by Remy Rose
“I hate to admit this, Cassandra, but you were right.”
“About what?”
“Your hair. You said it would be just about perfect by the time we got here, and you were right. What did you call it? A messed-up bun?”
Her expression lightens as she tries unsuccessfully to keep from smiling. “I'm not going to lie...I fixed it while I was in the bathroom. And I said it was a messy bun. But your people might call it a chignon.”
“My people?”
“Yes. Upper class...the elite...the privileged. You know what I mean.”
“I'm not sure that I do.”
“Carlo. Seriously.”
“I like hearing you say my name.”
This last statement rattles her again—I can tell by her eyes and by the way her chest is rising and falling. It’s a matter of balance and timing: shake things up, smooth them over...and repeat.
Ken delivers our appetizer, and Cassandra seems like she’s glad about the distraction. The Club is quiet tonight with a few empty tables scattered here and there. I’m well aware that the men in the dining room are appreciating my date. It’s comical, the way they eye her up and down, realize I’m watching them, and then quickly look away. The women are noticing her, too, their overly-tanned faces irritated as hell.
I refill Cassandra's wine glass. She cocks an eyebrow at me and frowns. “Trying to get me drunk?”
“Trying to get you to relax. I don't need to get women drunk.”
“I'm thinking that's probably true. How many women have you wined and dined here?”
“I haven't kept track. A few.”
“Just a few?”
“Several. How many men have you been with, Cassandra?” The question slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. I know I have no right to ask, know I shouldn't. But I have to anyway.
She takes a sip of wine and sets down her glass, her eyes incredulous. “Well, you certainly like to get right to the point, don't you?”
“I believe in being straightforward.”
“It's really none of your business.”
“I realize that, but I'd like to know.”
“You're assuming I'm not a virgin.” Her eyes were flashing.
Fuck. If only. To show this girl how to please a man, to be the first one to enter her...imagining it is almost unbearable.
“While I wish that were the case, I'm convinced that only happens in cheesy romance novels.”
“Why would it matter to you how many men I've slept with? What if I said fifty? Would you not want to be with me then?” She sits up rigidly in her chair. There’s a fire in her eyes I haven’t seen before. “Men get to screw around with whomever they want, but if women do it, they're looked upon as sluts. I'm not into double standards, sorry.”
So. I’ve touched a nerve. Clearly, her past is revealing itself, no doubt coaxed along by the wine. “Cassandra...I didn't mean to upset you. I was just curious. You don't have to answer. It was rude and insensitive of me to ask. Please forgive me.”
She frowns, but I can see her posture relaxing.
“I truly am sorry, Cassandra.”
“It's okay. I overreacted.”
I didn’t intend to stir up negative feelings in her, but if nothing else, it underscores the fact that I have some work to do before she’s ready—before she’ll trust me enough to let me do what I want to do.
What I need to do.
Cassandra looks at me then, her face bathed in the glow of the candlelight. Her eyes are luminous and almost childlike. Unexpectedly, I feel a pang, thinking of how I’ll have to let her go afterwards.
I reach across the table to take her hand—a surprise for both of us—and I’m rewarded, because she smiles.
chapter seventeen ~ Cassandra
It could have been the Dom Perignon, or the hormones floating in the air like sea mist, or that I sat across from Carlo for the past hour and a half imagining what it would be like to kiss him, but for whatever the reason, I’m on the way to his house. He asked me, quite simply, if I’d like to see his place on the way back—not to stay the night, he added, before I could even protest. Just a drink, and then he'd take me home. To my complete surprise, I didn’t hesitate even for a second when I said, okay.
I’m pleasantly stuffed and pleasantly buzzed. The meal was absolutely delicious: blackened striped bass with baby roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus. I probably drank a little too much, but since I didn't know when I'd ever have Dom Perignon again, it only made sense to enjoy it, right?
