Tommaso (Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. #2)

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  You idiot. She’s anything but ordinary. She was uniquely qualified to be his perfect match. In bed and in life. Not that he wanted the life part. Reality was that his past would not allow him to settle into any sort of traditional relationship. The people he loved always ended up, well…dead. And not just dead, dead, but violently murdered. The memory of his entire family, including his six-month-old nephew, little Antoni, would forever haunt him. Then there was Emma. No, she hadn’t died, but it had been a close call. And, yeah, he’d loved her. She’d seen the good in him when he’d been in a place so dark that life had no meaning. But he couldn’t keep her safe either. He’d handed her over to the Maaskab and enjoyed every dark moment while his heart had plummeted further into the abyss, unable to stand witness to what he was doing.

  At best, the world he lived in could be described as dangerous, and nothing about his present or past lent itself to a traditional relationship. Nevertheless, his losses weren’t merely his hell, they were his reason to fight. They were a wound that wasn’t meant to heal and would always serve to remind him of his true north: Some of us are born for pain. And if we’re lucky, we’ll be the ones giving it. But seeing his parents, brothers and sisters, and their children, all lying facedown around their table, the floor a pool of blood, was a memory that would torment him until his last breath.

  “Sir?” The clerk snapped her fingers. “She has a seven a.m. tee time. Should I book it?”

  Tommaso narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “Book her for the entire month. Or year. However long your system allows.”

  The clerk frowned. “Sorry, sir?”

  “You heard me. Block out her schedule completely.” He flicked his finger at the card in her hand. “Go ahead. Whatever the cost.”

  “Oh-okay. As you like.” The clerk tapped away on her keyboard and then handed him a set of key cards. “There’s a complimentary wine tasting starting in just a few minutes, and breakfast starts at five thirty.”

  He dipped his head. “Thank you. Can you tell me where to find a clothing shop?” He still had on his gnarly biker outfit. How does Andrus stand this? The leather kept chafing his balls. “I…the airline lost my luggage,” he lied, not wanting to explain why he’d shown up without extra clothes.

  “Down the hall, to the right. There are several stores.”

  “Thank you.” He turned around just in time to see Guy sauntering up, looking more irritated than ever. Likely due to the fact that he’d rather be at home with Emma and…and…and…oh hell. I can’t remember his name. Cookamonga? Ka-poy-poy? The baby.

  Tommaso ignored Guy, pretending they were strangers, but then slowed his walk as he reached the other side of the lobby just so he could hear…

  “What!” Guy yelled. “What do you mean you have no rooms left? I will vanquish your soul and turn you into a steaming heap of dung if you do not rectify this at once!”

  Tommaso smiled and kept on walking. Guy could make all the noise he wanted, but he wasn’t capable of turning humans into dung.

  And I got the last room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “No. This can’t be your entire selection of clothing. It’s inhumane.” Tommaso leered at the neatly folded stacks of apple green and tangerine golf shirts, sherbet Bermudas, and plaid golf pants.

  The salesperson, a young man in his twenties with spiky blond hair, pointed across the way to another clothing boutique next to the souvenir shop. “Have you explored the Sunshine Shack, sir?”

  Tommaso almost vomited on his two-thousand-dollar Italian-leather, hand-stitched shoes that so, so did not go with the leather pants he still wore. “That store only carries swimwear.” He’d be damned if he was going to show up to meet his mate and smooth things over wearing a Speedo. Actually…that might not be such a bad idea. I am rather hun—

  Just then, he spotted his soon-to-be woman passing by, now wearing khaki slacks and a black golf tee. She’d changed clothing. Dear gods, is that her version of evening wear?

  Do not panic. I’m sure this is just her work attire.

  He noticed that she was walking with two older gentlemen who seemed a bit too happy and attentive, laughing and speaking with deep voices to impress her with their manliness.

  Fuckers. Get away from my woman.

