ALL IN: A Romantic Suspense

by Torre, Alessandra

  He’d hoped for a boy and been incensed by the news of another girl. Disappointments, they all were. Dario had been the closest thing he’d had to a son, and even he—in the end—had failed.

  But that was another issue that would be solved on another day. For now, he had to decide what to do with Claudia.

  In her continual and desperate quest for his approval, he had seen the pride shining in her eyes, the exuberance she’d shown when she believed she had killed little Bell Hartley.

  But she hadn’t. She’d made a mistake. And in his world, mistakes carried deadly consequences, ones that Dario Capece and Bell Hartley would soon realize.

  But first, Claudia needed to be dealt with. To forgive or to punish?

  One option would leave him with a daughter. The other would allow Claudia to finally meet her sister, in death.

  * * *

  BELL

  Everything was different in this place. I sat on the couch, my feet tucked underneath me, and half-heartedly watched a local real estate show. It was terrible. All of the women were either wearing way too much makeup, or hadn’t even bothered to brush their hair. One man was in cargo shorts and Crocs, another wore a suit and seemed fresh off the timeshare sales circuit. But still, it was better than the news.

  Everything seemed muted. Even the heat seemed to leave me alone, the doors of the house open, sweat sticking the shirt to Laurent’s back. I stared at the television and thought about Gwen.

  The guilt was different from when I was raped. I realized now, as an adult, and with a realistic understanding of the situation, that I wasn’t at fault. This was a different beast entirely. The effects of my actions hadn’t been my parents fighting, or a police officer’s ridicule. A woman had died. A woman who, from every news report, had been an angel. Loved by everyone. Philanthropic. Kind. Genuine. Beautiful.

  I had watched a dozen specials, all filled with glowing accounts of a woman who seemed to dwarf me in every category. I had watched a slideshow of images of her and Dario. Gwen, in a beaded wedding gown, in a ceremony that rivaled a royal wedding. Dario, gazing at her with adoration. The two of them, in glitz and glamour, at charity events, with celebrities, and at exotic locations. The photos had filled me with a mixture of jealousy and despair, my knowledge of their ‘relationship’ in sharp contrast to every photo I saw.

  They looked like the perfect couple. Madly in love. Two puzzle pieces that fit. I had always been in awe of Dario’s magnitude and presence. Gwen seemed to have that same brilliance, a gem that could hold her own when placed beside him.

  And me? I sank into a couch that smelled slightly of Febreze and thought of my 2.7 GPA. My job at The House. I’d thought I was doing so well. I’d had my own place, though it had been packed with three other women. My blossoming bank account, which was approaching ten thousand dollars. My foolish pride in things that, compared to Gwen, were pathetic.

  My guilt worsened, my jealousy against a dead woman, who had died in my place, was evidence of exactly how shallow and insecure I was.

  It was too much to take. The guilt. The insecurity. The jealousy. I curled into the arm of the couch and stared at the screen and wished I had gotten to the suite just a little bit earlier. If I had, Gwen would still be alive. And I would have died. And Vegas would have moved on with little to no ripple effect.

  I watched as a man gestured to a marsh view, and listened as Laurent stomped through the house, the lamp beside me trembling from his heavy steps. I closed my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t talk to me, and thought about Gwen.

  * * *

  Night fell on day two. In the carport, seven men crowded around the table, their elbows bumping, beers littering the surface. They were playing a card game I’d never heard of. I’d started out there, eavesdropping on them while I pretended to clean my tennis shoe, but I couldn’t figure out the rules of the game and finally headed back in.

  “Hey Bell!” Laurent shouted at me, and I tilted my head far enough left to see him. I raised my eyebrows, and he waved at me. “Joe is out, we need you to play.”

  I stood up and trudged through the kitchen, stopping in the doorway and crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know how to play.”

  “That’s okay.” He nodded to the chair beside him, a scrawny man easing out of it and moving around the table, a dour look on his face. Probably Joe, the loser. Looking at the puny chip stack he cradled, Laurent would probably be next. He patted the seat. “Sit. Just eye us for a bit.”