It’s a ten minute drive to his house from the country club. Not surprisingly, the neighborhood is unbelievably impressive, with houses of different architectural styles instead of boring, cookie-cutter types. Carlo’s house is a combination of modern and classic—brick with black shutters, lots of windows and peaked roofs. Three car garage, perfectly-manicured shrubbery and a curved walkway illuminated by small, glowing globes. Just a bit more extravagant than my apartment.
The prickles of intimidation resurface. Not good, because I’m feeling weak—definitely a bad thing in the presence of someone like Carlo Leone.
Chill, for God’s sake. It’s one drink. One drink, and he'll take you home.
Carlo turns off the car and grins at me. His mouth, his teeth, his car, this house—everything about him, really, is so goddamned perfect.
“So...your house,” I manage. “It's pretty gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I actually prefer the others, though.”
“Oh good. You have other houses. How many? Or do I even dare ask?”
“Two besides this one. A summer home in Maine, and a beach house in Florida.”
He has three houses. But probably a lot of people have three houses. It happens.
I follow him to the front door. The inside of the house is just like I thought it would be: spacious, white walls, no frills. Tile in the foyer, transitioning into the gleaming hardwood floors of the living room, which is sparsely but of course tastefully decorated. A black leather sofa and chairs (no surprise there) are centered on a gray rug. On top of the glass coffee table is a shallow bowl of smooth, white rocks, a black book and a stack of coasters. There’s an impressively huge, floor-to-ceiling stone hearth with bookshelves on either side. The only real color in the room is the background of the hearth shelves, painted jade green.
Walking over to the shelves for a closer look, I can feel Carlo's eyes on me. There are collections of hardcover and paperback books, displayed both vertically and horizontally, along with a few white pillar candles and polished silver vases of different sizes. My eyes are drawn to a large, pearly-pink conch shell on one of the middle shelves, and I run my fingers along its cool interior.
“Pretty, isn't it?”
Carlo, right next to me. Just the nearness of him makes my pulse quicken.
“Yes. Where did you get it?”
“The Caribbean.”
“Do you have a house there, too?”
“No. I used to vacation there.”
“Used to?”
“What can I get you to drink? I have Chardonnay, or Merlot.”
Interesting. Is he purposely not answering my question, or is he so focused on wanting to get me drunk that he jumped right to the wine offer?
“I'll just have water, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back. You do realize you can sit down?” He’s smiling.
This man has the maddening ability to make me feel all kinds of awkward and yet not totally mind it. “Yes, I do realize that. I just like looking around.”
“That's certainly allowed. Just don't break anything.” He winks. “I'll be back.”
My phone vibrates from my purse. A text from Teal of three emojis: a smiley blowing a kiss, a thumbs-up sign and a pink heart. I slip the phone back in my purse without responding. Let her go a little nuts wondering what’s going on.
I’ve got to get out of these high heels—my feet have been protesting for the past half hour. I unbuckle my sandals and slide the
m under the coffee table, wiggling my toes in relief. Bending over, I check out the black book on the table. It’s a photo album, trimmed in silver. I hesitate. It would be kind of stalker-ish to look through it, but then again, it is just sitting here, out in the open.
I sit down on the couch, cringing at little at the cold leather against my legs, and pick up the album. The photographs are in chronological order—first, a little boy in a cowboy hat, checkered shirt, and chaps over his jeans, holding the lead rope of a stunning black pony. A woman stands behind him, beaming, her hands on his shoulders. She’s very attractive, her dark hair pulled back away from her heart-shaped face—I’m guessing his mother. This woman is in the next several photos: one, a birthday party where she’s setting down a candle-studded cake on a table surrounded by a group of kids. In another picture, she’s pinning a boutonniere on a grinning, teenage Carlo. Total stud, even back then.
On the next page are beach shots—one of them a family photo: adolescent Carlo, squinting in the sun, his arms across his bare chest; his mother, looking amazing and tanned in a pink bikini, a tall, kind-looking man (Carlo's stepfather?), and a pretty little girl holding a beach ball and looking up at Carlo adoringly. Has to be his sister.
