by S. Ann Cole
“Always so discourteous, Torin Garza,” he gripes.
“Business first, pleasantries later.”
“With you it’s pleasantries never. That is why you are my least favorite Garza.”
“Oh, I don’t have your affection? How unfortunate for me.”
“Dio, you’re a buzzkill.” He sighs. “Anyway, Skullaz gave up their man faster than I could issue a threat. Where do you want him?”
“I don’t. He’s just a kill for hire. I wanna know who hired him.”
“Extracting information is going to cost you extra, cousin.”
Of course it is. Money is this man’s god. “Fine. Just get the info.”
He tuts. “That sounds suspiciously like an order. I’m working with you, cousin, not for you.”
“You keep forgetting I’m not my brothers, Stefan,” I say casually, non-threateningly. I stop just inside the terrace doors, out of view, where I can see her but she can’t see me. “You keep forgetting that you are where you are because of me. You keep forgetting that without the connections I give you, your fall from grace would be hard and loud. So embarrassingly hard your bones would shatter.”
“Gesù, always so serious with you,” he says. “All I was asking for is a ‘please’.”
“There’s no fucking ‘please’ if I’m paying you. “You either get ‘please’ or paid. You choose.”
“It is never a pleasure doing business with you, Tor,” he grumbles. “I’ll call with a name soon.”
I end the call and tuck the phone in my pocket, unable to take my eyes off her. She’s typing furiously on her computer, deep in concentration, lower lip caught between her teeth. The simple, innocent act stirs something inside me. I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself when it comes to her. She’s somehow invaded me from the inside, attacking every cell like a virus. She lives inside my head, swelling bigger and bigger each day like a goddamn tumor. I don’t want to like her but I do. I don’t want to want her, but I do.
She’s perfection.
She’s everything and more.
But I’m not for her. She needs someone good. Someone better. Someone who can take care of her the way she should be taken care of. Love her and treasure her.
And that person isn’t me. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
The Torin who loved Lexi was young and unscarred, emotionally raw and vulnerable, open to connection. Human.
But I lost myself somewhere in Afghanistan. I had a lifetime of fucks to give and I lost them all on one tour. Lost all compassion, sensitivity, basic human decency...
Hardened even further after I started this line of work, being commissioned by some of the most corrupted leaders in power, having a third-row seat to true evil. Shit’s left me completely desensitized. Apathetic. Dispassionate.
Which would only do someone like Lyra Henderson more harm than good. She’s tough, determined, and surprisingly fearless. But under it all, I see the sadness she tries to hide, I see the anger she doesn’t show.
She’s not looking to be protected.
She’s looking to be loved. To be cherished. To be held. To be told she’s beautiful, worth it, wanted.
Regrettably, I’m incapable of giving her any of those things.
With me, she’ll freeze to death.
I like her too much to inflict myself on her.
So with that thought, I turn, walk right out the front doors, get in my jeep, and get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Need a favor.”
Lyra
I PRETEND I DON’T SEE HER coming toward me. The woman I’d seen outside the bedroom window with the serious twin. The woman I’ve since learned—thanks to a chatty Tillie—is Lexi.
The ex.
I’ve been here two days now and I’ve managed to avoid a run-in with her at all costs. Whether I was out in the front gardens, in the B&B kitchen, in the lounge area, by the pool area, or in the deep-cut back gardens, if I saw her coming anywhere close to me, I’d immediately go in the opposite direction.
But this time there’s no escape.
I’m sitting at the umbrella table in the backyard of the condo, and she’s making a beeline toward me from the French doors. My only escape is the hedge gate to the right of me. Which I can’t escape through, because not only will it be obvious I’m running from her, but it’s suspiciously blocked off by the gardeners with a bunch of large gardening paraphernalia.
It’s almost as if she preplanned this approach.
So, feigning unawareness, I keep my head down and type away at my keyboard.
“Hey,” she greets when she’s in front of me seconds later.
Fake smile at the ready, I glance up. And just like that, I’m doing it.
Comparing myself.
She’s gorgeous, no doubt about it. And Latina, I’ve learned. Tits, hips, and ass. All of which I also have. Except where I’m tall and gawkish, she’s short and petite. All adequately proportioned, better packaged.
“I thought I’d bring you this,” she says of the small bowl in her hand.
She sets it down on the table and I see it’s a fruit cocktail, covered over with a cling-wrap.
“Oh, thank you. I’m sure you’re very busy and all, so it’s nice of you to take the time...” I don’t even know what I’m saying. Her presence is making me nervous.
“Eh, it’s nothing,” she says, lowering down in the other chair. “But I also came because I got the feeling you’ve been deliberately avoiding me.” She crosses her legs and looks at me straight. “Have you?”
I think about lying, to continue faking it. But that’s never been who I am. “Yes.”
She seems surprised by my honesty. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to remain neutral toward you,” I reply. “I don’t want to hate you, or be jealous of you, or compare myself to you.”
She’s nonplussed. “You’ve completely lost me. Why would you be...” She trails off and her hazel eyes narrows hard on me. “Do you know my fiancé or something?”
