by Donna Alam
‘Rose?’ I drop the mail to the table, suddenly noticing the absence of noise. There is usually a hum of a TV from the den or the newly installed flat screen in the kitchen, music playing somewhere, the shuffle of her feet as she dances to the beat. Though the lights burn bright in the hallway, the rooms I pass are dark and still. Salon, formal dining room, sitting room, music room, library, or den; I duck my head into each, just in case, as I make my way to the back of the house when I notice light coming from the kitchen. But there’s no sign of Rose.
My fist clamps around my heart as I take the treads of the second staircase two at a time. I’ve had a particularly trying day. One where I might have, possibly, once again faced my own mortality, if not for the vigilance of a member of staff. I had a meeting in Turin, Italy—just a forty-minute helicopter flight away—but when I arrived at the helipad, I found my usual pilot arguing with a new member of the maintenance crew. It seems the engineer noticed an irregularity with a lubricant that had been used for the rotors, and used for quite some time, as I understand. It wasn’t an irregularity but an error, an error that hadn’t been picked up at the one-hundred-hour maintenance check just last week. The engineer was trying to make the pilot understand the potential for an accident, while the pilot could only see that the previous week’s maintenance report as proof of all was well. An error, not a case of tampering. Probably. Though still a potentially costly one, and not just in terms of possible repair expenses. An unsuitable lubricant causes erosion, which would have, at some point, resulted in a mechanical failure. Possibly in midair.
Needless to say, I did not fly to Turin in my own helicopter but in a hire. An investigation is underway, but it appears to be a case of human error on the part of the old engineer. Words that are easily said. Words that have no effect on the chill currently creeping up my spine.
A low light shines from under our bedroom door as I push it open, my heart rising to my throat.
‘Rose?’
No answer, not as I push the door wide and—
‘Honey, you’re home.’ I hear her before I see her, the warmth in her voice thawing my internal chill.
‘There you are.’
She lifts her chin, an act of courage, not of enquiry, as the colour in her cheeks reflects the blush pink colour of the velvet chair she’s lounging on. Her toenails are painted a similar shade, her nail polish one of just three things she appears to be wearing.
Pink nail polish. A man’s tie. A white shirt that I believe is mine.
Home. I am home. I step farther into the room, pushing my hands in my pockets as I will my heart to still. She’s here. She’s okay. She’s my home, and no matter what, she always will be.
‘Have you been looking for me?’
Only my whole life, I almost answer because how do you look for something you didn’t realise you needed. But I do need her. I’ve needed her all along.
‘What have we got here?’ I make a path to the ottoman as she points her toes, my gaze crawling from there up the length of her toned legs. In one hand, she holds a crystal tumbler by the rim, something tawny contained, as her other draws soft circles against the silky pile of the chair arm.
‘I bought you a present. From Glenna,’ she adds, in response to my slight frown. ‘Only you wouldn’t know who Glenna Goodman is.’ Her eyes are beguiling, even as she raises her brows.
‘Ah, the dressmaker.’
‘Not even close,’ she says with a tiny laugh. ‘I’m not sure a dressmaker would make one of these.’ She toys with the thin end of the tie she’s wearing looped casually around her neck. The outer side lies down the length of her torso, pointing like an arrow to the heaven between her legs.
‘And what is that?’ My tone is pondering as I bring my hand to my chin. ‘Do you think someone needs direction? Is it perhaps a subtle hint?’
‘It’s a gift.’ She arches a little in the chair, the cotton of my shirt exposing the bud of her nipple. She is a gift, from the way her dark hair gleams in the candlelight and the way it licks at her skin. Her gift is in the heat of her gaze and the way she lowers her lashes as though to conceal it.
‘What are you doing?’ There’s a tremble in her voice as I wrap my hand around the back of her knee, desire, not nervousness, I decide, as I take a seat on the ottoman between her legs.
