“Just lead me to a bathroom and a towel, please.”
She stalked away from me... towards the supply closet door.
“Planning to mop the garage?”
“What?” She whirled around, no longer fighting back tears.
“That’s where I keep cleaning supplies.” I pointed to my right. “That’s the way into the house.”
She didn’t say anything, but stomped in the new direction, going to the door, and yanking it open roughly. As she walked over the threshold, she paused to look back at me. “Well, are you coming or not?”
But she didn’t wait for me to walk forward. She disappeared into the basement like she owned the place.
I didn’t know why I wanted her. She wasn’t the typical woman I went for—too much attitude, too much independence, too much baggage—but the second she was out of my sight, I hurried to catch up. Because I wanted to see her again. Fuck.
I found here almost immediately, standing in the short basement hallway moving her head from side to side and staring at the three doors. “Lost?”
“I’m not lost,” she mumbled, her dramatic exit from the basement now ruined. “They’re all locked.”
“Yep.” I nodded, moving past her to press my security code into the furthest door to the right.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who have put as much tech into their house as possible.”
“I like a few modern security conveniences.” I moved to the side, allowing her to enter the stairwell first. She hesitated, but then stuck her chin out and walked purposefully past me and up the stairs.
I followed slowly, letting her take in the impressive first floor of the townhome before I arrived. The three-story front foyer was grand, taking advantage of dual windows on either side of the front entrance and six additional windows above it. It was ultra-modern compared to the well-loved Italianate brownstones dotting the boroughs. But I loved it, preferred it to the ornate baroque trappings of my childhood home.
“Christ, is this an art gallery or a house?” Juliette was moving in a slow circle, taking in the space around her with its pure white walls and contemporary art. I paused just outside the archway and watched as she eventually stopped circling and instead moved to one of the paintings. She lifted her hand, fingers gently hovering over the splashes of color. She didn’t know it, but she was standing in front of my favorite piece. A Richter piece from his ‘Cage’ series. It was mostly shades of gray, with blinks of color showing through, as if the artist had painted something bold and impulsive, only to swipe it away deliberately in a fit of dislike.
“Do you like that one?” I approached carefully, not wanting to startle her. I felt more in control of my actions here at home. I centered my encounters with women around consent, yet I’d thrown this woman over my shoulder and dragged her to my car. She’d chosen to get in, chosen to come to my home. But it wasn’t like me. I didn’t force the issue with a woman who didn’t want me.
But I was so fucking unused to a woman not wanting me. And the dancing... the kissing. She was a goddamn witch, putting me under a spell.
“I do. It’s intense. The way the artist swiped away the color, but it looks like it’s trying to grow back almost.”
I studied the painting, trying to see it with fresh eyes the way she did.
Maybe she was right. Maybe Richter was trying to show that colors can come back, even when shit is all gloom and little joy.
“Do you want the tour?” I offered, not wanting to look at the painting any longer. It was taunting me now, as if it had been waiting for me to reconsider its message.
“I want a bathroom. And a towel.” She didn’t look at me as she said it, staring at the painting for a second longer and then walking away from me. Again, like she owned the damn place. She ascended the stairs to the second floor, pulling her soaked hair from the ponytail as she moved and letting her dark hair fall limply down her back. “How big is this place?”
“Big.”
“Wow. Obviously.” She went to the metal and glass banister of the mezzanine and peered down at me. Her sensible pant suit was drying badly, wrinkles and water stains everywhere. Her hair, on the other hand, was already beginning to curl as it dried. Glints of golden-brown highlights catching light. Her face was still goddamn perfect, no running mascara or fading foundation.
Without warning, she laughed.
“What is it?” I pulled off my soaked suit jacket and moved to hang it up on large angular hall tree. Balthasar could get it later. Unbuttoning the cuffs of my shirt, I rolled up the sleeves, revealing the maze of tattoos up both of my arms.
“This reminds me of high school.” She shrugged, still looking down at me, her gaze sliding over my tattoos. She was smiling, really smiling. It made her come to life, her face glowing like it contained its own light source.
“My sixty-million-dollar home in Manhattan... reminds you of high school?”
“You’re kidding. Sixty million? Dad sold the house in Cobble Hill for a tenth of that and it was just enough to clear debts and buy his place in Glen Cove.” Juliette clicked her tongue, glancing up at the artisan light fixtures. Giant white orbs of thin glass that seemed to be floating in the air.
“So why does my home remind you of high school?” I changed the subject back, genuinely bemused over how the spotless, minimalist design could remind her of what was likely a posh private school with uniforms and miles of polished dark wood. I knew the type, intimately. With Sandra Capuleti for a mother, it was doubtful she’d gone to a public school.
“I was in a production of Romeo and Juliet.” She leaned further over the railing, having to stand on tiptoes because she was so petite.
“Let me guess, you were Juliet.”
“Not hardly,” she scoffed. “Donna Rikers beat me out. She had ‘better projection’. Honestly though, I think she was screwing our theater teacher. I played Lady Montague. But I always wished I’d gotten Juliet.”
“By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee; had I it written, I would tear the word.” I hated the damned play. Loathed Shakespeare in general, but seeing Juliette on the inner balcony, dark eyes blinking down at me, I could finally see the appeal.
She smiled softly, absentmindedly pushing her hair behind her ears with both hands, before returning my words.
“My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” The acoustics of the foyer expanded her soft voice to the ceiling.
I knew the next lines, but before I could say them, she spoke again.
“Art thou not Romero and a Montego?” Her words were quieter still, this time floating lazily around the room. She was asking herself the question, not me. I hated my family name, my family history, and when she spoke those words, I wanted to cleave myself from it. Change my name, move to a different city, a different state, a different country.
Hell, wasn’t that what I’d been doing these many years? Trying to keep my promise to her mother, trying to erase the stain of my father. I opened my mouth, words spilling out. Drops of a new promise.
“Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.”
I meant every fucking syllable.
13.
Juliette
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I could say.
I was reciting lines from arguably the world’s most tragically romantic play with a man I hated. A man from a family I hated. Did I hate Romero? Did he have a point that children are not their parents? Was I holding him accountable for things that were not his doing, not his fault...?
Moving away from the banister, I put more distance between myself and the man. I needed to collect my thoughts. He wasn’t ascending the stairs; I had a few moment’s privacy on the mezzanine.
Unbidden, my memory fed me the next lines from Romeo and Juliet.
How camest thou hither, tell me, a
nd wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb.
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
My father would hate my being here in Romero Montego’s home. And what would my mother think if she could see me cavorting with the son of a man who’d capitalized on her murder? Part of me still believed that her death had something to do with street crime, even with The Rose Killer connection.
Desperately, I searched for a bathroom, or any room to hide in. I was cold, so cold; the air conditioning was blowing strong in his house. I needed to get warm, out of the wet clothes.
I rushed to the nearest door, pushing inside the room behind it, breath coming in jerking gasps. Hyperventilating. I was hyperventilating, and totally losing it.
Dull footsteps padded up the stairs now. They were muffled, yet distinct through the barrier. The sound stopped after a few moments, Romero presumably paused on the upper balcony.
“That’s not a bathroom,” his deep voice called out.
“The bed was a dead giveaway,” I grumbled, pressing my back against the door and sighing.
“You’ve chosen the only guest room that doesn’t have an en suite. We can rectify that, if you choose.”
His voice, and his offer, were both neutral, yet I was huddled in a room hiding away from him because I felt so fucking threatened. I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. I was a goddamn federal agent. I’d worked my ass off to be on the same footing as my male counterparts. I wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not the violent perps I’d arrested. Not The Rose Killer. And certainly not Romero Montego.
Taking a deep breath, I stood up and pulled the door open slowly, making a point to unbutton my jacket and let it swing freely against my body to show the Glock in its hip holster.
The moment I was in view, his gaze flicked down to the gun. Romero was very observant. In my experience, only criminals and other cops were that conscientious of weapons or danger.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I clipped off each word tartly.
He strode off, walking slowly, not a worry in the world. It made me think I’d misinterpreted his glance at the Glock.
“Is this it?” I reached for the handle of a dark gray door. The other doors were painted the same crisp white as the walls. This one was different. Maybe a different color so it was easily recognized by guests. When I tried to pull down the lever though, it didn’t budge. “You keep your bathroom locked?” I looked over at him, quirking an eyebrow.
He’d stopped moving, standing patiently in the middle of the mezzanine. “Not the bathroom.” He said simply, offering no explanation.
“What then? Are all your secrets behind this door? Romero Montego’s pile of skeletons, just waiting to be discovered.” I knocked on the door softly. “Hello, skeletons? Come out, come out and give me a reason to arrest your owner!”
A strange expression flitted across his face. And then he was walking swiftly towards me, his large frame still so graceful... yet also so predatory as he moved. Instinctively, I drew my weapon, keeping it pointed at the floor and safety on until I could make a judgement call.
He rushed against me, and I still kept the damn weapon uselessly at my side. “You want skeletons, Juliette. You don’t have to look in that room to find them.” He lifted his arms, placing them on either side of my body and pushing his hands into the door behind me.
His face moved closer.
Face so near we could almost kiss again.
“So, is that what you want? To learn every dark detail of my life? Of my past?” He breathed the questions against me, faded scent of cigarette smoke on his breath. But it wasn’t like normal tobacco. No, this was almost sweet, so much so that I could taste it on my tongue as my lips parted to respond.
“I want to know why your father used my mother’s death to make money,” I finally said, eyes beginning to water. Fuck, I wouldn’t cry. I refused to fucking cry!
“Because he was a class A bastard who only cared about his cars, his dick, and his bottom line.” He growled, gaze daggering into me.
“And you’re different how!”
Romero leaned even closer, tilting to whisper near my ear. “I only really care about my dick.”
When he started leaning away from me, I leaned in. God, help me. I leaned in.
I pressed my mouth to his, eating him up like my life depended on it. His lips were perfect, soft, they felt so damn good that I wanted to kiss them forever. The Glock was forgotten in my hand, an artifact of the person I was before the stupid fundraiser ball. I felt different, more alive than I had in over ten years. A fraction of the person I was before my mother’s brutal murder was trying to pierce my hard-earned tough persona.
He pulled away first, eyes searching my face, body still angled towards me and supported with hands pressed against the door. “Are you sure you want this? Nothing will happen without your consent.”
“Like you won’t throw me over my shoulder and forcibly carry me to your car again?”
He lifted a hand, bringing it close to my face to curl a finger around my drying hair. “That was... bad manners.”
“Horrendously bad,” I agreed.
“I’m afraid I’m used to getting what I want.”
“Then you’ve not been with someone like me.” I shifted, holstering the Glock, the automatic locking system securing it efficiently.
“Without a doubt,” he kept playing with my hair, twisting and turning it as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’ll warn you, I’m not the easiest man to deal with.”
“Who says I want to deal with you?”
He released my hair, shifting his hand to brush his thumb gently across my lower lip. “Your mouth said it for you, Juliette.”
“God, what am I doing?” I closed my eyes, tilting my head back to press against the door. “I hate you.”
“Do you really?” His voice sounded like a smirk made vocal. As if he expected me to fall into his arms from the very beginning.
All men thought women were weak. I’d never known a man to act differently. Open the jars. Open the door. Give us their coat when we seemed cold. It was ego wrapped in control and disguised as chivalry.
“I hate you,” I said again, more fiercely, flashing open my eyes to stare him down. His venom green gaze stared right back, confident. “I. Hate. You.”
“Say that again,” he whispered darkly, as if my hate was feeding him.
“I hate you, Romero Montego.”
“And I think thou dost protest too much, Juliette Capuleti.”
I don’t know what would have happened next if we hadn’t been interrupted.
I might have kissed him again.
I might have wrapped my arms around him and embraced him like my lover, instead of my own personal villain.
But we were interrupted, God save me.
“Master Montego.”
I startled at the voice, peering around Romero’s body to find a small older man, slightly hunched, and holding an overnight bag.
14.
Romero
“What is it, Balthasar?” I growled, not turning to face him, instead keeping my gaze trained on the woman who was within my grasp. And so close to the Dark Room. So, fucking close.
Though I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I only wanted her in that way, chained to the bed and at my mercy. Juliette called to me in a broader, deeper way. She smelled like apricots; the cut of her face was the golden ratio incarnate. I wanted her rage, wanted her stubbornness. I wanted every inch of her to be mine, just as I wanted every inch of my dick to sink into her body. Over and over again, stealing pleasure from her body until my name was the only thing she could utter against the rush.
“Excuse the interruption. You told me to notify you if The Candy Factory ever reopened. I know you were hoping to make a bid for control.” He spoke carefully, his meaning crystal clear to me.
“You invest in candy now? That’s a far cry fr
om guns.” Juliette ducked around me, heading for Balthasar. “Hi, I’m Juliette Capuleti.”
My right-hand man looked at me over her shoulder, equal parts curious and judgmental. I knew he wouldn’t agree with me perpetuating a relationship with this woman, considering her background and my personal feelings. Fuck, to her I was a serial killer. Not to mention the stir dancing with her had caused my public persona.
“Miss Capuleti, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looked back at her, nodding politely and taking her offered hand to shake.
“You look too kind to be working for him.” Juliette was blunt, cocking a thumb back at me.
“And you look too wet to be standing in a glacier cold house. Master Montego keeps it below freezing.”
Juliette glanced down at her partially dry clothes, mussed and stained. “I’m usually more put together than this.”
“May I provide you with a towel and clothing? I believe we have something in your size.” Balthasar eyed Juliette. Unlike mine, there was nothing sexual about his appraising gaze. “Yes, I believe I can accommodate you.”
“Female visitors are frequent enough to justify a stash of clothing?” She tossed a look over her shoulder at me. “I suppose I’m not surprised.”
I’d never felt badly about my sexual appetite. Fucking was natural. It helped the body operate at peak conditions. But when she spoke, I felt a pang in my chest. A stream of women, no real connections with any of them. Just pure carnal fulfillment.
I’d never wanted more.
Never had more.
But she could change that. If I let her.
It would be smarter to cut her off.
Like I had with Rosaline. She had come the closest to taming me. Too close for comfort. I’d pushed her away, hurting her until she’d broken up with me. I’d suffered afterwards, grieving over what might have been. It had been for the best though. Rosaline was too sweet for me, too innocent. Her attachment to me was thready at best.
And the path I walked, the blood on my hands, was no place for a lover so unjaded.
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 9