  “I’ll call my tailor in L.A.,” Tommaso said to the salesperson and then quickly exited the shop to follow her and the two men. The three passed outside the main building, which housed the reception area, lounge and shops, and made their way toward what looked like the restaurant and private club for members. It was now dark outside, so he hoped she wouldn’t notice him following behind and eavesdropping.

  “Oh,” said one of the men, “my swing is exceptionally hard. Har, har, haaaar.”

  “Well, mine is long,” the other man said to her. “I’ll show you later if you like? Har, har, haaar.” He laughed like he had a club stuck up his ass.

  Dear gods, no woman of mine is going to pander to a bunch of horny old men in order to make scratch.

  Tommaso fought the urge to run up behind her and haul her back to his room right then and there. But there was the little matter of approaching her first and letting her know that whatever had happened between them in their last interaction was not a reflection of his true self. He was a gentleman. Deadly, but refined. Disciplined, yet quick on his feet. He was a trained guard in the gods’ army who’d had a bad turn, and though he could never offer her picket fences, he could offer her mind-blowing sex and financial security. He could make her feel pampered like a princess. Hell, he’d even purchased a villa for her in the Hollywood hills, with a view any woman would approve of. And a closet any woman would kill for. He only hoped she wouldn’t hold his behavior against the closet. It wasn’t the closet’s fault that he’d tied her up in it.

  And it truly is a spectacular closet.

  Tommaso entered the cocktail lounge with intimate lighting and velvety jazz playing in the background and realized that this was the wine tasting the clerk had just mentioned. The room, with a grand fireplace at the far end, was filled with couples, groups of older men harharhaaarrring, and wait staff who were busy filling glasses.

  Tommaso scanned the space, looking for his target. Why didn’t I ask the receptionist for her name? He’d been so distracted by her overwhelming curves and underwhelming clothing that it had slipped his mind.

  “You must be looking for the steak house,” said a soft feminine voice.

  Tommaso turned and his brain immediately slammed into a wall that wasn’t there. Nevertheless, the wall kept him from thinking, speaking, and acting like a basic human being.

  “You okay?” she said, those warm brown eyes gazing up at him. A man could get lost in those eyes. Eyes that were giving him the death stare less than a day ago. Wait. Why isn’t she running or screaming at me? Had she blocked out the incident?

  Wanting to tread lightly, he asked, “Have we met before?”

  She smiled with a pair of lips that were too sensual for words—slightly full, with a deeper than usual dip on the top lip. He instantly wanted to take those lips and run his tongue over every soft bit of them.

  Abruptly, her smile melted away. “No. I think I would remember you,” she said curtly.

  How odd.

  She added, “Especially since you’re dressed for a Mad Max convention or biker rally—don’t get a lot of people dressed like that coming to the resort.”

  Tommaso wasn’t sure if she meant that as a compliment, insult, or if it was merely an observation.

  Tommaso glanced down at his black leather pants and snug white T-shirt. He did look a little rude, but his appearance was best described as rock star a la Lenny Kravitz or classic James Dean sex-symbol-esque.

  She definitely meant it as a compliment. But who the hell cares? Why isn’t she running away screaming? Or yelling at me?

  He leaned down a bit closer, staring into her eyes. Dammit, she smells fantastic. “Are you certain I don’t look the least bit familiar?”
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br />   Her expression unreadable, she said, “You’re a TV star, aren’t you? Maybe I have seen you before.”

  Her pupils dilated for a fraction of a second. She was lying. She had no clue who he was but didn’t want to make him feel bad.

  Okay, so this might be a blessing in disguise. But on the other hand…

  What the fuck is going on?

