by Dani Collins
But this sort of attack? The preliminary report on the social-media diatribe had since come through and the vehemence against Isidora was unnerving. Ramon felt like an idiot—not something he was used to. He was furious with himself for not anticipating it. He knew how much evil existed in this world. How had he not guessed this could happen?
Fear for her pierced his thick shields and maintained a thorny hold on him. He did what he could to alleviate it by biting out terse orders at his guard. “Send a team to her apartment. She’s not going back there. She’ll stay with me.”
Oscar nodded as he texted.
She emerged, pale with stark shadows in her eyes, and checked when she saw him. Whatever was in his grim expression made her sweep her lashes down to hide her thoughts before she lifted her chin.
“You didn’t have to wait for me. I’m perfectly capable of finding my way to the table without getting egged.”
It hadn’t even occurred to him to go ahead. He thought of all the times Trella had asked him to wait outside a bathroom door, suffering panic attacks so debilitating she had been afraid to be alone for five minutes. For once it had been his own apprehension that had kept him standing sentry.
“Let’s not test that.”
She flinched at the rasp in his tone.
He grimaced, but only waved at her to precede him.
The maître d’ greeted them warmly and showed them to their best table, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon stood chilled and ready. The table was set with bone china, gold cutlery and gold-rimmed champagne flutes. Rose petals adorned the white cloth. Three glittering candles stood sentinel over a delicate spray of white orchids with pink centers. The exotic blooms curled around a small velvet box in a fragrant embrace.
Which is when Ramon remembered placing a request for some pageantry this afternoon, after Isidora had looked so pithy about his making a reservation, like she knew damn well he didn’t call restaurants himself.
He didn’t, but he had a competitive streak a mile wide. It demanded he prove someone wrong even when they were right.
“I’ll give you a moment.” The maître d’ retreated.
Isidora said nothing, just stood there staring, freshened lipstick seeming stark against her pale face.
In his periphery, he noted that people were openly watching.
“It was supposed to be a joke,” he groaned beneath his breath.
“I know.” Her voice was faint. She brought her hand up to steady her trembling mouth. The sheen on her eyes grew thicker.
She’d had a shock, he realized belatedly, and he’d been treating her like the altercation at her building was her fault. It wasn’t. It was his fault, for being who he was. Nothing could change it, either. He had had come to grips with that years ago.
She, however, had been on the sidelines. Until today, she hadn’t known how it really was, and that was only the tip of the iceberg.
He reached out on instinct, pulling her trembling body into his.
She stiffened, arms cool and hesitant as they tucked like bent wings into the space beneath his jacket, against his rib cage. He smoothed a hand down her tense back, startled by how slight she felt. This spine of hers was hammered steel. He’d seen it in the way she had shown it to him for five years.
The competitor in him loved the challenge this narrow back represented. As she had held him off after their meeting, disparaging what was a typical effortlessness when it came to seducing a woman, the idea of showing her he was perfectly capable of romance had seemed inordinately pleasing.
Then, everything had turned inside out.
This wasn’t a game. He had endangered her with this engagement and they couldn’t call it off because he wasn’t going back to racing. For the next few months at the very least, she needed his protection.
All they could do was play the part and hope that the impression of true love turned the tide.
“Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, reaching for the velvet box.
Isidora made a choked sound, too disheartened to be a laugh.
For some reason, the sound hit like a missile, landing in a place he hadn’t known was unguarded, making him uncharacteristically unsure as he revealed the oval-cut diamond. It reflected the peacock-blue topaz stones that flanked it. On first glance it was beautiful in its simplicity, but on closer inspection, the complexity of the cut and setting became a reward for a lengthier study. It was quietly radiant, much like its new owner.
Ramon said what had been in his mind when he chose it. “It’s not on loan. I want you to keep it. As a thank-you for doing this.”
Isidora’s expression revealed nothing. Her hand held a fine tremor as she allowed him to work the ring onto her finger, but that was her only reaction. Her face looked like it was made of porcelain.
He was unaccountably disappointed. He’d chosen this piece because he had genuinely thought she would like it. Most women grew quite exuberant when offered jewelry.
“You don’t care for it?”
“It’s beautiful.” Her voice sounded constricted. To anyone overhearing them, she would have sounded as overcome as a newly engaged woman ought to. Her lashes flickered as she took in the extravagant display once more.
Finally, she looked at him. Her eyes were bruised mauve in the candlelight, filled with the disillusionment he’d seen the morning at her mother’s.
“It’s the proposal of my dreams.”
Ah, hell.
He took in the image he’d projected with this setup, seeing how thoroughly he had played to every woman’s fantasy, not thinking that this particular woman would have imagined this moment, with him, over and over, once upon a time.
“No other man could ever top it.” Her smile was harder than the diamond she now wore. “Thank you.”
It was supposed to be a joke.
His ribs felt like they’d curled to bite into his lungs.
She barely spoke through their entire dinner.
* * *
“Are you high? I am not moving in with you.” Seriously, could this day get any worse? Ramon’s driver had just missed the turn to her flat and Ramon had thought that was the right time to mention he wanted her to live with him for the duration of their engagement.
