”
He steps closer, and I despise the way it makes me lift my head to meet his gaze. If only he weren’t so tall.
If only he weren’t so damn handsome, too, an inner traitorous voice marvels.
Those brown eyes churn, tiny golden flecks sparking with distrust. “Show me what’s in your hand, Professor.”
“Seriously?” Irritation heavy in my voice, I huff out a breath. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“And you’re hidin’ somethin’.” He draws closer, a foot between us. “In my house.”
“You’re right.” My voice drops to a mock whisper filled with sarcasm. “It’s another thumb drive, and it’s chock-full of guys I met on MenWithManners.com.” Antagonistic glee rushes through me at the way his eyes glitter. “I’d suggest you make a profile, but…” With a withering look pasted on my face, I shrug. “We both know you have shitty manners.”
“Last time I’m gonna ask, Professor,” he grits out the words, towering over me. When he leans in, I back away, and he advances. Each time I edge farther away, he steps closer, until I’m pressed against the damn wall. “The fuck you got in your hand?”
I match his stony glare, willing my body not to react to his proximity. His eyes drop to my lips and something indecipherable flickers in his expression. He reaches out, fingers encircling my wrist, and tugs my fisted hand between us.
Both his voice and gaze are granite hard. His bossy arrogance fuels me, and I lift my chin, unwilling to look away as he peels my fingers back to reveal what’s in my hand. Once he does, his entire body stills, his lips pressing thin, eyes cutting to mine.
With a clenched jaw, my words are forced out in angry, choppy syllables. “Happy now?”
Little by little, the anger and suspicion ebb from his features while irritation blooms. “You can’t be playin’ games like that, Professor. It ain’t smart.”
I raise my eyebrows. “It’s not smart to suffocate me with your arrogance and bossiness, either.”
His jaw works. “Sorry. Tensions are high.”
I wait for a beat. Then another. When it becomes evident that’s all the apology he intends to offer, I can’t suppress my resigned sigh. “Is that all?”
Nico retreats a few steps until he hovers at the threshold of the bathroom. His gaze bores into mine with unnerving intensity. “Will you come to dinner?”
Weariness unfurls within me, and I answer softly. “No, thank you. I’m not very hungry, and I’d prefer some alone time.”
He looks as if he’s on the verge of arguing, but then he stops and averts his eyes. Spinning around, he strides to the door of my room, and when he pauses there, the pit of my stomach tightens. His shoulders visibly tense, then he turns his head, and the intensity of his gaze has my lungs stuttering on an inhale. “I’m sorry. ’Bout the thumb drive. And for assumin’ the worst of you.”
I manage a nod. He stares into the hallway, and the gentle quality of his husky voice spins a magical web of comfort around me. “Let me know if you need somethin’.” Then he pulls the door closed behind him with a quiet click.
An odd yearning swirls deep inside me—to rewind what just happened and accept his dinner invitation—acting like a kite on the barest gust of wind before deflating.
I wish I didn’t feel so drawn to him or find him quite so fascinating. It’s in the moments when that harsh, unforgiving sinister air that enshrouds Nico like a force field gives way the slightest bit. As if the worn, frayed sections grant me a peek at the real man beneath.
But I need to remind myself who he is. That he’s a dangerous man who operates on the other side of the law. Regardless of whether a part of me yearns to see the full, unencumbered view of the man beneath all those intimidating layers…and not just a glimpse.
“I’m sorry. ’Bout the thumb drive. And for assumin’ the worst of you.”
He apologized for assuming the worst of me. And now, a spark of hatred directed toward myself ignites with a vengeance. Because this is only the beginning.
By the end, I’m certain he’ll regret not assuming the worst of me at every turn.
33
Olivia
A WEEK LATER…
“Why.” He doesn’t pose it as a question but that of a stated demand.
As per the usual with Nico Alcanzar.
“Because I haven’t done anything fun, let alone had legitimate girl time in ages.” Hands poised on my hips, I raise an eyebrow. “So, Carlina and I are going dancing on
Saturday.”
One night at my gym, Carlina had been asking around to see if anyone had a nail file before her yoga class started. I’d had one handy, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Though she’s known to become completely preoccupied with her latest fling, it’s not a bad thing—it’s just the way she is. We can go a matter of weeks without contact when she’s involved with a guy. Our friendship is a simple one, and it serves its purpose.
When the time comes for me to move on from my job at the university, I don’t expect a tearful farewell from her. It’s simply not her style. She’s fun and never demands more than a sporadic coffee date or a night out at a club.
It’s lucky timing that she broke things off with her recent beau and suggested we get together in time to celebrate my birthday.
His jaw clenches tight while he fixes a laser-like stare on me. “Assume you’re plannin’ on hittin’ up the South Pointe Club?”
Of course, he’d know that’s the club we frequent. How could I possibly forget the fact that this man dug into my background like an archaeologist with a hard-on for a new find?
We have a stare-off, which would be more than mildly amusing if I hadn’t grown so weary of being shadowed by his two men—Marcus and Tino—these days. Two uneventful, quiet weeks have passed since the shooting. Not to mention, I’m not the person anyone wants dead.
Small mercy there, I suppose.
“Yes.” I wait for him to say something—anything, really—about the relevance of Saturday, in particular. When he doesn’t, the hurt edges its way in and settles deep.
All he offers is a grunted, “Gotta take the guys with you.”
“Of course.”
Tense lines bracket his mouth, and he lets out a harsh breath. “I’ll make a call.”
I eye him warily, and my words come out slowly, laced with confusion. “What do you mean, you’ll make a call?”
Carlina and I will get dolled up, show up at the door and flash our IDs to the bouncers, dance and have a few drinks, and then leave.