‘I’m following directions,’ I murmur, pressing my mouth to the inside of her knee, keeping it there with a deep inhale. I know the scent of her intimately now, like a favourite perfume, the taste of her beckoning. Her sharp gasp twists at my insides as I reach out and drag my finger down the red silken path, her held breath becoming a sigh as I lift her knee and hook it over the arm of the chair, spreading her for my gaze. Pink, and lush, and ripe. I take the glass from her hand and bring it to my lips. Cognac, the good stuff.
‘I was supposed to be doing something nice for you.’
I watch her over the rim of the glass. Rose with the soft skin and the raw kind of beauty. Only she would think I deserve good things.
‘Oh, Rose, I do love you. But nice is the least of the things I’m about to do to you.’
‘Here.’ Rhett drops a large envelope to my desk, sinking into the chair on the opposite side. I don’t normally work from the chateau, but when Rhett called to say he had a package to drop off, I decided speaking with him in away from prying eyes would be preferable.
‘What is it?’ I narrow my gaze at him, not entirely sure why I’m asking as a fist tightens my innards.
‘The information from the PI. It came by courier this afternoon.’
Pulling open a drawer in my desk, I drop it to the darkness it deserves. ‘I assume you haven’t opened it.’
His brows pull down. ‘What do you think? You asked me not to, so I didn’t. Even though I think you’re being a colossal arsehole in not opening them yourself.’
‘For the final time, not that I have to explain myself to you, but Rose had nothing to do with what happened back in March, and whatever she was to Emile, I’ve already decided I don’t want to know.’ She isn’t my sister, and whatever fucked-up thing he thinks she’s guilty of, he’s wrong. I know it. And I have plans for the content of this envelope. At some point, Rose will need to know the truth. Or at least some of it.
‘There’s a story behind this, and you know there is. You don’t leave that kind of money to some woman you’ve never met. Someone you’ve no connection to. But I was thinking.’ He sits suddenly forward in the chair, his fingers at his darkly stubbled chin. ‘Could she be some other debt. Maybe that fucker Ben’s half-sister. Someone Emile might’ve felt honour bound to look after?’
‘Emile had no honour,’ I reply, slamming the drawer shut. ‘And whatever is in that envelope is of no interest to me.’ At this moment, at least. All the same, I make a mental note to take it into the office to be locked in the safe with the rest of the investigator's work.
‘Not even what happened to your motorbike? You were still pretty pissed off last time we spoke.’
‘Was that supposed to be provoking?’ I ask in a drawling tone as I relax back into my chair. But Rhett just stares back, his expression inscrutable. Fuck him and his poker face, even if he’s right. I’d owned that bike less than a week, but more than that, I don’t like the idea that it now belongs to someone else through my own stupidity. With a sigh, I give into the urge. ‘So, did he talk, this hardened criminal of yours?’
Rhett curls his hands around the arms. As one corner of his mouth kicks up, I know the answer. ‘Nah. The PI offered him money, but the fella got a Bobby big balls complex as if he was some fucking Don.’
‘Extortion?’
‘Pretty much.’ He shrugs.
‘So that is the end of the road.’
‘The end of the road where you fell off your bike. Or you were pushed? Did you fall off a damaged passerelle, or did someone take a crowbar to your head?’
‘Yet, I’m still here.’ I spread my hands, though I feel less than magnanimous.
&
nbsp; ‘Yep, here you are even after the bike and the boat, and even after someone used the wrong lube and you were nearly fucked dry.’
The helicopter, of course.
‘And by fucked dry, you mean fucked dead.’
‘What’s there to smile about?’ he asks, both annoyed and perplexed.
He doesn’t need to know I’m thinking about Rose remembering the way she complimented my cursing, my mind slipping to last night, and how she’d enjoyed the other ways I’d used my tongue. I’d devoured her as she’d writhed between my face and the velvet chair, taking her pleasure, taking all I had to give. She’d crawled over to me then, her movements as sinuous as my shirt was wrinkled, her fingers at my shirt, my belt, feeding my cock between her legs. And as my tongue traced the rise and fall of her breasts, the pointed tips, she’d stripped the day from me, kissed away my dread. Scoured my thoughts of what might’ve been. Of what is.