Like. Hell.
Dinner had devolved into a series of selfies with restaurant patrons unable to resist a snap with the infamous Sauveterre. Neither of them had protested the rudeness. It had saved them from speaking to each other.
In the privacy of his car, however, she had plenty to say. Pointing at the ring on her finger, she said, “Exactly how much cooperation do you think this buys?”
“As much as I require.”
His face was impossible to read in the uneven flicker of light beyond the car, but the air seemed to crackle. Her ears pulsed with the suddenly hard beat of her heart. It seemed to fill the canned space they occupied, the back seat suddenly far too small for the two of them.
As the silence played out, a weird fear accosted her.
Let him say he thought he owned her. Let him reach across and act like he would prove it.
She wanted to believe this sting in her veins was readiness to scratch his eyes out if he tried, but deep down she knew what really scared her. That she might let him touch her. She might even like it.
“The fact my team was able to empty your flat, robbing you blind without one person trying to stop them, tells me how effective your security is.” He was contemptuous, not contrite, and returned his attention to his phone.
Or maybe her deepest fear was that he would never touch her again.
A huge lump lodged in her throat. She fought back the sense of rawness, of fresh rejection, clinging instead to anger at his high-handedness.
“So I don’t have anything to go home to? I have half a mind to report you to the police.” The zip of motor scooters flying up beside them, trying to get a snapshot of them through the darkened windows, dissuaded her.
But did he have any idea how badly he�
�d hurt her today? Mocking her most cherished dream, saying things like “let’s get this over with”?
“Can’t I go stay with your sisters at Maison—”
“It’s a big space,” he interrupted, biting off each word. “You won’t see me if you don’t want to.”
It was. The six-bedroom penthouse belonged to his family and she took a room at the far end from his.
For the next week she passive-aggressively texted him, rather than walk down the hall to speak to him. She didn’t eat breakfast with him, taking care to eat while he worked out.
She had to join him in the car to go to work, but she did her best to keep to her own office through the day. He was busy with the restructuring and she was busy planning their fake engagement junket. They worked late every night, which allowed him to cry off his many social invitations, thank goodness. They ate whatever dinner his housekeeper left for them, but she avoided him then, too. She worked out while he ate, then ate alone in the kitchen while he watched the news in the lounge.
She knew she was being childish, but every single minute in his presence was excruciating. When she had to act the part and set her hand on his arm or go up on tiptoe to peck his cheek, she felt worse than an open book. She was a story being read aloud, one that was gauche and predictable.
His scent would intrigue her nostrils, the feel of his stubbled cheek would brand her lips and she would have to fight the urge to draw out the contact. Her physical infatuation was as strong as ever and she was terrified he knew it.
Being alone with him was a million times worse. She was sensitive to his disapproval, and his ignoring her stung. She felt utterly defenseless. It was exhausting.
Now they had arrived in Monaco. Instead of being hands-off, ostensibly out of respect for office sensibilities, more overt displays of affection would be expected. They faced a string of parties and public appearances.
She didn’t know how she would keep herself together, especially when she saw what close quarters they’d be in.
His pied-à-terre in the Carré d’Or of Monte Carlo was at the top of a former hotel. Its quirks of low ceilings and small rooms had been overcome with a clever layout and the opening of walls into grand archways, giving the space a wonderfully bright and airy feel. Its terraces overlooked the beach and sea, as well as the race circuit.
Under other circumstances, she would have been charmed beyond words, but it had only one bedroom. One bed.
“I’m not staying here,” she stated when they were alone, the chauffeur having exited after dropping their luggage.
Ramon lowered the phone he was reading, the distracted lift of his head arrogant in the extreme. While she drowned in awareness every minute of every day, he barely noticed she was alive.
“Why do you say that?” he asked absently.
His power-soaked good looks were on full display in a collared shirt that clung to his shoulders and tailored pants that hung with sharp creases to his polished Italian shoes. He’d always been clean-shaven, but hadn’t shaved today. The light stubble accentuated his masculinity. One glance from his gray-green eyes used to destroy her, and in one glance, she nearly succumbed all over again.
“Because there’s only one bed.” She hid her blush by glancing at the sofa, not keen on sleeping there, either. She had a good idea what had gone on here over the years. “This is where you bring your groupies after races, I presume?”
With one dismissive blink, he said, “I deliver.”
Gross.
“Well, I don’t,” she stated firmly, and started to retrieve her luggage.
“It’s one night.” His tone hardened. “It’s the most secure building in the city and my team knows the neighborhood. This is where we’re staying. Use the sofa if you don’t want to share the bed.”
He went back to his phone like he didn’t care if she camped in the bathtub.
He had a point about security. How did he live like this? She didn’t want to soften toward him at all, but she was being handled by the kind of detail that followed him and his siblings and it was claustrophobic. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the bunch of them because she felt plenty sorry for herself.
She would prefer to be under protection than without it, though. The threats against her hadn’t grown worse, but they were still awful. She knew the safest place she could be was at his side. In his secure flat.
