by C. C. Gibbs
“I doubt it.”
“Me too. He protects her from a bad weather report for Christ’s sake. I’m glad he cares that much, but I don’t need his bullshit right now. I’ve got enough going on.”
“Stop fucking your brains out, you’ll have more time.”
Rafe laughed. “Remind me to give you the same advice when you’re hot for some woman.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“That’s what I thought,” Rafe said with a grin. “Just sayin’.”
Carlos watched while Rafe moved across the large room, stopped in front of Nicole, put his hands out, pulled her to her feet, and bent to give her a kiss. Carlos felt his stomach tighten the same way it would if he received an e-mail in his private, anonymous, encrypted e-mail account from someone he didn’t know.
Fuck—as if they didn’t have enough trouble already.
Chapter 7
A launch was waiting for them quayside. Gora’s yacht was anchored a half mile out in the bay, long and sleek, low to the water. Built for speed.
As they approached the Flora, they could see Gora, Camelia, and Titus waiting for them on the deck off the main salon. Titus was standing on the first rung of the railing, waving and shouting Rafe’s name.
“Now be polite to the girl,” Camelia quietly warned Gora as they briefly lost sight of their guests when the launch docked at the stern. “Rafail has never brought anyone on holiday with him. I mean any particular young woman.” Camelia wasn’t naïve about her son’s notoriety. Not with the tabloids’ thirst for scandal.
“This one’s like her uncle,” Gora said gruffly. “Selfish.”
“You don’t know that. And surely,” Camelia added with a lift of her brow, “you owe a debt of gratitude to Dominic Knight.”
“It was business,” Gora said briefly.
“It was a problem of your own making.”
He looked at her sideways, their backstory hanging in the air between them. “One I wouldn’t have had,” he said, very quietly, “if you’d told me I had a son.”
“I wanted to, a thousand times or more.” Camelia sighed. “I just couldn’t see a way out. You know that.”
They’d discussed and debated the subject countless times: her first husband, Maso’s tyranny and instability; the constant danger to Rafe; Gora’s wretched marriage; the fact that his daughters likely weren’t his. Gora’s failure, one day in Venice, to refuse the invitation when Bianca had accidentally stumbled into his arms at the Hotel Cipriani. He’d recognized the fraud from the first, but his dream for happiness had died years ago, and he’d begun wishing for a son like some knight errant seeking the Holy Grail. A crucial factor in his decision. Not an excuse, but a reason.
Gora touched Camelia’s hand, twined his fingers through hers. “It’s over now,” he said very softly. “We have two sons and I love you more than life itself. I always have. I will until the end of my days.” His smile warmed his eyes and for a moment lightened the burden of his years. “And I’ll be polite to Rafail’s friend. I promise.”
Barefoot, Titus was racing toward the lower deck staircase, and the moment Rafe crested the rise, the youngster took a flying leap at his brother. With impeccable reflexes, Rafe caught his little brother mid vault, shifted him to one arm, and turned back to Nicole as Titus immediately launched into a description of his new video game in French. Grabbing Nicole’s hand, Rafe drew her up the last few steps. “Titus say hello to Nicole—in English,” he instructed. “Nicole, my brother. And my parents,” he added, with a nod to his mother and step-father. “Nicole, Anton and Camelia. Nicole’s on holiday with me,” he added, holding his stepfather’s gaze for a moment. “I couldn’t be happier.” A blunt warning, no matter the mildness of his tone.
With a smile for her son, Rafe’s mother stepped forward. “How lovely to meet you,” she said, taking Nicole’s hand.
Gora dipped his head in a small courtly gesture. “Our pleasure,” he said, his smile well mannered. “Welcome aboard.”
“Rafe has to see my new game right now, now, now!” Titus shouted, pounding Rafe’s shoulder with his fist, patience nonexistent at his age. “I can beat you for sure this time!”
Rafe grinned. “What do you mean, this time? You beat me every time. But we’re going to have a drink first.” Rafe winked at his young step-brother. “You can show me how the game works while we visit.” Carrying Titus and drawing Nicole along with his other hand, he moved toward the main salon as he spoke, interested in speeding the evening along. This was an obligatory visit and he didn’t intend to stay any longer than necessary. Especially since he was planning on joining Carlos and Ganz in the war room once Nicole fell asleep.