Am I three times lucky? Or three times almost dead?
She’d taken me on a slow ride to heaven as I’d realised I’d never ever feel her enough, be inside her deep enough, be enough for her in this or any other life.
Rhett’s voice brings me back to the moment all at once. The helicopter.
‘You could’ve been killed.’
‘So, you heard.’
‘Some head of security I would be if I hadn’t. Do you think the lads don’t report back to me?’
‘I want you to double the security of the house.’ My answer takes the conversation in another direction but not as a diversion. It’s more a gut reaction.
‘Okay.’ He sits straighter in his chair. ‘But fuck the house. You need close personal protection because some fucker is trying to do you in.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Corporate or personal, d’you reckon?’
‘I’ll leave that discovery to you.’
‘Thank the fucking Lord.’ He smiles like the devil himself, his voice like the action of rubbing his hands together. ‘Want to tell me why? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been telling you to pull your head out of your arse for months, but why the change of heart?’
Because I have something to lose now. Because these no longer feel like coincidences. ‘A precaution,’ I answer instead. ‘I want someone watching Rose, too.’
‘Ha, that last one might be problematic. She’d take to close personal protection like a dog losing its balls, I assume?’
‘I’ll talk to her about it.’ Or not. ‘We could keep it remote for now.’
‘A tail you mean?’
His tone isn’t lost on me. ‘I want her protected, not watched.’
‘Yeah, sure. Because those aren’t the same.’ He pauses, the look he sends my way almost penetrating. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
My gaze slides to the window and the expanse of blue beyond. ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’ A sense of foreboding, I suppose. A sense that all is not well.
‘That’s hardly surprising, given what’s happened to you lately. Normal people might even seek some counselling.’
The look I send him could best be described as withering. I don’t need help. How I feel is not superstition, and I’m not at all sure it’s suspicion, either. Could it be a fear of fragility, rooted in how I’m still keeping the truth from her?
I twist my laptop to face me, opening up a new email.
‘Fine. Don’t answer. I’m just the hired help, after all.’
‘Just do it, Rhett. Please.’ As my gaze flicks his way, his expression reflects his surprise.
‘Yeah, no problem. But we’re upping your security, yeah? Because, I tell you, these midnight meanders through the marina aren’t gonna do you any good.’
I consider it as I type out an email to the head of my legal team to schedule an appointment for reasons both private and personal.
Security for me has been, up until now, concentrated on securing my estate, my property, and my information, not close personal protection.
Of course, I’m mindful of those who might like to exact revenge for business decisions that have affected them, events that they may deem unjust or unfair. And there have been threats. But no action. And in Monaco, I’ve always felt safe. I’ve required close personal protection only while travelling and only ever as a precaution. But it seems all of that should change.
I have someone now I don’t want to lose.
Someone I would like not to cause any more pain.
Any more pain than I have to.
I close my laptop and look up as I answer, ‘Yes, I think we should.’
43
Rose
‘I got you one of those disgustingly healthy green juice things, and protein bowl.’
I push the door closed with my butt, sliding the key card to Remy’s office into my pocket, my nose almost in the brown paper bag. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat has been cut. ‘I also got you extra chicken,’ I sing, my words heavy with meaning as I smile to myself thinking about what he’d said last night. We were in bed, legs tangled in the sheets and chests still heaving, when he’d made a very un-Remy like comment about his testicles being drained.
‘I figured a little extra zinc might . . .’ My words trail away as I look up and realise not only is Remy not sitting at his desk, but he’s also not alone. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Miss Bisset wasn’t at her desk.’ I take a step backwards. Abort! Abort! ‘I didn’t realise you were busy. I can just come back later.’
‘Rose.’ Remy stands from the ultra-modern couch setting, gesturing me closer. ‘I don’t believe you’ve met my mother, Josephine.’