  I squeezed around the edge of the table and caught a few glances from the men around the table. They all looked like the sort that spent their days doing manual labor, their clothes faded, beards long, faces tan. A couple of them smiled in greeting, but most looked down at their cards as if they contained nuclear launch codes.

  I sat down next to Laurent, who grabbed the bottom of my folding chair and dragged it across the concrete until it was flush with his. He lifted up the edge of his hand and showed me the five cards.

  I glanced over them, the values meaning nothing to me. From inside, my phone rang, and I straightened at the sound of it. I suffered two bumped knees and a stubbed toe by the time I made it to the living room. Grabbing my phone from the couch, I caught a glimpse of a Vegas number and answered it.

  “Hey.” Dario sounded exhausted, the simple word coated in weight and dragging along the bottom of the phone line.

  “Hey.” The word came out a little too breathless, something I blamed entirely on my sprint through the house, and not due to my heart, which was presently soaring through my ribcage. I’d missed him. His voice, his strength, his reassurance, and his kiss.

  Dario stole the words from me, his voice gruff. “I’ve missed you.”

  I blinked back tears. “Are you okay? I saw on the news that you were arrested.”

  He sighed. “I’m fine. Don’t believe everything you see on the news. I’m doing my best to get this psychopath behind bars.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not yet.” He cleared his throat. “Where are you?”

  I glanced back at the carport, and moved farther away from the group, opening the front door and easing out of it. “Same place I’ve been for two days. Laurent’s house. There are a bunch of his friends over, playing some card game.”

  “Bourré, probably.” He pronounced it “boo-ray,” and I recognized the name.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” I pulled the door shut and stepped onto the small front porch, one covered in a healthy layer of dirt. “I thought you couldn’t make phone calls from jail.”

  His voice dropped a little, and I strained to hear the background on his call. “I’m not exactly a prisoner. The arrest was a show, one to lull Gwen’s father into a false sense of security. We’re hoping he’ll make a mistake. In the meantime, I’ve been handed over to the feds and out of the hands of the local cops—half of who are on Hawk’s payroll.”

  My anxiety about his situation rose, and I felt helplessly out of touch. I leaned against the porch post and stared out into the woods.

  “Any of Laurent’s friends hit on you?” The protective jealousy in his voice was so adolescent, so utterly normal, that I laughed, a bit of my tension releasing.

  “No. Honestly, they seem a little afraid of me.”

  “Good. I know every one of those assholes. They better be.” His voice changed, softening. “I called your parents.”

  “You did?” I straightened, hating the fact that I couldn’t call them myself and let them know I was okay.

  “Yes. I let them know you were safe and that you’d call them soon. I need you to last a few more days, Bell. No phone calls. No contact with anyone.”

  I nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see me, tears pricking at the edges of my eyes. He sounded so strong, so in control, so calm. It was such a different picture than the man who had fallen apart over Gwen’s body, his emotions fraying, composure gone. “How were they? Did they sound okay?”

  “They were fine. And I have men next door, and th
ey’ve created a security perimeter of cameras and motion sensors around their home. They’re safe.”

  They’re safe. It was meant to be a reassuring comment, but did the exact opposite. My chest tightened, a wave of nausea moving through me, and I found my way to the step and sat down. I hadn’t even thought about my parent’s safety, the possibility of Hawk finding and hurting them in an effort to get to me. They were at risk, and all because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself and my heart focused on a normal guy. I should have ignored my lack of feelings and kept seeing Ian. He had been safe. No wife. No empire. No crazy father-in-law who may or may not torture cocktail waitresses on the weekend.

  But Ian… Ian had never had a chance, not against the hold that Dario had had on me, from the very beginning. And that reality had brought on all of this. Gwen’s death. My own risk. And now… my parents were in danger. Were Rick and Lance, also? What about Meredith? My roommates?

  I tried to breathe, worked to find something to focus on. I remembered an exercise my school therapist had taught me after my rape and attempted to find five things to see.

