She's a Spitfire (Tough Love Book 2)

by Chloe Liese

  I was going to find the psycho. And make him pay.

  Twenty-Five

  Nairne

  The mirror showed me a woman I didn’t recognize. Tall, lithe, and lovely in raw silk. A deep peacock blue that shimmered emerald green under the lights. Delicate straps and a plunging V-neck that rested flush across my chest and crossed low past my sternum.

  “It’s not too much?”

  Elodie swung her legs from the bed and shook her head slowly. “Not one bit. You look… parfait.” She kissed her fingers in the gesture of a master artisan satisfied with her work.

  I turned and saw how far the back dipped, enough to show a few inches of my surgery scar, but I didn’t mind. My scars were a sign of my strength and survival, my resilience. They said I’d lived.

  I sniffled as tears filled my eyes.

  “You goose, you’ll ruin my hard work.” She sniffled herself and smiled at me in the mirror.

  “Thank you, El.”

  She stood and kissed my cheek. “Anything for you, ma fille. You look beautiful.”

  I adjusted my grip in the arm crutches and inspected myself a little further, having a hard time finding myself amidst my hair tamed into a half up chignon and long curls, mascara and eyeliner that took my eyes from pretty to mesmerizing. It was a lot. I hadn’t looked like this since…my old life.

  The front door opened and shut, and Zed called my name, so I’d know it was him. A swarm of nervous nausea came over me. I caught Elodie’s reflection in the mirror before glancing at the door.

  “If he asks you about France, I don’t want you to tell him a thing.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  I racked my brain for what to say. I hadn’t told Elodie about the gift at my flat and the note, because she’d worry. And if she knew what was going on, she might be tempted to tell Zed, despite my pleas, because I had a flair for loving people who were as stubborn as me, if not more so in certain circumstances. If Elodie thought I was in danger, she’d probably break our promise and tell Zed about him.

  “Because he knows something happened, and he’s pressing me for details I’m not yet comfortable providing. I’m worried he’ll do something rash.”

  That was simply an incomplete truth, not an outright lie. Zed knocked softly before cracking open the bedroom door. Elodie’s eyes flicked to the door then back to me.

  “Promise me,” I pressed.

  She sighed, folded her arms. “I don’t like it, but you have my word.”

  Zed stepped in and his eyes flew up and down my body, as his mouth fell open. “Jesus.”

  Elodie curtsied. “Thank you. Now that my work is done, I have a midterm to write, so you’ll excuse me.” She kissed my cheek. “Let’s lunch tomorrow? I want to hear all about it. I’m not flying back to Paris until evening time.”

  I kissed her cheek. “Thank you, again. Tomorrow.”

  Elodie slipped out, and Zed looked over his shoulder at her. He was contemplating exactly what I knew he would—asking her to spill my secret and possibly tell her about the stalker’s gift and reentrance into my life.

  “Let her go, Zed. I warned her off you.”

  His gaze flicked back to mine and his jaw ticked. “She’s comfortable keeping that information from me, when you’re unsafe?”

  He stalked slowly toward me. “Unless you lied to her.”

  “I didn’t.” I raised my chin defiantly. “I gave her a partial truth. And I asked her to stay at a hotel, so she’s safe.” I’d told her it was because my place was a wreck. I didn’t want her there or at Zed’s place, should my torturer decide to pay a visit. Money wasn’t an issue for her, so it wasn’t an inconvenience. And now I could breathe easily knowing she’d be out of danger.

  “One last night, that’s what I’m giving you. Then this jig is up, MacGregor.”

  My stomach turned with nausea again as adrenaline pounded through my system. I was angry with him, because he was pushing me, and I was afraid what he’d do once he knew.

  “I want to talk reasonably about what you’ll do. I need your promise you won’t be reckless when I tell you.”

  His face softened. “Deal. You tell me tomorrow—”

  “After we come to an agreement about an appropriate response.”

  “Your terms are acceptable, innamorata.”

  The air cleared between us, and he smiled, wide and bright. He was stunning, much too handsome. For all I teased him, his tux was perfectly tailored. Black with a trim fit. No cummerbund or pleated shirt—just clean lines. Crisp white button down with black buttons, black bow tie, white silk pocket square. He’d left his five o’clock shadow because he knew I liked it, especially at the end of the night, abrading my thighs.