Ah. That would be no. And here comes the meeting I’ve been dreading. His mom smiles as she glances my way, but not before I see the particularly eloquent look she gifts Remy. They’ve been talking about me. Oh, boy. That’s a conversation I would not like to hear about.
Here goes nothing.
How did you meet my son, Rose? Well, you see, I scraped him off the pavement in San Francisco. He had a head injury, and I screwed him so hard I think I might’ve made it worse because apparently, he’s in love with me. Crazy, right?
‘No,’ I squeak. ‘I have not had that pleasure.’ I put down the bag containing our lunches, mourning the fact that my chicken pesto wrap will be mush before I get to it. ‘It’s so lovely to finally meet you,’ I positively gush. ‘Remy’s told me so much about you.’
‘You have that advantage over me, my dear,’ she says, proffering a dainty hand. A dainty hand with buff coloured nails and a grip like a WWE wrestler. Her voice, like her person, is very refined. Perfect English with just a tiny inflection of an accent. ‘My darling son has told me nothing about you. In fact, it was only this morning I heard he’d been in the hospital.’
Someone’s in trou-ble!
And for the record, what Remy has told me about his mom I could write on the back of a postage stamp and still have space for my signature.
‘Yes, that was frightening. But I did suggest someone contact you, right?’ My gaze flicks to Remy, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Yeah, I know. Brownie points for Rose. Or maybe brown nose points. ‘But you’re all healed now, right, babe?’ With the exception of those empty testicles, maybe.
‘Yes, absolutely.’ The corner of his mouth hitches, but if he asks me if I’ve seen the movie, I’ll give him a concussion myself. Urgh, babe! Where the heck did that come from?
I make my way to him—strength in numbers, right—and his hand rests against my waist as he kisses each of my cheeks. It’s a very warm yet “dialled down for the audience” kind of greeting before we sit.
‘Remy tells me you’re from Kentucky, Róisín.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Originally, at any rate. I cross my legs at the ankles and slide them to the side, my hands clasped in my lap. No low-class fidgeting here.
‘Are you any relation to the Kelly family?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Yes, because Kentucky is such a small place that all the people with Irish names are relat
ed. Sheesh!
‘That’s a beautiful watch, my dear. Is it Piaget.’
‘This? Yes, it is.’ I clamp my lips together in a closed-lipped smile, resisting the urge to admit the watch was a gift from Remy. It’s almost a compulsion; someone pays me a compliment and I follow it up by telling them where the thing came from, along with the price. Though admittedly it’s usually more along the lines of: you like my skirt? Thanks! It’s from Gap. I got it on sale for twenty bucks. And look, it has pockets!
But look at me full of good grace and stuff!
‘And you work for Wolf Industries now, here in Monaco.’ She doesn’t address this as a question, but Remy answers it anyway.
‘Yes. Rose and I met in America.’ He turns to me, his eyes lingering on my lips before his attention returns to his mother. ‘We met a second time when she came to work for the company.’ His hand tightens on mine and whatever he says next, I don’t understand. It’s not French. Well, not like any French I’ve ever heard.
His mother nods just once in return, like a monarch blessing him with her assent. She is, quite honestly, beautiful. Her olive skin is almost ageless, and her dark hair sleek and well behaved. I know for a fact the blue shift-dress she’s wearing is from Eudon Choi’s new line, and those are definitely Choo’s on her feet. And not a padded shoulder in sight.
Josephine Durrand might look like a lady who lunches, but I sense under those designer labels lurks a will of steel.
‘Benôit tells me you’re staying at Chateau Margaux. I would’ve thought that old place would be a little out of the way for you, Remy, and not very in keeping with a bachelor’s lifestyle.’ Her gaze turns my way, her meaning clear. Hear that? My son is single.
‘You shouldn’t listen to what Ben says.’
Excuse me? We live in a chateau? Isn’t that the same as a palace? Or a manor house, at least?