Living with Meg, loving her, yet not being with her would be a challenge and retribution.
“Go out with your friend, clear your head.” Then come back to me.
Remy shut the thought down. He watched her go then hunkered down to strategize an in-person visit with Antony Grimaldi. Trespassing on Meg’s property was a personal attack, and Remy would confront that bastard personally. As he was mapping out a contacts web, she popped into the doorway.
“Meeting Waverly on the Strip,” she said, but he hardly heard her.
The strapless silk dress was body paint with a side zip, and her hair had been teased into some style that could probably best be called after-sex. The leather walking stick and superskinny high heels gave her an edgy, hard rock “look, don’t touch” vibe.
“Christ, Meg…”
“What’s the matter?” she asked softly. “You look as if you don’t want to let me go.”
But he had to. Archangel was his destiny, who he was meant to be, and she didn’t deserve the danger that came with him. “Call me if you need me.”
“Oh. Then…” She hesitated, and he wished she wouldn’t give him ample time to lose his wits, walk over, and kiss the hell out of her. “Good night.”
When she left, stress threatened to fetter him. A few days ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about reaching for a cigarette. But he wanted the taste of her kiss.
Settling for a substitute, he unrolled her half-empty packet of jelly beans. Tomorrow he’d replace them. All he had to do was get through tonight.
* * *
“As your maid of honor,” Meg proclaimed, shot glass in hand as the Hyde Bellagio ruckus pulsed in her ears, “my first order of rabble-rousing is to host a wicked bridal shower that will scandalize Joan.”
Across their fountain-view table, Waverly threw her head back and laughed. The sequins on her tank top shimmered but were hilariously lackluster compared to the vibrant brilliance of the diamond decorating her hand. The woman was wearing 1.5 million dollars of sparkling fire on her finger. “That party’s going to get me disowned.”
“Only if done right.”
“I’m glad you decided to be in the wedding,” her friend said after swallowing down the single malt whiskey. She signaled for another, which their VIP host delivered promptly in a fresh glass with a linen napkin. “Are you having a second?”
“This is my second,” Meg said, giggling. Waverly was on her fourth and had what Meg estimated to be forty grand worth of whiskey in her system. From über-pricey liquor to complimentary bottle service for their table, they were enjoying the Greer experience. Waverly’s parents weren’t only elite, they were supremely generous tippers. As such, the city’s most glamorous venues adored them. “It’ll have to be my last of the night. I drove here in your father’s novelty car.”
“The Ferrari. Aly might feel slighted about that. She wanted to borrow it when he first acquired it, and his answer was a resounding J.T. Greer no.”
“Maybe he didn’t want his baby girl to be spoiled.”
Waverly and Meg both fell silent then laughed at the irony in that. Waverly’s much younger sister had not even a year ago been splashed across tabloids for her hard-partying exploits. Something remarkable had happened to Aly, though. She’d fallen in love. Now she was blazing up the corporate ladder within the Villains’ franchise, adopting a teenager, modeling an adorable baby bump, and—as of two weeks ago in an intimate beach ceremony—married to Jackson Batiste, a champion prizefighter.
While Waverly had only tossed around the idea of eloping, Aly and her man had gotten it done.
It was amazing to reflect on how drastically each of the Greer sisters’ lives had blossomed this past year. The love bug had kissed them all, and Meg, who was as close as family but still on the outside, watched it unfold. While they could open their hearts to men who loved them, she couldn’t take the risk. Clearly, she was immune to the love bug.
Oh, and the man she did love once hadn’t loved her at all. It was the story of her life and she didn’t appreciate it all that much.
“Sure you don’t want more whiskey?” Waverly checked. “You’re staring into your empty glass. My driver won’t mind dropping you at your place and we’ll have the Ferrari sent over.”
A first-class Hummer limo drop-off would be a tad much. Her neighborhood had already been subjected to too many unusual occurrences today.