  My shoe, still stained from the dirt. One.

  A wet leaf, stuck to the porch. Two.

  The row of trucks, on the edge of the house. Three.

  Laurent’s boots, stacked by the door. Four.

  My hand, trembling on my jeans. Five.

  I tucked my fingers into a fist and held it against my stomach. I thought about my dad, and how slowly he climbed the front steps into the house. His awkward stretch to reach the hunting rifle he has hanging over the back door. I pinched my eyes closed and struggled to return to the exercise. Five things to see.

  Four things you can touch.

  I uncoiled my fist and reached out, running a hand over the damp wood on the porch, the surface bumpy, the paint more worn off than present. One.

  “Bell?”

  I ignored him and propped the phone against my shoulder, moving a hand to the knee of my sweatpants, ones I washed and dried this morning. The material was thick and soft, and I rubbed my fingertips along the cheap side seam. Two.

  I placed my hand on my neck, pulling the neck of my T-shirt down and putting my hand over my heart, the skin warm, my heartbeat quick. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Three.

  “Bell!”

  “Just a minute.” I mumbled the words and looked over the porch, not wanting to stand, finding a twig that had fallen on the bottom step, a few feet away. I strained forward to reach it, and closed my hand around it, the strong stick reassuring in my grip. Four. Four things to touch.

  Three things you can hear. I closed my eyes. Focused on the soft sounds from inside, the low murmur of voices.

  Someone laughed.

  A car door quietly shut.

  Crickets, loud and persistent, buzzed.

  The constant sounds were relaxing, and I rested my head against the post, my hand tightening and loosening on the stick, and focused on the chirp of the crickets for several long seconds. Three things you can hear.

  Two things you can smell. Lime. There was a faint scent of it in the air, and I remembered watching Laurent spread a line of it along the perimeter of the yard to keep snakes away.

  I blocked out the scent and tried to find another, something more than the humid blanket that defines this place. There. A wisp of something. Something familiar. Expensive. Refined. Wild. Something that smelled of power and sexuality. Something that had made me swoon and buckle and yield and fall in love.

  I snapped my eyes open and saw him there. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything to disrupt the moment, certain that it was a mirage, my panic creating something that didn’t exist.

  He crouched before me, his eyes tender, and reached forward, cupping my neck, his thumb gently tracing along my skin. “It’s okay.”

  I dropped the stick and grabbed his shirt. My cell hit the porch, and I clawed up his chest, staring at him. “How are you—?”

  He pressed his lips to my forehead, then my cheek, sitting down on the step and pulling me into his lap. I curled against his chest like a child and a sob broke from my chest. Tears ran down my cheeks and his arms wrapped around me, hugging me tightly, his body warm and powerful.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay—” His voice cracked, and he pulled away enough to see my face. The guilt in his eyes, the weight of it on his handsome features … it broke my heart. I tried to smile, and his face only grew more concerned. “I’m so sorry, Bell. I’m so sorry.”

  I sat up, closer to him, and felt his hands tighten. I gripped the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to mine. Our kiss crashed like a kite into a storm. A battle of lips and tongue, need and sorrow. His hand twisted in my hair, pulled me tighter, and our mouths became a frantic mess of small quick contact, and deeper, rough tastes. He broke away and whispered I love you in the moment before he reclaimed my mouth. He dominated and healed, reassured me and begged. In that kiss, a part of us broke apart and then fused back together.

  Two things to smell. One thing to taste.

  Chapter 40

  He lifted me off the step, his mouth frantic, stealing kisses as if worried I’d disappear. He got me on my feet and walked me backward, his arm around my body, keeping me close to his chest. He fumbled with the door, got it open, and kept his mouth on me as we made our way into the living room. He didn’t hesitate, pushing me toward Laurent’s bedroom.

  “Hey D.”

