I glanced at the numbers, we were halfway down.
“What don’t you get?” My eyes shifted to her face, locking onto her gaze and defying her to move. I could stare at her for a fucking eternity. She was disarmingly beautiful. And the way she looked at me now, with her beautiful dark eyes guileless and questioning... it shot to my core.
“Why are you so interested in me, Romero? Especially given our history. Especially given how the paparazzi took a run at both of us simply because we accidentally danced with each other at a fundraiser?”
“Danced and kissed...” I reminded.
“You’re a billionaire. Money to burn. You obviously have your fill of women. Adventurous women, if the damn catholic schoolgirl costume Balthasar sent me home in is any indication.” She bit her lower lip, confusion flashing through her features. “I’m not like that. I’m not wild. Maybe I used to be, but that was with my job. Taking risks, putting myself in danger. I finally realized that kind of behavior can be damaging. Irreparably damaging.”
I let her spill the words; she obviously needed to. I stood their quietly, taking in the curve of her face and the way her mouth moved and the passion she poured out as she spoke.
“I’m the last person you should be interested in, honestly. It’s bad, for both of us. And I don’t do well with guys. I’m a mess. I’m not... someone who needs to be saved. And men want that. Men like you want that. They want to be the hero, want to swoop in and kill all the bad guys, solve all the problems. Maybe if I was more like my mother.” She sighed, crossing her arms and moving to one of the other walls, tilting her head back against the cool metal and closing her eyes.
“I’m glad you’re not like your mother,” I finally said, leaving where I stood to move in front of her. If you were like your mother, you’d lie to your husband, lie to your father. You’d spout loving words and keep the façade of loving actions, but behind the scenes you’d be fucking another man and ruining everything, even if your family didn’t realize it. You’d be two-faced. A beautiful thing covered in thorns. I want you because you’re not your mother, you’re not like any of the other women I’ve had in my bed.
Her eyes flashed open, her instincts feeling me draw closer.
“This isn’t something we can pursue,” she lifted a hand pressing it hard against my chest. “You have to give up. No more dancing. No more kisses. No more.”
The elevator pinged softly as the elevator shuddered to a halt at our destination. I only had seconds, so I stole them from time. I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her up off the ground, bring her face to face with me. She didn’t struggle, didn’t protest.
And I kissed her, despite her words that there should be no more dancing, no more kissing, no more anything.
I kissed her as if she were the only thing that mattered, cupping her face, being gentler than I ever was. I wished to absorb her goodness, her brokenness, her heartache and undeniable strength.
As if I was a dying plant and she was the sun, the only thing that could keep me from wilting and dying.
“Romero,” she murmured against my mouth. “Please, please stop kissing me.”
I pulled back immediately, hating how much her rejection stung. My hands still cupped her cheeks; her hair brushed gently against my fingers, sending shockwaves through my system.
“Why, Juliette? I can feel it, the way you want me too.”
“It’s not that.” She reached up and gripped my hands with hers, trying to turn her face away so she hopefully wouldn’t be recognized by anyone. “People are watching.”
I blinked, looking towards the elevator doors.
Which were now open.
And a host of onlookers waited to board.
“Excuse us,” I nodded, not caring who knew Romero Montego was kissing a woman in the elevator of the Javits Federal Building, and reached for the button panel, punching the button for the next floor up and then the double inward arrows to close the door faster.
It bought us a few moments in the death trap elevator.
A few more moments to sink into one another like quicksand.
20.
Juliette
Wednesday
Romero felt like the devil, too tempting to resist.
Though I needed to resist. I had to resist.
Yet the promise of him had snaked through my body.
Offering a golden apple.
Because he knew I wanted to know...
What it would feel like to bite the forbidden fruit.
And have it bite back.
I picked up the house phone at 7 am before work, starting to dial the number I’d scribbled onto a slip of paper at work after leaving Romero on the second floor.
If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the press of his mouth against mine.
I’d put the phone down on its cradle, worried I might wake someone up. It was early, after all.
I picked up my cell phone around noon at work, my food going cold as I warred with myself. This time I only punched in four of the numbers before I set the mobile down and went back to my frozen meal.
I tried again at two and four-thirty.
I tried, really tried, to call that number and cancel the date with Romero.
God help me, I tried.
Even when I realized that he’d promised to pick me up. Pick me up, which solidified that he knew exactly where I lived, I couldn’t bring myself to cancel.
I was in deep. I knew that, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from sinking.
The minutes ticked by too fast once I was home and staring at my closet, realizing I hated absolutely everything I owned. Aside from the dress and shoes for the gala, everything was uptight. Crisp shirts, suits, sensible skirts. Most of the shoes were flats or boots, or at the most completely unsexy basic pumps.
The only thing remotely sensual was the damn schoolgirl crap Balthasar let me borrow, and there was no way I was going to wear that. I had exactly an hour and a half before Romero was going to be here. He’d said ‘on the dot’ so I had a feeling the man was a sucker for punctuality. Thankfully, my building was only a block away from a few boutique shops, one of them a vintage store that wasn’t too pricey. And by ‘not too pricey’ I mean I could get away with something nice, for hopefully less than half a damn monthly paycheck. It was why I tended to shop online at cheaper stores and have things delivered.
