by Nicole Fox
“I haven’t seen the man in days,” I tell my idiot ex. “You really think I’m gonna be privy to his business meetings? As far as he’s concerned, I’m the hired help. He’s not gonna let me anywhere near his sensitive information.”
Xander looks at me impatiently like I’m a dumb schoolchild who’s just not getting the day’s lesson.
“Then use your fucking imagination,” he says. Something occurs to him and he reaches for the strap of my nightdress. He slips it off my shoulder, leaving it bare. “You’re sexy. Use your feminine wiles to get the information out of him.”
I slap his hand away and pull the strap back onto my shoulder.
“You’re an asshole. Don’t touch me.”
“Call me whatever you want,” Xander replies. “It doesn’t change the fact that getting dirt on the Mazzeo mafia is the only way you’re gonna buy back your freedom.”
He’s right.
The realization leaves me feeling numb.
Hopeless.
And alone… again.
My jaw locks together for a moment.
“Get out now,” I tell Xander. “Before you’re caught.”
He nods. “They’ll be in touch,” he says. “If not through me, then someone else.”
“Someone else would be preferable.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Don’t be like that.”
“Fuck off, Xander,” I tell him. “And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”
He rolls his eyes and heads for the windows.
I watch him stumble out onto the window ledge. His face is screwed up in concentration as he tries to maneuver his way to the ground.
I don’t wait to watch him leave.
I’m done waiting on men.
If only I’d learnt that lesson a little earlier.
Instead, I shut the window and tug the curtains closed.
I was so excited when I first found the windows were unguarded.
Now, I’m wishing they would lock after all.
Then I walk back into my room, where Evie is sleeping soundly. I slip into the bed beside her and pull the covers up over myself.
I’d been so determined to do more with my life than my mother had.
So determined, in fact, that it made me feel superior.
And yet all I’ve done is repeat her mistakes. I bartered away my life for a man who doesn’t give a shit about me.
And here I am, paying for that stupidity.
As it turns out, I’m not so different from my mother after all.
11
Lucio
The Next Morning
I wake up at the crack of dawn.
Light is filtering in through the slats in my blinds. It takes me only seconds to shake off sleep and get to my feet.
I should be thinking about the Polish threat.
And I would be…
If it weren’t for the blue-eyed siren who keeps sneaking into my head, dislodging everything else.
I shower quickly. The ice-cold water helps beat out the knots in my back.
When I’m done, I pull on some pants and walk back into my bedroom. A musical knock sounds on my door.
Only one person in my life knocks like that.
“It’s open, Adriano,” I grumble.
He walks in a second later, armed with his perpetual grin.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Who else knocks a door like a fucking Beethoven?”
“It’s called ‘whimsy.’ It’s French.”
“Did you just say ‘whimsy’?” I ask. “I think you made my point. And no, for the love of God, it is not French.”
Adriano rolls his eyes. “Keep on insulting me and I might not tell you the good news.”
“You’ve got the Polish problem sorted?”
He blinks. “Uh… Well, never mind, I might not tell you the news after all.”
“What’s the news?”
I slide open the doors to my walk-in closet and peruse through shirts.
Adriano follows behind me. I can tell by his self-satisfied air that he’s pleased with the info he’s managed to get.
“Staffordshire Preparatory Academy,” he announces proudly. “I did my research and it’s the best private school in the state, not to mention one of the best schools in the entire damn country.”
He pulls out a file and hands it to me.
I skim through the pages carelessly, until I notice one glaring detail that jumps out at me.
“This is a Catholic school.”
“Oh, right. That.”
“Yes, that,” I repeat. “It might have escaped your notice, but I’m not big on religion. Not exactly a clean fit with my lifestyle.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he demurs. “But getting into this school will mean guaranteed acceptance into some of the best boarding schools in the country when she’s ready.”
“Boarding schools?”
“Big time,” Adriano says, clearly pleased with himself. “You can pack the kid off for most of the year. She’ll only be back during the summers and Christmas holidays. A load off your back, you know?”
I look back down at the file and leaf through Staffordshire’s brochure. The school definitely looks palatial.
Expensive as fuck, too—although obviously money isn’t an issue for me.
“I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a meeting with the school’s dean,” Adriano tells me. “Although…”
I glance up at him, one eyebrow quirked. “Although what?”
“You’ll have to take the kid,” he finishes.
I grunt and go back to leafing through the brochure.
“A Catholic school, huh?” I say again, mostly to myself. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
I’ve got a growing suspicion that there’s another element to Adriano’s plan he hasn’t revealed yet.
An element I’m really not gonna like.
He meets my eyes. “Well… a little play-acting is all it would take,” he says, with a shrug that’s far too practiced to be casual. “I mean, y’know—it could be fun.”
I fucking knew it.
“Fuck off,” I say, walking past him. I throw the brochure over my shoulder. Pages go flying.