“No, thanks, though it’d be lovely. Save it for next girls’ night.”
“All right. And since this is girls’ night and our opportunity to catch up on each other’s lives—” Waverly set down her glass and suddenly there was no trace of her liquor buzz “—please tell me what’s going on. I’m worried.”
“What’s going on, hmm? A lot, actually.” A shift of her eyebrows and Waverly took the hint to send off the host and server lingering nearby. “Antony Grimaldi, or one of his people, was in my house—uninvited, obviously—while I was at Desert Luck this morning.”
“Antony Grimaldi,” she repeated as the name and the meaning behind it registered. “He broke into your house? Wh-what…”
“I took too close of a look at him last summer. It was my duty to report what I found. The FBI, IRS, the Nevada Gaming Commission—they had to be made aware. I’ll never regret that I did the right thing.”
“You started digging because you were concerned about who I was getting mixed up with. Jeremiah and I, our relationship, set this in motion?”
“None of this is your fault. I’m glad it was discovered. Grimaldi and Jeremiah’s dad were fixing football games, for fuck’s sake. Ordering bounties, paying off players, the illegal gambling itself? Come on, that’s serious.”
“Antony should be in prison. Jeremiah and his brother will never get past what he’s done. And to think he’s a free man after all of that?”
“He’s a free man because he has more money and influence than you or even his godsons realize.”
“So you do the right thing, act with integrity, and you’re saddled with the fallout?”
“It happens, Waverly. I’ve seen this in my world. It’s not pleasant, but the screwed-up reality is money defies everything.”
“This is insane.”
“Agreed. I assume I can kiss goodbye the hope of being invited to the Titanium Club in his casino,” she quipped, because if she didn’t joke she’d break apart.
“Meg, he’s a sociopathic bastard and he won’t get away with scaring you. Let me call my parents—”
“Put it down,” Meg interrupted when Waverly went for her phone. “Don’t involve J.T. and Joan. This is the exact brand of drama they want to dodge.”
“But you need someone to protect you.”
“I have someone.” Remy didn’t love her—had never loved her—but he was making real efforts to ensure her safety. She was adult enough to accept their circumstances for what they were. “The blind date from the library. He’s also my wedding date, FYI.”
“Is this one of your sarcastic jokes?”
“No.”
“In the gallery you said he’s the guy who shot you, then you said, ‘Oh, it’s complicated’ and shooed me out of there. Now he’s your date to my wedding?”
“And he’s living with me. And I’m crazy attracted to him.”
“And you must be joking. This cannot be an actual, serious conversation.”
Meg sighed, but not out of frustration. Waverly and Aggie and every other friend who’d crept into Meg’s life after she’d moved to Las Vegas to begin again as a civilian—they had innocence about them that she envied. They didn’t have an intimate relationship with society’s underbelly, didn’t know what it was to use deception, manipulation, and sometimes violence as tools to seek a greater good.
She didn’t speak about the horrors she saw or the devastation she experienced. It was why Waverly—her closest friend—didn’t know Meg had loved Remy Malik before he’d unintentionally shot her in
an attempt to rescue her.
“Remy was in black ops,” Meg began carefully. “He and I hooked up during a case in Mexico seven years ago. We were hot and heavy for two years. I loved him. I began and ended with the man.”
“He shot you, Meg.”
“This is difficult to talk about, okay, Waverly? I need you to listen. Please.” Waverly looked ready to protest, but nodded and Meg continued. “Our unit was working a narcotics bust in Arizona five years ago. We were in a parking garage and it was so friggin’ hot, so hard to breathe. Something felt off the entire time, and then it came out that Remy had a deal going with the suspects. In exchange for some information of personal interest to him, he’d facilitate their drug deal and help them make a smooth escape. To know that the man I loved had turned dirty? It was gut-wrenching.”
Waverly sat, not blinking, her fist pressed to her heart, her head shaking slowly.