  The guy on the couch mumbled the greeting and Dario ignored him, nipping at my bottom lip before devouring my neck, his hands feverishly working under the hem of my sweatshirt and dipping under the waist of the pants. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes at the feel of his tongue against my neck, a delicious combination of suction and aggression that had my body twitching in anticipation.

  In three steps we were through the door to Laurent’s room and he was kicking the door shut and pushing me toward the bed, his eyes dark with arousal. “I need you so fucking bad.”

  I ripped off the sweatshirt, and he hooked his fingers in my sweatpants and worked them over my hips. I reached for his jeans, and he straightened, watching as I parted his fly and dragged down the zipper. I stared at the hard outline of his cock, hanging to the right side, and ran my fingers over the cotton, then gripped him through the fabric.

  “Come on, Bell. Touch it.”

  I pulled the black fabric down, exposing the top of his shaft, thin veins bulging, his olive skin tight. I glanced up at him. His eyes were dark with need, his features pinched, gaze tight on me. I pulled the fabric lower, till his cock broke free and bobbed out. When I gripped it, he groaned. The beautiful organ was swollen, the head glistening with a drop of precum. I leaned forward and captured the drop with my tongue, an action that caused his thighs to twitch under my palms, his legs parting a little to give me better access.

  “Suck it. Please.”

  I heard a rumble of voices from the carport and ignored them, my knees hitting the carpet, my hand fisting his thick shaft. I lowered my head and began to work my lips over his head, my tongue against the underside, my cheeks hollowing as I increased the suction.

  He hissed, his fingers tightening on my hair and he enjoyed the sensation for several minutes before pulling me off and nodding to the bed. “Get on your knees. Bent over.”

  I scrambled back, turning around, finding my way across the dark surface, dimly lit by the moonlight coming in the window. My elbows hit the mattress, ass in the air.

  He left my panties on and ran a hand over the curve of my butt, sliding a hand under the cotton and taking a leisurely tour over my ass cheeks. I peeked back and saw his cock jutting out, the thick head of it swinging through the air between his muscular thighs. His grip tightened. “Fuck, I missed you.”

  I felt his fingers slide along the edge of my panties, pushing the fabric into my crack, my ass cheeks exposed, his touch roaming over their bare surface.

  “I’ve needed you.” His hand slid down, talented fingers playin
g over my damp opening, moves that had my back arching, a moan slipping out. He kept me on my knees, but yanked at the cotton of my panties, pulling them over my ass and down my legs, and I was naked.

  I swallowed. “I’m so glad you are here.”

  His forefingers pushed in between my folds, just an inch of penetration, and my composure buckled. I gasped out his name and he leaned forward, running his hand up my stomach and cupping my bare breasts, squeezing them as he worked his fingers in and out of me.

  “Roll over for me.”

  I obeyed, loose and needy, my legs tumbling over his arms as he continued the casual manipulation of my most sensitive area. He ripped open a condom package and worked it on as I tightened around his finger, my orgasm building, my G-spot swelling, and fell flat on my back. He lifted one of my ankles to his shoulder, watched my face as the orgasm approached, then delicately delivered the sweetest pleasure in the world.

  My back arched, my hands clawed in an attempt to reach him, and he rolled a wet digit over my clit as he fucked me with his fingers, the orgasm blindingly sharp. Waves of intensity hit, my cries growing louder, and the angles changed as he crawled on top and silenced me with his mouth.

  God, I’ve missed his kiss. The domination of it, the surrender of everything as I yielded to the strong sweeps of his tongue, the give and take of his power, the raw energy that fueled my arousal and built everything to a higher degree. When we kissed, I felt more alive, more vulnerable, more protected, more afraid. I kissed him and was terrified I would never feel this way again. I kissed him and—

  He pulled his fingers from me and I whimpered, needing more, the orgasm not yet done. I clawed at his shoulders, and then he thrusted forward, his cock pushing in, and I was whole.

  Better than whole. He drove deeper, his cock almost painful in its girth, and I fell apart, the orgasm sinking, tremors of pleasure quaking as it disappeared and a guttural need to be dominated took its place.