I keep turning pages, finding fewer and fewer pictures. The other photos were arranged in a balanced pattern, but on these last pages, there are blank spaces.
Which tells a story in and of itself.
“See anything interesting?”
I startle, feeling a pang of guilt. “Oh! I was just—it was sitting here, so...”
“It's fine.” He joins me on the couch, a glass of red wine in one hand and in the other, a glass of water with crushed ice and a wedge of lemon perched on the rim. His face is smooth and expressionless. I notice immediately that he’s taken off his jacket and tie.
And the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.
I squeeze the lemon into my water, trying to keep my hands from trembling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carlo's lips part and close around the rim of his wine glass. Fuck. I have an insane, frantic urge to run out of the house before he can kiss me, before he can touch me. But this is quickly overpowered by an insane, frantic urge to lie back on the couch and pull him on top of me.
I can do this. Bland, normal conversation. “What are you drinking?”
“Rancho Cucamonga's Triple Cream Sherry. Are you familiar with it?”
“I'm a commoner, remember?”
“Cassandra. There is nothing common about you. And the wine isn't that expensive.”
“I'm guessing your idea of ‘not very expensive’ is different from mine.”
“That might be true. Can I get you anything to eat? I don't have any Devil Dogs, but I do have some cheese and crackers, or sorbet.”
I make a face at him. “I'm full, thanks—that praline cheesecake about killed me.” He’s smiling at me while doing that staring thing that feels like he’s piercing me to my very core. It’s unnerving as fuck. And I’m pretty sure he knows it.
Averting my gaze, I notice a lamp with a driftwood base on the end table beside the couch. “This is unusual.”
“It is. I like having some of the ocean in my house.”
“Like the white rocks.” I point to the bowl on the coffee table.
“Yes. They came from Cape Cod. But they aren't all white.”
“No?” I lean forward to look more closely, jostling my water glass and spilling droplets down my front. Perfect. Seriously, so very smooth.
Carlo's eyes follow the trickle of water down into my cleavage. He takes a sip of his wine and leans back against the couch, his dimple appearing. “I can practically hear it sizzle.”
Christ, he’s driving me fucking crazy—making me want to burst out laughing and climb on top of him at the same time. “I'm not even going to respond to that.”
“I think you just did.”
“Okay...back to the rocks.” I look into the bowl and see a small, dark gray stone nestled in the center of the white ones. “Symbolic? Or aesthetic?”
“My mother always loved to collect white rocks on the beaches of Cape Cod, but she would always add one stone that stood out. She said it reminded her to be an individual, to be someone people would remember and appreciate. She liked to collect other things, too, like old marbles, seashells, seaglass, and she'd do the same thing with those—pick a basic color for everything except one.” Carlo paused. “She was one of a kind herself.”
He said was. “Is she—did she pass away?”
“Yes. The year before my stepfather.”
“Ohh...I'm so sorry. I do know what that's like, to lose your mom. Mine died a couple of years ago from cancer.”
“And I am very sorry for you. My mother's death was due to an aneurysm. It was a total shock.” He gives me a small, rueful smile. “There are days, honestly, when I still can't believe it.”
This softer side of Carlo is completely unexpected. Tender, and sweet...I almost don’t know what to do with it. I swallow. “I'm really sorry, Carlo. Your mom sounds like she was a very special person.”
“She was. After she died, my sister Gianna and I kept a few of her collections. Not only to remember her by, but to remind ourselves to stand out, to be special.” His blue eyes are intensely warm. “My little sister has definitely followed in my mother's footsteps.”
“And so have you,” I find myself murmuring.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Is this a compliment?”
“An observation.” My heart begins to pound as his gaze travels from mine to linger upon my mouth.
Carlo is definitely, definitely looking at my mouth. Oh, God.
He sets his wine glass on the coffee table. I struggle to remain calm, gripping my water glass and inching away from him on the couch, my legs sticking to the leather. “Your house is gorgeous.”