I pushed into my flats, grabbed my purse, and raced from the apartment. Without a doubt, Romero was going to look like sex walking. I, at the very least, could look date night presentable.
*
An hour later, I was back home standing on the edge of the tub to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. The dress was... entirely too short. Which served me right since I’d not taken the time to try it on, despite the lovely saleswoman offering twice.
She’d said it was an absolute steal at half off. A Christian Lacroix from the eighties. I’d thought it would be safe. High neck. Long sleeves. A seashell off-white with delicate petals dotting the upper bodice and cascading down to gather thickly at the hem. It wasn’t until I got it on back home that I realized zipping it up the back would be a huge pain in the ass. I’d only managed to secure the damn thing halfway.
And then I’d looked down and realized the dress ended at mid-thigh. I never wore anything this short, barring the Balthasar outfit. The peep toe blush pumps I’d bought with it were just going to make the length more obvious, elongating my legs and emphasizing where the material ended.
“I cannot go out in this,” I breathed, standing on tiptoes and turning to the side to see how badly my bubble butt raised the dress in back. “Or if I do, I cannot bend over.”
Sighing, I hopped down, feet thudding softly against the cold tile.
Walking slowly out of the bathroom, like I was headed to the electric chair, I glared at the clock. It was way too late to cancel. He was probably already on his way. Why the fuck hadn’t I just dialed his number and called him earlier to put this whole thing to bed!
&nb
sp; Because you do want to put this whole thing to bed, but not in that way, slut.
My inner voice taunted me, but hell she was right.
Maybe if I slept with the guy, I could get him out of my system. And get me out of his system. Did that sort of thing ever work? Solve all the sexual tension by just jumping into bed and hoping afterwards that everything would normalize and you wouldn’t be horny as hell for each other anymore?
The door buzzer rang, and I padded over to it, depressing the comm button.
“Yes?”
“Hey, Miss Capuleti,” Baron’s voice crackled from the unit. “I’ve got a Mr. Montego down here. Says you twos got a date.”
I leaned my head towards the wall, knocking my forehead gently against the surface a few times before answering. “Yes, that’s right. Can you send him up?” Oh, Christ. That was a bad move. “I’m not quite ready.”
“Sure thing, Miss Capuleti. See you when you come down.”
“Thanks, Baron.”
I gazed around the apartment, total panic taking over. The sink was overflowing with dishes. Clean clothes rested all over the sofa. But at least they were folded, small favors. Rushing over, I grabbed them and took them to my room, tossing them onto my bed and undoing all the nice, neat folds. I hated folding. I hated it with a passion, and now I was going to have to refold the entire load.
But no time to cry over it.
The living room wasn’t so bad now. I plumped the throw pillows, tossed my blankets over the sofa arms. I tried to make it look like as if a put-together full-grown woman lived in the apartment. But there was only so much I could do in the time it took for Romero to get from the lobby to the fourth floor.
Dad’s cityscapes were leaned against a wall, but I had nowhere else to put them. A layer of dust clung to everything in the place. Oh, and my murder wall was on full display behind my modest television. Not that he’d notice I had a small television. Not with everything I knew about mom’s death and The Rose Killer decorating the wall like it was a design statement. Even my dad hadn’t seen it. I’d told him the apartment was sort of my sanctuary. He respected that and had only come in a handful of times after I’d moved in, mostly hovering in the foyer as he waited for me to be ready. Normally he just dropped me off at the curb like when we visited Mom’s grave though. I think, not only because of my not wanting him in the apartment, but because he didn’t want to stay in New York any longer than he had to.
But again, there was jack and shit I could do about all the news clippings and photos. Even if I had more time, I wouldn’t rip it all down.
Awesome. He’s going to think I’m a total psycho.
A soft succession of knocks sounded, and I steeled myself. My dress wasn’t zipped. I didn’t have on makeup yet. My hair fell in loose waves and was clean, but needed a solid brushing.
I hated myself for not canceling, and each step towards the front door felt like I was walking through concrete hardening too damn fast.
21.
Romero
I was nervous.
I never got nervous.
But there I was standing outside Juliette’s apartment, and I couldn’t stop fidgeting with my jacket, my cufflinks, my hair. The bespoke suit fit me like a glove, but I’d gone more casual beneath, skipping a tie and leaving the top two buttons of the white shirt undone. I regretted the decision. I always felt more put together in a tie. But at least I had the pocket square.
I fidgeted with that too, being careful not to smash the dozen roses in the artful paper and twine.
When the door opened, Juliette was shoeless and sort of rising on the balls of her feet to appear a little taller. I smiled at her. No makeup. Not even lipstick. She was goddamn perfect.
“You look beautiful,” I studied her, eyes running over her curves hungrily.
“I look like a mess,” she countered, giving a short burst of uncomfortable laughter. “I couldn’t even get this stupid dress to zip.”
“May I?”
She nodded, waving me into the house. “You’ll have to, otherwise I’m either not going on this date, or I’m going looking like an FBI agent.”
“Sensible suit, flats, hair out of the way in case of confrontation? Be still my heart,” I quipped, moving into the small apartment, a wave of vanilla and orange scent greeting me.
“You forget bulletproof vest and packing heat,” she added, another nervous laugh spilling from her lips. “If that sort of thing turns you on, I’ve got a closet full of inspiration.”
I handed her the roses and she smiled down at them, though a strange looked flashed over her face before she thanked me.
“Thanks. They’re peach.” She played with the paper around the roses, staring down at them.
“Do you not like them?” I’d almost gotten an assortment of different flowers, steering clear of roses all together, but... the roses just called to me. It was a dumb move. Too near my personal dark truth for comfort. But it was a date. Dates brought flowers. And roses were generally the crème de la crème of flower giving.
“No, they’re great. I’m just not a big fan of roses in general. But I like the color.” She shrugged. “I’ll put them in some water really quick. Two secs.” She started turning away, but then turned back again quickly, holding out a hand and looking worried. “Just stay right there. K?”
Padding off to the kitchen, she gave me full view of her back and the half-zipped dress showing off a nude bra. It was all I could do not to follow her and help her get the dress properly off, rather than properly on.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Her voice called back to me. “I’ve got water... and more water. Oh! There might be a coke in the fridge. Maybe...”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You know, you don’t really look Spanish. Montego’s a Spanish surname, right? I mean, other than the dark hair. You’re not very tan and your eyes are… well, they’re shockingly green.” Her voice floated to me over the extra sounds of her opening cabinets and fiddling with glasses.
She’d said to stay where I was, but I ventured out of the foyer anyways, responding as I moved.
“My father’s family hails from Chile. But my mother’s side is European. I tan quite well, but I don’t tend to sunbath often.” Through an archway, I saw Juliette in a galley kitchen with a small pass-through window into the living room. She filled a large vase with water, then she placed it on her counter, picking up the bouquet next.
“You’re telling me a billionaire bachelor doesn’t jet off to tropical locations every chance he gets? That’s exactly what I’d do, if I was rich.”
“You don’t have to be rich when your date has a private plane. Name a place and I’ll make it happen.”
“Some of us have to work for a living. Like really work,” she quipped, and then seemed to suddenly realize that my voice sounded closer. She glanced up from untying the roses. “You were supposed to stay by the front door,” she sighed, frowning.
“I’ve never been one to follow orders.” I leaned against the kitchen entry, crossing my arms.
“Yeah, well. I’ve had a few problems with that myself in the past.” She put her attention back on the roses. She unwrapped the printed paper and picked up the scissors to snip the stems and then used the handle to mash each freshly cut end against the counter, ruining the clean end she’d just made.
“Do those problems have to do with your mother’s murder?”
She didn’t answer immediately, dropping the roses one by one into the vase before lifting them all and dropping them quickly to make the arrangement less uniform. “Perfect’s overrated.” She picked the vase up, moving it over to the pass-through counter so they could be seen from the living room before shifting to lean against the counter facing me. “My mom loved flowers, and she never bought pre-made vases of them. She liked to select each one herself. She’d cut the stems and prep the water with the food packets. She’d say that the arrangements couldn’t look too perfect, or they weren’t interesting any
more. If they did look perfect, symmetrical, each flower trimmed and picked and placed methodically, then they lost the best thing about flowers, the imperfections. That no two are exactly alike. Nature doesn’t grow in rows.”
“I didn’t know she had such a thing for flowers.”
“How would you know?” She peered at me, gaze searching. “She was a stranger to you. She was a stranger to your dad, until her murder gave him a business opportunity.”
“I’m sorry about that. I wish I could make up for it.”
“You’re not your father, right? That’s what you said.”
I nodded.
“But you don’t seem to like flowers. Am I right?” I shifted, uncrossing my arms and standing up.
“I hate flowers.” Juliette swiped roughly at her eyes. “Fuck, I’m glad I didn’t do makeup. What a way to start a date.”
“I’m sorry I brought flowers.”
She shrugged. “I used to like them. Love them, in fact, because they reminded me of her. But when she died and there was that damn rose left on her body. Then The Rose Killer started taunting us, not that we knew her murderer was The Rose Killer when it first started. But every year, every goddamn year. A black rose and a white rose.”
“Maybe they don’t mean what you think they do...” I shouldn’t have said that. But God. Seeing her cry was a knife to the gut.
“And what else could they possibly mean? Because if they don’t mean ‘hey, I slaughtered your mom and dumped her body in Drug Alley for kicks’, then I don’t know what they could mean. He, or she... they’re toying with us, Romero. It kills me. It kills my dad. It breaks our hearts all over again.”
My chest tightened.
It’s not what I meant. Not what I wanted.
I’d just been trying to remind myself that I couldn’t give up. Trying to force myself to remember. To keep my promise.
Desperate to change the subject, and not wanting her to see the grief in my own eyes, I turned from her and walked into the living room, giving myself a few precious seconds to collect my feelings. Goddamn it, this was a mistake. Balthasar had been right. Hell, Juliette had been right. I should have let her go, should have ended this. Instead, I pushed my way into her life. Pushed, because I wanted her. Needed her. Thought she could save me.
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 14