“You’re welcome for all my hard work!” he calls after me.
His voice fades as I move down the hall, but I can still hear him imitating me and saying, “What ever would I do without you, Adriano? You’re quite simply the most valuable…”
I keep going until the stone walls drown him out entirely.
Then I stop in front of Evie and Charlotte’s linked bedrooms.
Lorenzo is nowhere to be seen, but it doesn’t matter, because I have the keys to both doors.
As it turns out, both have been unlocked already.
I peer inside but it’s clear no one’s around.
Odd.
Retracing my footsteps, I head into the main body of the mansion. I come across Catalina, one of the maids, as she’s running the vacuum in one of the hallways.
“Catalina,” I say. “Have you seen the nanny?”
“Yes, sir,” she says hurriedly. “I think they’re in the kitchen. The little miss was hungry.”
It’s still early, so I’m surprised they’re both up at this time. I head straight for the kitchen, driven by a churning feeling in my gut that I can’t quite name.
As I approach, I can hear their voices.
The kitchen is a huge open space, with walls mostly made of glass. The center island is an ocean of marble, surrounded by gracefully curving barstools.
Over it all is teak paneling with recessed lighting, as well as long grooves to hang wine glasses and the like.
Evie is sitting on one of the barstools, giggling about something or the other. Her strange-looking toy is lying on the island counter beside her.
Charlotte is standing by the stove with her back to me. Her dark brown hair falls down her back in soft waves. She’s wearing a soft gray t-shirt and tigh
t blue jeans that hug her ass perfectly.
“Jam or maple syrup?” Charlotte calls to the little girl, still unaware of my presence.
“Both!” Evie chirps, clapping her hands together. She hasn’t noticed me yet, either.
The kid is so different with Charlotte than she is with me.
At least I made one decent decision there.
And then my shoe squeaks on the hardwood floors.
Evie turns, and when she sees it’s me, the smile drops from her face instantly.
Yet somehow it’s the way she snatches the platypus toy off the table protectively that makes my chest clench painfully.
“Evie?” Charlotte says. No doubt wondering why she has gone silent all of a sudden.
She glances over her shoulder, sees the steely set of my daughter’s jaw, and turns the rest of the way around to see the cause.
Her face goes through a similar ripple of emotions.
Surprise, perhaps a jolt of fear—and then hardening into defensiveness. Teeth clenched. Eyes hot and defensive.
I even notice the white knuckles of her hand peeking through as she wields the spatula like a weapon.
“Look who it is,” she says in a faux-cheery voice. “The big boss.”
I frown. “Where’s Magda?”
“Apparently, she doesn’t come in until seven-thirty today,” Charlotte answers. She fiddles with something on the range, then turns back to face me with a pan in hand.
I glance at its contents.
Crepes? She’s making crepes?
I hear Adriano’s voice in my head. That’s definitely French.
I bite back a bitter laugh and focus my attention once more on the two women in my kitchen.
They’re both studiously ignoring me. Charlotte slides the fresh crepe onto the plate in front of Evie, but the kid barely acknowledges her breakfast.
Charlotte puts her hand around the kid’s shoulders and gives her a reassuring squeeze.
Unseen conversations are surging back and forth in front of me.
About me.
Despite me.
I don’t like that shit at all.
My first instinct is anger. But then more of Adriano’s words ping in my subconscious like a warning bell.
Be the father you wish you had growing up.
I take a deep breath and try to let all of it go—all the shit bubbling around in me, hot and molten and dark.
“Good morning, Evelyn,” I say coolly. Then I remember that she prefers the short version. “Evie, I mean.”
She looks up at me through her eyelashes—cautiously, like a wild animal still sussing out my intentions—and leans into Charlotte just a little.
The plush toy remains huddled in her arms, squashed against her chest.
“Good morning,” she squeaks in a small, tentative voice.
“You’re up early.”
She nods.
Fuck me. There’s no torture quite like a stonewalled conversation with a scared six-year-old.
“Did you, uh…” I clear my throat and finish, “sleep well?”
She nods again. Still hesitant. Still timid.
That clench in my chest tightens more.
“I had a bad dream. But I still slept good.”
“A bad dream,” I repeat.
I start to move closer before I notice that Charlotte is tense, so I stop a few feet away from them.
It feels ridiculous—it’s my goddamn house; I can go where I please. But I stop anyway.
“What was it about?”
“I dreamed there was a man in my room,” she says solemnly.
“That must have been scary.”
She shrugs. “Charlotte was with me.”
Charlotte gives her a little pat. “Why don’t you eat your breakfast?” she says. “What do you think Paulie wants: jam or maple syrup?”
“Maple syrup,” Evie replies definitively.
“Good choice,” Charlotte agrees, reaching for the syrup.
It’s only been a few days, but they already look so comfortable around each other. So at ease.