Rafe placed Titus on his feet in front of the large flat screen. “Set up the game, then explain the rules to me.” Leading Nicole to a small salmon-colored sofa, he took a seat beside her. “A quick game and a drink. You okay with that?”
His parents exchanged a glance at Rafe’s behavior. He wasn’t solicitous by nature, or at least not that solicitous, particularly to women. “You know what Rafail wants, Andrei,” Camelia said to the short, elderly man wearing a white shirt with short sleeves and gray slacks. “What would you like to drink, Nicole?” Moving a few steps, she joined her husband on another sofa, one of several in the large salon.
“Whatever Rafe is having is fine,” Nicole said, smiling at Rafe’s mother across the coffee table separating the matching sofas.
The retainer dipped his head in Nicole’s direction and spoke in heavily accented English. “Macallan 32, no ice?”
“Ice for me, please. Just a little.”
“Yes, miss. The usual?” he inquired with a meticulous bow for his employers.
Rafe snorted. “Jesus, Andrei, cut out the servile crap. Nicole doesn’t care if you have manners, do you, Tiger?”
Nicole shook her head and smiled at the stout man with a fuzz of white hair around his bald head like a monk’s tonsure, pink cheeks, a ready smile, and a weight lifter’s body despite his age.
“Andrei is my mum’s cousin three or four times removed, and he’s been telling us what to do for as long as I can remember. Are we having steak for dinner?”
“Of course, it’s your favorite. Strawberry trifle too. Cook insisted.”
Rafe grinned. “Your wife, you mean.” He turned to Nicole. “Elena’s in charge of the kitchen. No one dares get in her way. Not that I’m complaining, especially when she cooks what I like.”
“Mrs. B runs my mom’s house. I know all about doing what you’re told, believe me.”
Rafe went very still for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Good idea,” Nicole whispered.
He winked at her. “Private joke,” he said blandly to his parents. “Nicole has a real sense of humor.”
Gora’s mouth set in a grim line at the small intimacy. Camelia noticed too and smiled at her son’s unusual show of affection, including his pet name; the young lady had made an impression on him. She’d have to find out Nicole’s secret beyond her obvious beauty. “How nice,” she said. “Did you hear that Anton?” She patted her husband’s hand. “You must smile more.”
“Yes, dear.” His mouth relaxed and he captured her hand in his. “Your mother is trying to teach an old dog new tricks,” he said, amusement in his voice.
She glanced up at him, fondness in her gaze. “I’m making progress.”
Gora rested against the sofa back, his tall, thin frame unique in its easy power, battle-hardened. His mouth twitched into a small smile. “I’m enjoying the schooling.”
Camelia laughed. “Enough silliness. Now tell Rafail and Nicole about your new sailboat. I’ve lost Anton to the boatyard,” she added lightly. “He’s there more than he’s home.”
Rafe knew better. Gora was rarely far from his mother’s side, having embraced the maxim making up for lost time with a zealot’s fervor. Taking his and Nicole’s drink from Andrei with a nod of thanks, Rafe turned back, handed Nicole her drink, t
hen asked, “Who’s building your boat? Luca?”
Gora nodded and accepted a shot glass from Andrei. The ten-year-old pearlescent yellow plum liquor from Romania, Tuica Batrana, was his drink of choice. “Forty-eight meters, all aluminum, single mast.”
“With a library for Mum?”
Gora smiled. “It was the first thing I specified.”
“With big windows for me too,” Camelia added, taking a glass of champagne from Andrei. “We’ll have room for eight guests, so you and Nicole should join us when the ship is finished.”
“Good idea,” Rafe said smoothly. “When?”
“Next spring.” Gora’s smile wasn’t really a smile. “If your schedule allows, of course.” He lifted his shot glass in salute. “To family.” After waiting for everyone to raise their glass, he tossed back the plum liquor, balanced the shot glass in his palm for a moment, then added, “We sail April first.”