“Who’s your fiancé?” Then I remember the kiss and ass grabbing in the parking lot. “The serious twin?”
She bursts out laughing. “By that description alone, you’ve dispelled my suspicions,” she says. “Yes, my fiancé is the ‘serious twin.’”
“Oh, well no. I only met him once and he was terribly ill-mannered.”
“Yep, that’s him all right.” Her confused expression returns. “If this is not about Trent, then...” She trails off again and her eyes widen a fraction. “Oh...oh.”
“He loved you,” I blurt.
“Sure, and that’s why he cheated on me.”
“He cheated on you?”
With a disappointed shake of her head, she sighs as if I’ve let her down somehow. “Girl, take my advice and run in the opposite direction. That one is scum.”
“I—”
“Speak of the devil,” she bites bitterly, and I glance up to see Torin striding out of the condo toward us. “Look, I despise this man with the fire of ten thousand suns, so I’ll catch up with you some other time.”
She’s up and moving before I can respond. “Stay off my property, Demon Garza!” she barks at him as they pass each other.
He throws her an apathetic glance, but doesn’t break his stride, his attention fixed on me. And dammit, he’s still as hot as he was two mornings ago. Olive-green tee, dark denims, sunglasses, a small paperbag in hand. Couldn’t a cat have attacked him or something? Mar that perfect face of his, even if only temporarily.
“Hey,” he says when he gets up to me.
“To what do I owe this fine pleasure?” I ask through a sheen of sarcasm.
He offers the paper bag. “Jo wanted me to give you this. Said you didn’t finish reading it.”
Frowning, I take the bag from him and peek inside. It’s a garbage book that I didn’t finish reading on purpose. Jo knows that, because we both agreed it was garbage. I specifically remember telling her that
there’s nothing I hate more than the use of mental illness as a plot device, so Jo sending me a book I dumped is baffling.
“You could have sent this with one of your subjects, you know,” I say, tossing the book onto the table only because there aren’t any bins nearby. “You didn’t need to disrupt your precious vacation with a book delivery.”
He removes his sunglasses and hooks it onto the front of his tee. “Was making a stop nearby so it’s no skin off my nose.” He eyes the fruit cocktail on the table. “You remembering to take your supplemental vitamins?”
“I’m not a child, Torin. You don’t need to supervise me.”
He nods. “Well…just let me know if you need anything.”
“I won’t. You brought my purse, remember?” I remind him. “I can just order whatever I want. No need to bother you.”
“You won’t be bothering me.” His voice is tight, but his aggravation doesn’t seem to be directed at me. “You’re my—”
“Job. Ah yes, how could I forget?”
He dawdles, sweeping me over, his gaze like melted wax drizzling along my flesh. He goes as if to say something but stops, retrieves his sunglasses and slides them over his eyes again. Then turns and leaves without another word.
This time, I don’t watch him go.
Because, fuck him.
~
Patrick: Can we hang out tonight? I miss you.
Patrick: Say yes and I will come and break you out of that B&B.
I’ve stolen away to the gazebo tucked deep in the rear gardens of the B&B, words flying from my fingers. I’m almost fifty thousand words into the “book”, and it’s more than likely a steaming pile of shit, but I can’t stop writing. I’ve no clue what I’m doing, but there are people in my head who won’t stop talking. Barfing it all out on the pages seems to appease them.
Mostly, though, writing has become therapeutic for me. When I’m writing I’m not thinking about real life. Not thinking about him. I get lost in a world where I have utter and complete control, and it’s shockingly fulfilling. Not to mention how time flies when I’m in the zone.
I’d just taken a break to hydrate when Patrick’s texts came in.
I tap my thumb contemplatively against the side of my phone. Do I want to hang tonight? No. What I want is to curl up in bed and watch reruns of That’s So Raven so I can feel like a kid again, because being an adult sucks.
I also want my best friend. I want to gab with her, hug her, laugh with her. I want to tell her all about him and the things I’m feeling. I want her to slap me on the back of my head and ask me if I’ve lost my marbles.
But she’s been so distant since the accident it hurts. The friend who was always bursting through my door and splashing color on my gray mood with her larger-than-life personality has suddenly become monosyllabic in text messages and “too busy to talk right now” whenever I call.
Me: Not up for it. I’m not feeling too well.
Patrick: This is bullshit.
I’m about to type out a reply when I spot him, winding through the garden. Dammit. How does he even know I’m back here? I went out of the way to hide from everyone, because there was always someone interrupting my writing flow by trying to feed me. I chose this spot after realizing no one except the gardeners ever come this far back. It’s buried deep from all the action and is the quietest, most unobtrusive spot on the entire grounds.
Yet there he is, coming straight toward me. He’s given me a whopping two days before showing his face again. Generous, but still not long enough.
With a resigned sigh, I set my phone aside.
As his boots hit the wooden steps up to the gazebo, I ask, “What did I forget this time?”
A ghost of a smile whispers across his lips, but I know it’ll take a miracle to get a full smile out of him. Today he’s clad in a plain red tee, black ball cap, and black denims. He stops just inside the arched entrance, propping his shoulder against the post.
“Just tell me the truth,” I say. “You miss me.”