“It was a cover, though. I hadn’t been made aware and I panicked. Someone grabbed me, was going to kill me. Remy was trying to free me, but I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust him.
“He signaled to me that he’d fire his weapon, but when he was on the trigger I started kicking…and I was hit. The bullet went in through my abdomen, did some unpleasant things to my hip, and I’ve been angry for a long time.”
“You thought he did it deliberately?”
“At first,” she admitted. “It seemed implausible that it was a close-range mistake. He’s a phenomenal sharpshooter. And he’s a brainiac, though not as bookish as your hot Joe College.”
Waverly’s smile was sad. “Meg, this is heartbreaking.”
“It’s not meant to be. It’s only the truth. I wanted the rage. I wanted to hate Remy. But there were investigations and he’d fired for the right reasons. I wouldn’t be here now if he hadn’t. The trust between us was lost and as a result errors were made.”
“When did you find out about the cover?”
“Today. Until today I thought he was an agent who lost his way but tried to be a hero in the end. The Bureau’s seen it before.”
“Now he’s back. Why?”
“He found out Antony Grimaldi has been keeping an eye on me and he wants to put an end to it. This way he can be my bodyguard without alerting everyone around me, particularly your parents, that I need a bodyguard. We’re handling this, so that’s why you can’t involve more people. Don’t mention this to J.T. and Joan.”
“What about Jeremiah?”
“Not him, either. Besides, he’s got plenty of complications with the whole Milo and Izzie thing.” Jeremiah’s brother was apparently heart-and-soul in love with their father’s much-younger ex-fiancée—and tabloids were still enjoying the irony of it all.
“I can’t lie to my fiancé.”
A lie-free relationship? Meg thought such a thing was as real as a unicorn or a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. “I can respect that. Should Jeremiah ask you specifically if his godfather is stalking me, you have my blessing to tell him what you know.”
“So this man…Remy…he’s living with you and watching your back?”
“We’ve agreed that he’ll pretend to be my boyfriend until the Grimaldi problem has been solved.”
“You said you’re still attracted to him. How long before you start wanting pretend to become the real thing?”
“It’s not like that, Waverly.”
“You loved him once.”
“Yeah, but as I also learned today, he didn’t love me. He can’t love, he claims. And I won’t push.”
“Meg,” Waverly said on a sigh, “this is by far the saddest girls’ night out ever.”
“Yeah,” Meg murmured, and pointed outside, “and here’s the rain for further emphasis.” It seemed to complement the mood of the day, but having grown up on a ranch and surrounded by flowers, she appreciated rain. It’d been too long since she let herself get caught in it.
Waverly picked up her phone. “Weather alert. Thunderstorm. Maybe now this heat and humidity will let up. Hope everyone’s slowing their speed and watching out for downed power lines.” They left the table for a view of lightning branching above the glittering city. “Would you think less of me if I left? I know it’s early, but I just want to put my arms around Jeremiah and wait this storm out.”
“That sounds disgustingly romantic.” Meg gave her a one-armed hug. “Get the hell out of here. Go be in love.”
After Waverly’s driver collected her from the Bellagio, Meg set a course for home. The girls’ night gabfest had ended early, but it was for the better. She still had plenty of time to pour her stress into a cake-baking session. Thank God, too, because she had plenty of stress. Talking about Remy had left her on an emotional spin cycle.
I’m crazy attracted to him.
Had that been a lie? Was it only attraction?
Attraction hadn’t compelled her to let him finger-fuck her on a crowded street. It didn’t torment her with hunger for his touch and thirst for his taste. It didn’t influence her to resent every day they’d been apart. It sure as hell didn’t tempt her to forgive their mistakes and forget that no, he hadn’t loved her.
Damn it, she needed it to be about attraction. About sex, really.
Turning onto her street, Meg found it completely dark under the bawling sky.
Power outage.
Did her heart rate kick up in fear that wasn’t totally irrational? Yes. Did it give way to calmness the second she saw Remy’s truck in the driveway? Yes—and that disturbed her.