  He didn’t remember much, but he recalled seeing her tied up and the poor woman running for her life. Yes, from him. Prior to that, he’d also seen her leaving the singles mixer in L.A. Of that, there was no question. They’d passed right by each other as she had been coming out and he had been going in. But there had been a moment when their eyes had met, and he just knew—as mates often did—that she was the one. He’d merely seen her for a moment, and it had done something to him. Made him want and feel and… Fuck. And need things. He never needed anything. Not anymore. And no, his comforts in life were not to be mistaken for needs. They were merely a way of life. A way to bring civility to his cursed existence. But make no mistake; when he had looked into her eyes at Cimil’s mixer, he’d felt needs. A whole hell of a fucking lot of them. He had made it two steps inside the party before those needs were jerking him back by the collar of his organic cotton shirt, turning him right around, and tapping her on the shoulder as she waited for the valet to bring her car. She had turned to face him, and the world slowed to a glacial crawl. He didn’t remember much after that.

  But now, at this very moment, staring into her wide eyes, his world felt accelerated. Hummingbird, Indy 500, cha-cha-cha accelerated.

  He cleared his throat, attempting to keep his deep voice steady, reflecting an image of control. Just like Dad taught him. “I’m sorry to say that I am not a celebrity. You merely seemed familiar, so I thought perhaps we’d met somewhere before,” he lied.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She looked uncomfortable, and that was when it hit him; she didn’t seem interested. Not even a little. “Well, if you’re looking for the steak house, it’s through that door, to your right, and down the walkway. Can’t miss it.” She pointed toward the exit and gave him a polite little smile before turning to mingle with the wine-tasting guests.

  That’s not possible. It’s just not. “Excuse me.” He grabbed her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Would you like to have a drink with me?”

  Her smile nonexistent, she tugged her arm back. “I don’t date hotel guests. Bad for business. But I hope you have a nice stay at the resort. I do recommend the spa—our mud baths are to die for.”

  She turned away again and rejoined a group of five men with promiscuous gazes and fat wallets protruding from their back pockets.

  How garish.

  But worse than being rejected for some golf geezers was that she was supposed to want him. Him and only him from their first interaction. Sure, sometimes it took a little persuasion for an individual to give in to those wants, but it was akin to denying one’s hunger. Sooner or later, you had to eat.

  Scratching his manicured stubble, he watched her smiling and interacting with what had to be her clients.

  So let me get this straight. I almost killed her, but she doesn’t remember me. She’d rather speak with them than me. And I am pretty sure I’m into her. All right, I’m very much into her. She, on the other hand, had been polite for the first three seconds, but then threw up an icy wall so thick that it smelled suspiciously of a defense mechanism.

  Running his hand through his hair, he turned and retreated, feeling the need to rethink the situation. It was clear that with this woman, something else was going on. But the clock was ticking, and at any moment, he would become a full-fledged Maaskab.

  Once outside, he slipped his cell from his pocket and dialed. It immediately went into voicemail. “Cimil, it’s Tommaso. You must tell me what you know about her. Tell me why I’m getting the feeling that she’s not my mate.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tommaso entered the presidential suite, still flustered from his interaction with… Dammit. I forgot to ask her name again. That wasn’t like him to be lacking in the attention-to-detail department like that.

  He walked down the small hallway and turned the corner where the suite opened up into an enormous living room with panoramic windows overlooking the golf course. A soft leather sofa faced a gas fireplace that ran through the wall into what had to be the master suite on the other side. This suite would surely impress any woman. Specifically my woman—as soon as I figure out how to make her mine. But once he did, he’d bet that the bathroom had a whirlpool tub for two and some relaxing lighting just perfect to set the mood for some hard hot fucking.

  He went to go check out the amenities and nearly slammed into a giant tree stump.

  “Can you call room service for green olives? This martini tastes like crap,” Guy said, pushing past him into the living room.

  Tommaso turned with a scowl. “What the fuck are you doing in my room, Guy?”

  Holding a martini glass to his lips, Guy shrugged, sipped, and made a sour face. “Yeah, definitely needs olives.”

  “Guy,” Tommaso growled, “how did you get in here?”

  Stopping in front of the small bar in the corner next to a giant potted palm, Guy replied with an obvious sadistic delight to his voice, “The lovely young woman at the front desk gave me a key since I will be sleeping with you.”