She’d be safest of all in his bed, no doubt. He had never been interested in her and had shown more attention to his phone this week than to her. She was little more than someone’s dog he was minding. Here girl, sit. Stay.
Blowing out a breath that made her fringe tickle her eyebrow, she threw her suitcase onto the bed and opened it, took out her makeup bag and locked herself in the bathroom.
She had squeezed in a fitting with his sisters the day after her “engagement” and they had put a rush on several items for her. Tonight she would wear a backless jumpsuit with a halter front in emerald-green. The vague nod to his racing overalls had seemed cheeky and fun when she’d chosen it for tonight’s party, but as she pulled it on, insecurity struck.
It clung to her backside and thighs, coating her curves in shimmery green.
Ramon hadn’t said anything about the gold dress she had worn to their engagement dinner. She had kept to her own outfits since, telling herself she didn’t care what he thought of her, but tonight she would be judged against every supermodel who had ever dangled from his arm. She had to look her best.
She curled her hair, then shook the loose ringlets around her shoulders. The sparkle of her gold pendant drew attention to her cleavage. With the sinfully high shoes she had charged to Ramon on a passive-aggressive whim, all she could think was that she looked like she was trying too hard.
Insecurity struck as she relived all those times she had thought combing her hair a different way might be the ticket to finally catching his eye. Nothing she’d ever done, whether it was a new shade of lip gloss or a pricey push-up bra, had ever prompted the tiniest show of interest from him. She didn’t want to be that girl again, obvious in her yearning and devastated when she fell short.
With a glance at her suitcase, which had nothing else to offer because they were only here one night, and a glance at the clock, she knew she was stuck. It wasn’t as if she wore a minidress and bare legs, she told herself as she left the bedroom, heart in her throat.
At the sound of the door, Ramon stood and pushed his arms into a dark blue jacket over a pale gray shirt he wore open at the throat. He finished reading and dropped his phone, freezing as he glanced toward her. He took his time drifting his gaze from her carefully made up smoky eyes to her pedicured toes in rose pink.
The only noise came from the distant move of traffic far below the open terrace windows. As time inched along, her insides wobbled.
“Will I do?” she challenged, and did a slow pirouette, mostly so she could turn her back on him and gather her composure. She gave her hair another flip and felt his gaze strike her butt like a spank.
Get a grip, Isidora.
“Blame your sisters if you don’t like what you see.” She faced him again, and pretended her clutch needed a thorough inventory of its lipstick, mobile phone and credit card.
“I do like it,” he said, voice hitting a low note that made her belly contract. He finished shrugging on his jacket. “You look beautiful.”
“You don’t have to be polite,” she said flatly. “I mean, be polite, obviously, but don’t say things because you think it’s expected. I know I’m a scarecrow in your eyes. This extra effort is for the cameras, not you.” She shook out a black chiffon jacket, startled when he was suddenly right beside her, taking it to hold it for her.
He smelled divine and looked sexy as anything with that five o’clock shadow and his dark brows pulled into a frown of admonishment. “I’ve always thought you were beautiful.”
He sounded sincere, but it only made her sternum ache that he wasn’t being honest with her.
; “Seriously, save it for someone who wants to hear it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s time to get over your anger, Isidora. Life’s too short.”
“I’m doing everything you ask,” she snapped, taking back her jacket and tugging it on. “What else do you want from me?”
She flashed a look up, expecting the tired, remote look of boredom he seemed to have carved specially into his face for when he looked at her.
There was an eerie stillness in his stony expression, but the spark in his eyes turned them electric green. The air shimmered as though heated, spilling excitement, heady and thrilling, through her.
It was her turn to stall with one arm in a sleeve, grappling with an outlandish impression that she was not the only one fighting attraction. More like they were both fighting this thing between them, but the more they chipped at it, the closer they were to crumbling and crossing to the other side.
He was a formidable man. He had a special hold over her, but in that moment, she didn’t feel small and helpless. She felt exalted. Empowered.
At the same time, attraction didn’t merely tug at her. It drew her taut from the inside, threatening to swallow her whole.
He’s doing it again.
With a muted gasp, she forced herself to pull back a step. Her heart thundered with panic, which she hid by finishing the yank of getting her jacket into place, nearly tearing the delicate fabric in her haste.
“Ask me that again when you’re ready to hear the answer.” His voice coiled around her, squeezing until she could hardly breathe, holding her in merciless thrall for one second as he lazily reached for the door.
He held it open, sending her an unreadable look as he waved an invitation for her to escape this airless apartment.
CHAPTER FIVE
RAMON’S RETIREMENT PARTY was held in the rooftop ballroom of a casino. A band played all the latest hits and a disco ball sent rainbow flecks bouncing off the mirrored columns that stood between draped alcoves. The guests, some of whom he considered friends, others merely faces he knew, were taking full advantage of the open bar, dancing in a crush on the floor and gambling enthusiastically where tables were set up in an adjoining room. It was a photo op and give-back to the racing community that had embraced him all these years. No expense had been spared.