“Why don’t I pencil it in?” Rafe turned to Nicole. “Think you can get away, Tiger?”
Rafe was playing his stepfather for whatever reason or more likely appeasing his mother. “I probably could,” Nicole said, going along, her voice pleasant. “My school schedule is flexible.”
“There, that’s settled, then. Hand me one of those controllers, Titus.” Rafe deliberately changed the subject to something more innocuous. “Let’s see if I can beat you. Give me a quick rundown first.” Draining his drink in one swallow, he set down the glass.
Titus’s explanation turned out to be a six-year-old’s rambling, uninterrupted exercise of detail over substance. Another only child like Rafe, Nicole decided—with two doting parents this time, not just one. A little prince. He was still in his swimming trunks, his only concession to company a cartoon T-shirt. So not entirely sure whether Titus dictated the game players as well, Nicole gently elbowed Rafe and lifted her brows.
He smiled. “You want to play too?”
“If Titus doesn’t mind.”
“Sure, I have plenty of controllers. Lemme find another one,” Titus replied, rummaging through a shelf of electronic gadgets and tangled wires.
“I have a sister who’s just a few years older than you,” Nicole said. “She lives for video games. This is a war game, right?”
“Course.” Titus’s voice came from inside the shelf, the carpet littered with discarded game pieces. “Here’s a good one,” he said, turning with a controller in his hand and picking up another one from the floor. “Which one you want?”
Rafe pointed at a third controller. “That one for Nicole.”
When the boy hesitated, Rafe said, “Be nice. Give her your good one.”
“Really, any of them is fine.” Nicole had had considerable experience with young childrens’ reluctant generosity. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on,” Rafe insisted, staring at his little brother. “Nicole’s company.”
Titus ran his fingers over the controller as if it were a favorite pet, then with a sigh, looked up from under his dark, floppy hair, leaned forward, and dropped it into Rafe’s outstretched palm. “Your good deed might be worth a prize,” Rafe said with a grin. “On that website you showed me.”
Titus’s gaze snapped up and his eyes widened. “You mean the robot?”
“Yup. I’ll order it when I get back on the island.”
“Tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do you say to your brother, Titus?” Camelia prompted.
“Wow! Thanks, Rafe. Thanks a million!”
“You got it. Now let’s see if Nicole’s any good at gaming. Girls never are,” Rafe said with a playful wink at Nicole.
“Not true, dude.” She winked back. “You’re gonna get smoked.”
Rafe leaned in, kissed her cheek, and murmured, “As long as Titus wins.”
She arched one brow. “I told you I have five brothers and sisters, didn’t I? And I’m the oldest?”
“Ah, yes. My mistake.” Then his voice dropped low. “So you’re going to let me win?”
“Hey, Titus,” Nicole said, flashing a smile. “How long do you think it’ll take us to beat your brother?”
Rafe was laughing as he dropped down onto the floor. “You’re on, Tiger.” He patted a spot beside him and grinned. “Let’s find out who’s good and who’s better.”
It was a thing of beauty to see—Rafe’s and Nicole’s fine-tuned expertise, their competitive drive, their sharp, skillful moves and deft, flying thumbs that continually allowed Titus just the slightest advantage. It wasn’t obvious they were letting him win, so the young boy experienced a genuine thrill of accomplishment.
The older adults watched with interest as Rafe engaged with Nicole for second place behind Titus’s winning score. It was strictly a numbers game: the player who annihilated the most opponents won, the next highest score came in second, then third to the one with the least number of hits. The fact that both Rafe and Nicole could respond to Titus’s moves and to each other simultaneously was an astonishing display of fast-twitch muscles. As adoring parents to a video gaming child, Camelia and Gora understood the level of skill necessary for such a feat.
Titus was good.
Rafe was a prodigy.
Nicole kept pace with ease.
“Is she winning or is Rafail letting her win?” Camelia whispered.
Gora leaned in close. “Hard to tell. She’s good.”
“Rafail’s enjoying the competition.” Camelia looked up when Gora didn’t answer. “What?”