She’d never before minded being alone. Now that he was here, in her life and in her house on the darkest night of the summer, she was genuinely afraid to be without him.
“Not a good sign, chica,” she warned herself, parking next to the truck and hurrying through the assaulting rain as quickly as her cane and stilettos would allow.
Muggy heat welcomed her home. The security system had a backup battery and she was relieved to find it still functioning unaffected. The same couldn’t be said for the air conditioner. Was that worse than not being able to make a cake or having to remove her makeup without the aid of her electric magnifying mirror?
“Remy,” she called out, feeling around the dark for a route to the kitchen drawer that held the candles. “A little light would’ve been awesome.”
His voice came from the hall and a tiny golden glow preceded him. The light vanished then reappeared with a faint snick.
“Are you using a lighter?” she asked, then continued on to the kitchen.
“Correct. But not for cigarettes.”
“You didn’t smoke tonight?”
“Uh-uh. I ate the rest of your jelly beans.” He paused and she couldn’t tell where he was now. The guy had the stealth of a jungle predator. “I got a candle going in the bathroom. I was planning on lighting as many as I could find so you wouldn’t stumble around in the dark.”
“Oh. Thanks. Waverly and I cut girls’ night short on account of the thunderstorm. The candles are in here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Kitchen.”
She gathered tealights, votives, and tapers. Providing the flame, he helped her place the candles in holders throughout the main rooms, and they separated to carry one to their respective bedrooms.
Dios, the house was hot. Before she got to her room, she put the holder on a hall table, lifted her hair off her neck and changed directions.
Backtracking, she wound up in front of the bathroom’s open doorway and listened to the rush of water filling the tub.
Remy opened the door wider. Candle flames flickered, offering leaping shadows across the walls. “Need something, Freckles?”
Your cock. Very much. “No. Are you gonna take a bath?”
“A dip. It’s a hot night.”
Stuck on pause, Meg watched him unfasten his belt. She stood there, her hand in her hair, her skin sweltering inside a dress that was squeezing her tighter by the nanosecond.
&nb
sp; “Hey, Meg, do you need something?” he asked again, yanking the belt free. The leather serpent hit the floor near his bare feet.
“No,” she said again. She didn’t need to continue to stand here; she wanted to.
“Uh… I’m about to get in that tub and I won’t be doing it with my clothes on.”
She couldn’t move—couldn’t manage to tell him to make her move. It was as if her mind refused to object to her body’s decision to stay.
But Remy didn’t comment further. He turned, gracing her with a full-frontal view as he stripped off the shirt.
Muscles constricted under tanned skin, taking hold of her complete attention. She dropped her hair and clutched her cane too fiercely, taking blatant inventory of the cut of his hip bones, the pattern of hair that arched up his abs and stretched across his chest.
A telling scar at the front of his shoulder had her coming a few steps closer. “That’s a bullet wound. You were shot?”
“On a security job some months ago.” The shirt joined the belt, and his hands gravitated to the front of his pants.
Arousal jumped inside her as fitfully as the shadows dancing up the walls.
He brought the pants down, kicked them off.
No underwear. Just him, standing in front of her in complete rugged nudity.
And here she thought she’d have a few seconds to brace herself or to perhaps reconsider and back away.
“Don’t worry, this shouldn’t last too much longer. The water’s cold,” he said, apparently noticing that she stared at his erection with openmouthed fascination.
Whoever had carved the design of this man’s body evidently wanted to sink her with lust.
Remy stood in front of the bathroom vanity and removed the silver ring. Her gaze tracked him from the vanity to the tub, and it hurt her to remember a time when she was at liberty to run her hand down the line of his spine and grasp his ass because his body belonged to her and hers belonged to him.
He turned the spigot. Lowering into the water, plowing his hands through and running them over his face and hair, he rested against the tub in a casual sprawl and considered her.
The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Page 10