  His features changed as he read my face. He frowned, looked down at himself then back up at me. “What? Did I miss a button?”

  “You’re devastating.”

  Zed slid an arm around my waist. “Wouldn’t know it by your face. You look queasy. You okay?”

  I smiled faintly. “Just overwhelmed. Crazy couple of days. And you look…” I teared up and blinked in irritation at how emotional I was being. “I’m going to ruin all this bloody makeup.”

  “Hey.” He cupped my chin. “It’s going to be okay. Remember our first date?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think being brought to orgasm under the table in a Provençale restaurant is particularly forgettable. Yes, I remember.”

  He smirked. “What did I say?”

  “You’re safe,” I whispered. “With me, never doubt that.”

  He kissed me softly. “That’s right.” He dragged my mask softly over my eyes, then tugged his down as well. Growling, he leaned in and nipped my neck enough to make me yelp. “And now, Madame peacock, take your tiger to the ball.”

  “One more guy looks at you like that, and I’m not going to be responsible for my actions,” Zed murmured. We weren’t the only ones dressed as exotic animals. The place was a jungle of dazzling gowns, ornate masks, tailored tuxedos, that all shone under The Lindley Hall’s sparkling lights. We slowly made our way from the foyer into the main ballroom.

  “Honestly, they’re probably staring at how awkward I am with these crutches and a dress.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, no, they’re staring at you.” His hand rested proprietarily warm on the middle of my back, above my scar. “Those last two guys from your grad program definitely weren’t looking at your get-up. Their eyes were all over your beautiful face then they just landed right on your tits because of course they look phenomenal as always, and I almost lost it. It’s incredibly disrespectful to you.”

  I opened my mouth to remind him the first time we met, his gaze had taken an identical route, but he just kept going.

  “Not to mention, I couldn’t make it more obvious that we’re together. They’re still all over you.”

  “I dunno,” I said. “You could throw me over your shoulder and holler like Tarzan. That might really send the message home.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

  I smiled happily because I always found his territorial displays as bizarrely attractive as they were amusing. His eyes got brighter, and color piqued his chiseled face. It was a perfected formula. Zed’s handsomeness increased in direct relationship to his temper.

  “Damn it,” he said. “That’s another one. I swear…”

  He stopped abruptly as Christophe approached me, clasped my arm in his hand and kissed me in the French way, once on each cheek.

  “Amie, you look stunning.” Christophe glanced over to Zed, then did a double take, his mouth pinching critically. “You again.”

  Zed’s eyes narrowed. Coupled with the dramatic tiger mask that covered the top of his face, he looked poised to tear Christophe apart.

  “Thank you, Christophe,” I said. “You look smart yourself.” I elbowed Zed but he just pulled me closer to him and scowled, so I went on. “Did you double check the presentation’s ready?”

  “Nairne, ple
ase.” Christophe clasped my elbow again and I think it was just to send Zed’s blood pressure soaring. “I have everything taken care. All you have to do is smile your beautiful smile and say your part.”

  “We should get to our seats,” Zed said.

  Christophe smiled. “Ah, yes, we’re seated together. Along with my detestable plus one.”

  His cousin. “Is he here?” I asked.

  “Yes, and he’s as intolerable as ever.”

  Zed glanced between us. “Who?”

  “Christophe’s cousin.” I realized I’d never gotten his name, but went on. “He swindled Christophe out of his fair share of the family business and now he’s come to rub it in his face at the gala tonight.”

  “Ah. From personal experience, that sounds like a family-run business,” Zed said drily.

  “Indeed.” Christophe glanced over my shoulder and frowned. “Please excuse me.” He squeezed my arm gently again and walked off.

  “Pretty touchy-feely, isn’t he?” Zed gritted, his eyes flicking behind me as he watched Christophe strut off.

  “He’s French. It’s how they are. Can we sit? I’m getting tired.”

  His eyes snapped back to me and softened. “I’m sorry, of course. Let’s find our seats. Marc said he’d meet us with your chair.”

  While wove through a maze of tables, I caught my crutch on someone who stepped back suddenly. It startled me and nearly sent me falling, but I laughed it off. You could see the negatives in moments like those or the positives. I smiled that I was walking at all, that I had a man I loved huffing and fussing over me while muttering under his breath in Italian.

  “What did you say?” I lowered myself into my wheelchair and handed Zed my travel arm crutches to fold. They were expensive, but insanely convenient. