by Angel Payne
As I make my ready-for-Broadway stance, Reece’s eyes have come alive at last. He streaks an ardent gaze across my face, sulfur fire and silver speed igniting so many deep parts of me, before he dips back in to lock his forehead against mine. “You’re right,” he rasps, softly forming his lips over mine again. “And you’re also amazing. Beyond what I’ve dreamed or deserve.” Another kiss, twirling tingles down to my toes, as he wraps his arms back around me and meshes our bodies as well as our mouths. Oh, dear hell, how this man can kiss. And oh, dear God, how I want to let him, here and now, in the land so fond of the act, they named a whole kissing style after it.
Yes. Yes.
Oui, oui…
When he finally drags back from me, his heavy gaze still riveted on my swollen lips, my head is spinning and my senses are racing. For a resplendent moment, I forget about all the subterfuge and insanity that were our impetus for having to come here. Right now, I’m just a joyous girl in love with a breathtaking boy who’s just kissed her senseless on the banks of the Seine—a moment I’m wanting to stick so hard into the spiritual scrapbook, I almost don’t want to ask my next question. But time can’t be folded back on itself, and every subject must be changed at some point, especially when it’s one that can’t be altered for the moment at hand. I stow away my fantasies of Daddy Reece, refocus on Parisian hunk Reece, and get the damn words out.
“So, Mr. Richards…where to next?”
I’m not surprised when his mood takes another stony turn—and not out of affectionate fun for the figures on the Pont Neuf, now stretching across the river in front of us. “To take care of our lodging.”
And yes, it’s the answer I halfway expected too—though I still lean my roller against the balustrade and fully fold my arms, forcing out my truth in response. “And I’m feeling weird about that answer…why?”
Reece’s shoulders visibly tense. He uses the glimmering waters below us as a focal point for his averted gaze. “Because you might not be so enamored with the accommodations I’ve secured.”
I crunch a tighter scowl. “Oh, come on. I’m sure the Mutant Turtle Lair is going to be trés awesome.”
He chuckles, though the expression never makes it to his eyes. “The Lair, eh?”
“The Mutant Turtle Lair,” I insist. “And I’m sure it’s going to be fine.” It’s one nuance away from being an admonishment, but I’m not going to elaborate. Clearly, the man has already forgotten about my living conditions in LA before my life was permanently Bolted—and reminding him isn’t an option. My apartment wasn’t fancy, but it was mine, the first real time I could ever say that in my life. A few months ago, when he finally convinced me I’d be safer by giving it up, my heart had chafed at the choice, despite what my head had dictated. And that was after the man bought a full valley and hilltop in the open space north of LA for me.
“The Mutant Turtle Lair.” He punctuates it with a gruff smirk, giving me hope that my loving shout-out to his childhood obsession has assuaged the weirdness about me not being enamored with his selection. “All right, Velvet. If you insist.”
I pull his face down to mine for a quick but tongue-tangling kiss. “We could call it Le Petite Shithole and I’ll be happy, okay? Haven’t you figured out by now that anywhere I’m with you is my idea of heaven?” I stop to circle my gaze around. “Much less in the heart of Paris freaking France?”
With his head still lowered, he strokes a hand along my cheek. Pushes out a long breath from his nostrils. “Emmalina Crist,” he utters so close that even the bellow of a river bateau doesn’t drown the sexy timbre of his tone. “I may have lightning in my veins, but you’re the fucking fire in my heart.”
Thank God I already see the new kiss he’s planning, shooting like plasma balls in the depths of his eyes. Even so, this collision is like standing my ground against a jolt from the skies, power pouring through my body as he fully and forcefully claims my mouth.
By the time he’s done, I’m standing on tingling toes, fighting not to grind my body along his, and order him to just take me on top of the little wall where my bag sits as a lonely sentinel. “Holy shit,” I somehow find the energy to gasp.
He curls a grin that’s part horny wolf and part self-sure ninja turtle. “Stole the thought right out of my head, woman.”
I almost gloat—but decide better of it. There are too many other things I’m way more in the mood to do right now. Most of all: him.
“Mr. Richards, this lair better be damn close.”
His smile is the embodiment of sinful seduction. “Your wish is my command, baby.”
He keeps true to the promise. Just a block and a half later, we’re entering a charming stone building and walking up polished wood steps to an apartment that faces an interior courtyard with quaint iron chairs and tables surrounded by greenery and flowers. The door to the apartment itself is ornate and beautiful, the wood carved with a fancy art deco pattern. I almost feel like I’ve walked into a French valentine that was crafted a whole century ago.
Until Reece’s soft knock on the door is answered by the last woman on earth I want to see right now.
REECE
“Bienvenue.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard Angelique murmur the word, but never have I gotten the chance to enjoy it without the addition of her subtle little sneer. When the woman isn’t trying to impress anyone, her voice is actually a lovely sound—and the recognition is such a surprise, I smile.
Wrong, wrong, wrong move.
Which now, I almost want to laugh at myself for. After all the other wrong moves I’d stressed about making with this one—asking for Angelique’s help in the first place, accepting her offer of this apartment as the “Ninja Lair,” agreeing she should stay in Paris in case we needed someone with strong local connections to assist with any fuckery that got thrown at us—a simple, instinctual smile wasn’t anywhere on the list.
But here I am, wishing like fuck for the chance to backtrack time by thirty seconds. No, by five minutes. Back to the moment on the sidewalk next to the Pont Neuf, when I should have extracted my brain out of my dick and prepared Emma for this instead of composing a fucking sonnet about lightning bolt blood and hearts catching fire.
A lot of good that mush is doing me now.
As if Emma cares about a syllable of it anymore.
As if she remembers it anymore.
But of course she does—I practically watch it all replaying in her head as she scans my face—and arrives at the same conclusion I’ve just ramrodded into myself as well.
“Bienvenue.” Her reiteration is closer to retaliation but hints enough at a sob that I instantly realize how much my paranoia for security has led to my stomp into a Clifford the Dog-sized shitpile.
At once, every cell in my blood bellows with remorse. Too damn little, too fucking late. Still, I turn and attempt to utter, “Emma—”
“Bienvenue. Isn’t that swell?” She bites it out this time, and there’s no concluding sob. There’s action. She sets her roller bag free with a brutal shove, letting it collide with a little table in the hallway adorned with a single daisy in a bud vase. Shockingly, the vase and flower jiggle but don’t fall or shatter. I take that as a good omen—and yeah, right now I’m desperate enough to grab at stupid symbolism like that. At every damn reinforcement I can get.
“Emma.” Including the dictator’s growl in my own voice. “This isn’t—”
“What it looks like?” Her retort cranks her bitterness nozzle higher, which reopens the spigot for my frustration too. “Hate to say this, buddy, but you’ve exhausted the quota on that one.”
At first, I don’t say or do a thing. After a few seconds of steadily studying her, I retrieve her bag from under the table. My attention doesn’t veer from her by an inch. “I was going to say this isn’t my first choice of a solution either. But Angelique has earned her place on Team Bolt, and if even I can see that, you owe it to me to do the same.”
I stop and wait again. I know
my conclusion must feel like a kick in the gut for her, especially after subjecting her to a figurative version of brass knuckles to her heart.
You owe it to me because you already promised you’d try.
And though the curved angles of her face waver, declaring how she remembers uttering that oath to me, her stance stays as rigid as the iron legs beneath the hallway table. Her gulp is resigned, thudding down her tight throat.
Well, what the fuck now?
For a second, I toy with the idea of just checking us into a hotel anyway. If we stay away from the Virage, maybe the media won’t get wind of us being in the city. The Vernet and the Georges V are both discreet, but there’s still the chance of a greedy busboy or valet willing to sell tips to the highest bidder. Still not a travesty—until we really do need to disappear.
My second option is feeling better by the second. I’m about to put it into motion, gauging exactly where I need to plow my shoulder against Emma’s midsection to land her safely over my shoulder, when Angelique herself presents a third option.
“Please, Emmalina. Just come inside for five minutes. If you are still distressed after that, I shall call for a car to take you back to the airport.”
Well, who knew?
Sometimes, common sense from one female to another really does work.
At least that’s what I’m hoping, as Emma lurches the roller’s handle out of my grip, barely breaking her stride, to follow Angelique inside the apartment.
The place is exactly how Angelique described it over the phone. The décor is a little faded but comfortable, mismatched traditional pieces in tones of dark blue and cream, with big throw pillows that add to the overall comfort factor. In the living room, there are built-in bookcases stocked with classics in French and English. In the kitchen, modern granite surfaces are mixed in with the art deco cabinetry. There’s a gas stove, a microwave, and a large refrigerator. The floor plan is reminiscent of the place I rented with Foley in New York six months back, with opposing sides of the main room branching off into large bedrooms.
We walk in, and Emma all but flops onto the couch. I join her there, able to see her renewed conflict right away. Her mind doesn’t want to rejoice in the fact that she’s finally getting to rest after walking half of Paris, but her body is clearly on board with the plan. Though I sense that Angelique knows this too, the woman keeps her observations closeted. On the outside, she’s almost as composed as a psychologist who’s about to launch us into couples’ therapy—and on the inside, I’m sure she might be wondering if that’s scarily close to the truth. I’m sure as hell on the brink of thinking it.
“Emma.” She takes a seat as well, crossing her long legs and leaning on the arm of the Queen Anne chair. She’s dressed in faded blue jeans and a baggy sweater, though her makeup is still piled on like she’s about to change into a sequined dress and club heels. Her blond curls are piled on top of her head. “I know how you must be feeling.”
Her empathetic tone inspires me to reach for Emma’s knee, but she jerks away before spitting, “You don’t know a thing about me, Angelique, and I’m too tired to pretend otherwise.”
Angelique raises her own hand, manicured nails catching the sun streaming through the arched windows. “Of course. I meant no offense. And please be assured that I do not mean to stay, either.”
The statement works at least one magic trick. Emma finally slackens, at least by a little. When I cover her knee once more, she no longer looks ready to bite it off finger by finger. “But…isn’t this your place?” she asks, peering around again.
“Yes and no,” Angelique answers. “I am renting it through an alias identity. It…” She cuts in on herself with a choked sputter but recovers with a petite cough. “It is where…” She pushes to her feet and spins from us. “Dario and I used to meet here.” With one hand, she swipes beneath both eyes. “When…when we could. When the Consortium was not watching so intently.” Her shoulders visibly tauten, even beneath the thick sweater. “It was only possible for a few times, but we were so happy. There was never a need to go out, to go anywhere. All of Paris just floated by on the river, outside the bedroom windows. As for getting to see the rest of the world…I only had to look into his eyes.”
As soon as she whispers it, I rivet my gaze back to Emma. And watch the conflict race across her twisting profile. And see every thought that races across her mind, as plain as every new angle that takes over her graceful features. At first, she looks ready to give in to another sob. She’s hit by Angelique’s heartache like it’s ridden another sunbeam down to the couch. But all too quickly, she hardens her jaw, clearly fighting the empathy she feels for the woman who delivered me to the Source and into the hands of Faline and her flunkies. Not to be ignored is the final monster who invades her countenance—the not-so-little green monster that reminds her exactly how the woman led me to my damnation. By my cock.
A truth that Angelique unknowingly rubs in while stepping back around, her posture elegant and her long legs eating up the room’s floor space despite the sorrow still brimming in her huge green eyes. “Je désolée. I wanted to stay and show you where everything is, but…I just cannot…”
“It’s all right, Angie.” I rise, compelled by the anguish in her eyes, yanking her into a hug. “I’m sure we’ll figure it all out.”
She doesn’t return the embrace. Her form is as stiff as wood, and her reply is like a puppet carved from the stuff. “Ummm…all right.”