“You might be right,” Gora said, feeling a jolt of unease, wondering whether to interfere. He had old-fashioned ideas about women; he’d also had a lifetime of imposing his will on others.
When the game ended a few minutes later, Titus was squealing in triumph.
Nicole handed her controller to Rafe. “You let us both win,” she murmured. “My troops were dead meat and you didn’t attack. You punted.”
His smile was choirboy innocent, his voice low like hers. “I disagree.”
“Nevertheless, you’ll receive a reward for your compassion.” She winked. “Later.”
He laughed softly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Ewww…are you gonna kiss her?” Titus said with childish disgust.
“Not in a gazillion years,” Rafe said with a grin. “Kissing is gross and even if it wasn’t, I don’t have time. I’m hungry.” He glanced at his mother. “Will Elena take offense if we sit down now?”
“Sweetheart, as far as Elena’s concerned you can do no wrong.” She came to her feet. “Andrei, will you tell Elena we’re ready?”
As they reached the table, Titus insisted on sitting beside Rafe. “Sure. We’ll just move a few plates,” Rafe said.
Nicole surveyed the place settings, two side by side, one across the table, one at either end. “Don’t bother. I can sit anywhere.”
“As long as it’s beside me,” Rafe said calmly, beginning to make room for another plate on one side of the table.
A few minutes later, with the staff helping, the table was reset and Rafe was sitting between Titus and Nicole. “Perfect.” Smiling at his brother, he reached for Nicole’s hand. “Now when does your school start again?”
When Titus began answering in French, Rafe reminded him to speak English, then listened patiently to a protracted, at times fretful, discourse about all the fun Titus would have if he could go away to school like his friends, but Papa wouldn’t allow it.
“Your father’s right,” Rafe interposed gently. “If you wait a few years, you’ll have even more fun. Believe me, I know.” Titus was too fragile at six, perhaps too indulged as well; he had to be tougher and stronger to stand up to the bullies. “If you get bored at home, come visit me for a change.”
“Can I, can I really! Wow, really for real?” Bursting with excitement, the young boy’s gaze whipped back and forth between Rafe and his father.
“Of course you can,” Rafe replied without waiting for Gora’s answer. “Anytime.” He glanced at Go
ra. “I’ll hire tutors. He won’t miss anything. Titus should be a little bigger before he goes away to school. Just a suggestion, of course,” he added softly. “Andrei, would you mind?” Turning, he held up his empty glass, as a flood of cruel memories from his schooldays hit a raw nerve: the dog-eat-dog world where you continually fought for supremacy until finally no one dared touch you. “Make it a double.” His expression didn’t change and neither did the softness of his tone, the raging cluster-fuck in his brain hidden behind a mask of calm.
Andrei delivered Rafe’s drink and as he drained it quickly, Andrei signaled for the servers to begin the meal. Andrei had helped raise Rafe. He’d seen enough bruises and scars from the contact sport of survival when Rafe had come home from boarding school on vacation. He recognized that shuttered look.
Seafood antipasto was served first, along with a sparkling Bellavista Franciacorta Brut, followed by a simple linguine parmesan and a wine from the family vineyard on the Croatian coast. With Titus at the table, conversation wasn’t an issue. Familiar with being the center of attention, he chattered on while the adults responded as needed and quietly carried on their own conversation. Rafe asked about the state of the local vineyard the family owned, Anton’s new sailboat was discussed in some detail, and Andrei’s son, who was in medical school in Paris, was the topic of conversation for a time, Andrei beaming as he detailed his son’s successes.
No one asked Nicole any personal questions other than the most conventionally acceptable ones; she wondered if Rafe had warned them off or they simply knew better than to inquire into their son’s friendships. Although, after her whiskey, and wine with each course, she was more than content to just mostly listen. The family dynamic was warm and cordial, Titus a continual buzz of childhood exuberance.
Rafe’s mother preferred quail for her entree. Everyone else enjoyed Elena’s version of steak Florentine, with a Conterno Barolo Riserva of incredible beauty and several vegetable side dishes, including pommes frites, another of Rafe’s favorites apparently. Strawberry trifle beautifully displayed in small glass tumblers was served with coffee and grappa.