  Tommaso gnashed his teeth together. Had Guy seriously told the receptionist this? Obviously, he had meant “sleeping” in the platonic sense, but the A-hole made it sound otherwise.

  What if she mentions something to my woman? He didn’t need any additional hurdles. That included anyone presuming he was into men. Idiot!

  Tommaso growled his words, “Sorry, Guy, I’m not into dating assholes nor does my cock find them pleasurable.”

  Guy made a sour face. “I am officially nauseous. And tread carefully or I might rescind my fucking offer to allow you the fucking couch.”

  Oh, how generous. The couch! “Once again, I will have to decline your offer of fucking on your fucking-couch. You really need to get past this obsession you have with me. I’m here to meet my mate—and if I have anything to do with it, the event will include lots of screwing. Using the proper hole found only on a woman.”

  Guy snarled, “You are a jackass.” He then grabbed the martini shaker and refilled his glass. “I pity the poor woman who will have to endure an eternity of your delightful humor. But as you have already planned to make her wildest dreams come true this evening with your impressive manliness, you can do so in her room. I’m sleeping in that nice big bed, as a deity of my size should.”

  Damn him. On the other hand, did it even matter? Tonight was pretty much shot with his woman. He needed to regroup and think through his next steps carefully given something was going on with her and things had not gone his way. Or you could go back to that wine tasting and try again. After all, this was a life-or-death situation. Perhaps he’d retreated too quickly or misread her somehow?

  Tommaso sighed. “Guy, you must leave. And let me remind you that if I don’t get lucky, I’ll turn into a Maaskab and get thrown in jail. You will join me, and then who will be there to protect Emma and…and…”

  “Kaz. My son’s name is Kaz. And Emma would not be left alone. I have an army of well-trained soldiers to look after her.”

  Tommaso tsked. “All right. If that’s the card you want to play. But if it were my woman, I wouldn’t leave my beautiful mate in the hands of a group of extremely fit men who’d be happy to ‘look after her,’ as you stated. Especially when you could be locked up for years and a passionate woman like her is bound to have needs.” Tommaso knew that would get under Guy’s skin.

  Guy set his glass down on the bar. “Your taunting tactics won’t work on me, Tommy. And you will not fail at securing your mate’s affection and commitment.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. So far, she seemed indifferent toward him. “And if I don’t?”

  “I will kill you.” Guy smiled,
but he wasn’t joking. “And that will solve my problem of going to prison with you.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Can’t hold me accountable for a dead man’s actions, now can they?”

  Tommaso snarled. “You’re a bastard, Guy.”

  “I am the God of Death and War. I think the term bastard falls short when attempting to articulate the magnitude of my unpleasant side.” He grinned. “But what can I say? I’m gifted.”

  “Fucker.”

  “Yes, I am that, too. And now you should go and order my olives—and practice being grateful for my having given you this chance to save your life.”

  “Order your own godsdamned olives.” Tommaso turned and headed outside. Who the hell did this guy—no pun intended—think he was? I’d rather sleep in my own car than share a room—or a presidential suite—with that son of a bitch. The truth was, Guy—Votan—whatever—had saved him from rotting in prison, but only because Emma had forced him to do it. But had Guy or the other gods ever once acknowledged the fact that Tommaso had been one of their best soldiers, holding the record for most Maaskab killed? He’d served loyally and fought hard for them because he’d wanted to be a part of something good in this world. And in exchange for his service, his family had been murdered, he’d been tortured and brainwashed, and then blamed for the crimes he’d committed while under the Maaskab’s control. No one, except for Emma, had ever recognized all he’d sacrificed or done. Not that he wanted or needed praise. Hell no. But for these bastards to run around, behaving as if they’d all done him some glorious favor, well…they could all piss the hell off. Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that he loathed the Maaskab with every drop of blood in his body, he’d simply let himself turn evil just so he could be on another team. “Team Good” was fucking torture.