So unlike what either of them do around me.
“I have something to tell you,” I say with an awkward wince.
“Oh. Sure.” Charlotte sets down the syrup and walks around the kitchen island until she’s on the other side with me. Now, there are only two barstools between us. “I’m all ears.”
“I’m looking into enrolling Evel—Evie—at a private school not far from here,” I tell her. “The meeting is tomorrow. I need you to come with us.”
She frowns. “Okay. I guess I don’t have a choice either way, do I?”
I don’t bother answering that. I don’t know how I’d even begin.
Instead, I say, “You’re going to need some new clothes.”
Another frown. “Why?” she demands suspiciously.
“Because when we go for this meeting, you’re not going to be the nanny.”
She tilts her head to the side and eyes me curiously. “I’m not following.”
“Staffordshire is one of the best schools in the country.” I feel the need to tell her that—God knows why. “But it also happens to be a Catholic school.”
“Okay…” she says. “Still not following.”
“Evie has a much better chance of being accepted if she has two parents. Two married parents.”
She stares back at me expressionlessly for a moment.
Then she bursts out laughing.
“You are kidding me.”
I grimace. “I don’t kid.”
Evie is staring down at her plate with intensity and whispering to Paulie. Charlotte turns and regards the girl, too, while shaking her head in complete disbelief at this unexpected turn of events.
“It’ll only be for a few hours,” I add.
“I am not going to pretend to be your fucking wife,” Charlotte insists, lowering her voice so Evie can’t eavesdrop.
I raise my eyebrows and smile.
“Why are you smiling?” she snaps.
“I’m amused that you think you have a choice here.”
She grits her teeth. “This is ridiculous!” she says, throwing up her hands. “Can’t you just say you’re a widower? Your wife died in some tragic car accident or some shit like that?”
“I don’t want to get into an elaborate sob story,” I explain. “I turn up with a wife and there won’t be any questions. It’s simpler this way.”
“We have very different definitions of what constitutes ‘simple.’”
“Thankfully, my definition is the only one that matters.”
Her blue eyes are filled with fight—as always.
But one glance towards Evie, and the fire dims.
I take careful note of that.
She’s still wavering, though. And even though I meant what I said—I make the choices here—there’s an infuriating voice in my head urging me to keep coaxing her into it.
To earn her cooperation.
Not demand her submission.
“This is for Evie. Getting into this school could decide her entire academic future. She’ll have her pick of the best schools up until she leaves for college.”
That definitely makes an impact.
Charlotte just sighs deeply.
My eyes fall to the deep V of her t-shirt. Her cleavage is subtle but effective, and I feel my cock respond immediately.
I’m instantly reminded of the shower.
Hot water streaming down her curves.
Suds clinging to her nipples, the swoop of her neck.
Those tiny, deft hands, circling lower and lower and…
“Fine,” she interrupts. “I’ll suck it up. But I’m only doing it for Evie.”
“I don’t care who you do it for,” I say. “I just care that you do it.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and the blue turns to steel. “One day, you might care about my reasons.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
I start turning from
her. We’re done here.
“Wait.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“What the hell do you want me to wear for this stupid meeting?” she asks.
“I’ll send some clothes to your room,” I tell her.
“You’re not gonna let me choose my own damn clothes?”
“Like I said—I make the choices.”
I’m about to leave again, but she stops me once more.
“And another thing…”
I sigh. “Make it fast,” I say. “I’ve got shit to do.”
If only she knew that I’m not half as annoyed as I’m pretending to be.
“Enzo locks Evie and me into our rooms at eight o’clock every night,” she reminds me.
“And?”
“And it’s too early,” she says like it’s obvious. “I want the time moved back to ten.”
I frown. “The kid’s six. Why does she need to be up until ten?”
“I’m asking for myself.”
“You don’t need to be up until ten, either.”
The stubborn set of her jaw only makes me double down harder.
“Where do you plan on going anyway?” I ask.
“Maybe I want to take a late-night dip,” she suggests. “What’s it matter to you?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Curfew’s at eight,” I say. “Deal with it.”
“Fine,” she snaps. “Then maybe I won’t be in the mood to play your fake wife.”
I pivot slowly. My eyes find hers and hold them hostage as I close the distance between us.
She stands her ground, but I see her spine arch back like every cell in her body wants to flee from me.
I lean in, so close that our noses are almost touching.
“Do you really want to piss me off?” I ask, my voice barely higher than a whisper. “Do you want to know what I’m capable of when I’m angry?”
She swallows.
The rise and fall of her chest is distracting.
The scent of her fills my nostrils.
The urge to touch her is strong. Damn near overwhelming.
But I’m too aware of the kid.
She’s watching us. I can sense her panic from here.
Evidently, so can Charlotte.
“Don’t,” Charlotte pleads softly. “She’s watching.”