His gaze falls to my crossed legs. The weather’s terribly humid so I’m wearing less than usual today. Denim shorts and a halter top.
I like it when he checks me out.
I hate it that he’s too pussy to do more than that.
Dragging his eyes from my legs up to my face, he says, “Need a favor.”
“Huh.” I drum my fingers on my laptop. “What could a lowly plebeian like me do for a powerful king like you, Your Grace?”
“You enjoy being a pain in my ass, don’t you?”
I act aghast. “I’m sorry, but who’s the one who came all the way back here to find me?”
“About that, why’re you hiding back here?”
“Because you’ve obviously sicced your people on me to keep bringing me food.”
“You eating it?”
“Fuck off.”
As if to ward off a smile, he rolls his lips. Then jerks his chin at the laptop. “Killed me yet?”
“Getting there.” I uncross my legs then cross them again, just to see if his eyes would follow. They do. “Hurry up and state your request. I have a death to plot.”
“There’s this thing tonight.” He drops his gaze, scuffing the front of his boot to the wooden floor. “Want you to come with me.”
Is he...? “What’s the ‘thing’?”
“A long-time client of mine invited me to a barbecue—no, a cocktail party...or some shit like that. I dunno.”
Yep. He is. He’s...asking...me...out. “This ‘thing’ is clearly something you don’t wanna go to, so why bother?”
“‘Cause it’s necessary. For business.”
“Ah, it’s a schmooze and networking ‘thing’.”
“Something like that.”
Daddy has hosted his fair share of schmooze parties, so I know just how important these are for business.
Sweet and innocent, I ask, “Is Audrey not available tonight?”
He just stares at me.
I laugh and shrug. “I’m sorry, but even Patrick offered to bust me out of here and I turned him down. I have plans with Hannah Montana tonight.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?”
Hm. I was not expecting him to know what Hannah Montana is, but I forgot about Tillie.
“When I was thirteen, I couldn’t wait to turn sixteen. When I was sixteen, I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen. When I was eighteen, I couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one,” I tell him. “Now, I’d give anything to be thirteen again. If the closest thing to feeling like a kid again is watching old Disney TV shows, then so be it.” I openly eye him up and down. “Aren’t you a little young to be so damn miserable?”
“Come with me tonight, and I’ll let you choose something that makes you feel like a kid for us to do afterward.”
“Are you sure about this?” I grin evilly. “I might just make you watch Hannah Montana with me.”
He grimaces. “No, I’m not. But I want you with me, so... yeah, a deal is a deal.”
“Okay, deal,” I say with a wide smile. “But I’ll have to go home for an appropriate outfit.”
“Already bought you an outfit,” he tells me. “It’s in your room.”
“Oooh, like the billionaires do in the romance novels?”
His brows knit together. “What?”
“Wait, how were you so sure I would agree to go with you?”
“I wasn’t.” He straightens from the post and turns to leave. “Pick you up at eight.”
“Oh, you cocky, cocky bastard,” I mumble to myself as I watch him go.
I’m unable to focus after that, itching to dash across to the condo to see the outfit he got me. But I force myself to remain seated and wait for a full forty minutes before I shut down my laptop and amble at snail’s pace through the gardens, over the pool area bridge, and back across to the condo. Just in case he’s somewhere watching me. I’d hate to give him the satisfaction of knowing how eager I am.
When I get up to my room, I find
a garment bag hanging outside the closet door, a shoebox on the bed, and a smaller black box on top.
I set my laptop down on the dresser and go for the garment bag first. Unzip it.
I smile.
Just like that, he got it right. Purple, thigh-length, flirty, with a flouncy hemline. But what I appreciate the most is the demure high neck, which means neither my cleavage or bare back will be on display. The last thing I want is to have a bunch of strange men at a “thing” staring down my cleavage.
Even before I was taken, I was never a skin-exposer, always dressed in over-sized clothes, sometimes multiple layers—unless the weather demanded fewer. In Russia, I’d been forced to become comfortable prancing around half-naked twenty-four-seven. It was hard at first, but eventually became second nature.
Now that I have a choice again, I still prefer adequate coverage. It’s always jeans and t-shirts two sizes larger for me whenever I’m going out in public. Today is the first time in a long time that I’ve donned short shorts, and they’re not even mine. Tillie loaned them to me this morning.
What this dress choice tells me is that Torin has been paying attention. He’s more thoughtful than I give him credit for.
Smiling, I tuck the dress back inside the garment bag and zip it closed, then pad over to the bed. I pick up the small black box and open it. Waterfall gold earrings. They’re absolutely gorgeous.
I open the Rene Caovilla shoebox next. Golden sandals. Again, freaking gorgeous.
Who did he enlist to help him pick these out? There’s no way that grumpy, miserable, human-hating bastard did this on his own.
Feeling like Cinderella, I fall back onto the bed and hug them to my chest. Then, I begin counting down the hours.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Because I want you with me tonight.”
Lyra
MONICA AND TILLIE ARE IN THE living room watching a movie when I make my way downstairs, all primped and raring to go. I haven’t been this eager to go out in ages.