And only then, like the idiot I really am, do I realize I’ve just doubled the size of the big dog shitpile and have rolled every inch of myself in the damn stuff.
Angie.
Fuck.
Angie.
Then this hug.
Especially this hug.
“Goddamnit.” I’m saved from having to hurl Angelique away by her own determined jolt back—but by the time I whirl to try to save my own bacon with the only woman in the room who really matters, I’m gaping at an empty couch. “Goddamnit!”
And because the universe really wants to put a cherry on the fuck-up sundae, my final syllable is overshot by the slam of the bedroom door across the living room.
Angelique clears her throat with delicate care. The sound is comforting, and I’m beyond grateful she has the tact not to back it up with any more physical moves—unlike the dumbass with whom she’s standing.
“I suppose I shall leave now,” she murmurs. “If you have any questions about the apartment, you have my new cell, mon ami—but please remember, if she is holding a knife and you are holding your penis, the emergency line in France is one-one-two.”
“Thanks.” My mutter coincides with the slam of the door, leaving me to slide into a chair for a few minutes to weigh out my goddamned options.
The problem is, I’m not clear about what those are.
I’m not usually the one in this fucking position.
Okay, revision…
I’ve probably been the one in this position plenty of times but have simply chosen not to be anymore. In my life, the exit door has always been clearly marked, well-oiled, and happily used.
The exit door is not a fucking option here.
Which means…plan two.
Fighting for the right to stay.
Fighting…for us.
There’s just one little hitch to that particular plan.
I don’t have a clue how to start. And something—like, ohhhh, the voice of goddamned reason?—tells me that a Google search isn’t the key for quality content there either.
I’m going to have to do exactly what I promised Emma I would.
Come clean.
Expose all that’s really me.
And holy fuck…I hope like hell it’s enough.
Chapter Four
Emma
I drift in the Neverland between sleep and consciousness, not wanting to leave—especially because my first rational thought has consisted of nothing but uck.
I know, I know—not the most mature way of describ
ing the situation, though probably the most accurate. And regrettably, because most of that shit is aimed right back at myself.
Uck.
Because I was dumb enough to start thinking that maybe, just for a little while longer, Reece and I could continue playing the Paris honeymoon ruse. That we’d come to this beautiful place just to get more of each other, thinking of nothing but drinking great wine, eating a thousand kinds of cheese, and madly fucking each other’s brains out.
Uck.
Because I also lost my respect for the real reason we came. Reece’s anticipation of getting back on good footing with his family again so we can get to the truth behind the bizarre evidence linking both Tyce and Lawson back to the Consortium.
Uck.
Because even after promising Reece that I’d work on being more benevolent to Angelique, I shut down the very second I laid eyes on her. No. That wasn’t just shutting down. It was freaking out, ramping up, and checking all the way out.
Leading to the last and most awful uck.
Her heartfelt confession. Her heartbreaking tears. Her heartrending goodbye—all the way up to the point that Reece felt like giving her “heart” some extra attention of his own.
And the way my heart had instantly reacted.
Not seeing a woman who was hurting or the generosity of the man needing to comfort her.
Only feeling like the dorky girl from the OC who didn’t belong in the same room with “the worldly ones.” The woman who couldn’t show him half the moves in Angie’s sexual repertoire. The one who’d always be less sophisticated, less knowledgeable, less elegant, less connected…
Just less than.
“Uck.” The need to acknowledge it with volume overrides the yearning to stay hidden in the bedroom—where I’ve been avoiding the confrontation he and I will eventually have to face. Though I’ve heard him come and go a few times, he’s never stayed, for which I’ve been both grateful and regretful. While the man is being respectful of my need for “rest,” I also know he won’t let this tension fester. I’ve known this about him ever since learning he’s the man in the Bolt leathers. In many ways, watching the man zero in on criminals is a lesson about how he deals with relationship issues. Direct attention. Complete demand. Laser focus on identifying and then destroying the core of the problem.