“You've already said that. But thank you.” He slides next to me, gently taking the glass from my hand and setting it next to his.
“It's very...” I scan the room in desperation. “Clean. Immaculate, actually.”
“I have a very good housekeeper.”
“Oh...well, you're very lucky, then. And, um, it's very nice how you have these reminders of the ocean.”
Carlo reaches out to brush his fingers against my temple, sliding them whisper-soft down my cheek and under my chin.
Oh my fuck.
“I'm also reminded of the ocean every time I look in your eyes.” He leans closer. Whatever he’s wearing for cologne smells absolutely incredible. I feel my resolve begin to crumble.
His mouth is inches from mine. Our breath is intertwining, and God damn, I start to tremble. I’ve never reacted like this with any other man. It’s absolutely humiliating. But I can’t stop.
I can’t stop.
This does something to Carlo. He begins to breathe harder, his eyes widening, as if seeing me in a different light. He gathers me into his arms—oh, God, the way it feels to have those strong arms around me!—and I panic, pressing my hands against his hard chest and pushing away from him. The slight presence of male perspiration combined with his unbelievable cologne is lethally erotic, and even as I try to protest, I know, without a shadow of doubt, I’m doomed.
Absolutely fucking doomed.
Carlo knows it, too, the way he always seems to know what I’m thinking and feeling, no matter how hard I try to conceal it. He laughs softly, his dark eyebrows arching in amusement. “Oh, sweetheart…I think you realize it's no use pushing me away. As I told you, I always get what I want. And right now...” He pulls me closer and puts his mouth at my ear. “I want to kiss you.”
I feel the hint of stubble on his jawline, catch the scent of wine on his breath as he brushes his lips along my cheek in a path to my mouth. “Please...” I find myself whispering, as I shrink back away from him.
“Please...what?” he asks huskily. “Please kiss me?” His mouth hovers over mine, dangerously, deliciously close. “Please touch me?”
He kisses me softly at first, breaking the contact for split seconds and then becoming more and more insistent. My lips part, a little sigh escaping me. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed, and to be kissed by such an insanely beautiful man tugs at the blanket of restraint I have so carefully wrapped around me, until I feel it slip away.
I feel me slip away, into a glorious place where there is nothing else in the world except Carlo Leone.
His tongue slides inside my mouth, gently probing, and my entire lower half yields and softens. He tastes incredible. I pull myself into a kneeling position, my dress creeping higher but my legs tucked safely beneath me. My hands creep hesitantly from his chest to his upper arms, feeling the taut, well-defined muscles beneath his shirt. He’s kissing me more deeply now, pausing every few seconds to nibble on my lips and allow me to catch my breath. He has one arm wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly, while his other hand slides up my bare back in a skin-tingling trail. When he comes to the nape of my neck, he pulls back to stare at me, his breathing ragged. “Take down your hair.”
This is surprising. Mainly because it sounds like an order. A tiny seed of doubt sprouts within me. I hesitate, my chest heaving.
“Take it down now, Cassandra.” His eyes are smoldering, the lamplight illuminating the clench of his jaw.
I reach up to remove the hair pins and elastic, spirals of my hair cascading down. He’s watching me almost hungrily, and I have never been more unnerved. Or more turned on.
“Beautiful,” he says softly, clearly satisfied. “Good girl.”
My arousal level skyrockets. Good girl...no one has ever spoken to me like this. I realize I could possibly be insulted if I wasn't so incredibly horny. Sweet Jesus, this man.
Now his hands are up in my hair, tugging gently and combing it out with his fingers so it fans across my bare shoulders in long curls. A long, shuddering sigh slides out of me as he puts his mouth to my neck, nibbling at my skin and making a path of cool, shiver-inducing kisses. He’s gripping the underside of my hair, winding a section of it around his hand and causing my head to tip back—he isn't pulling so much as just holding, but with the way I feel right now...I’m not about to go anywhere, anyway.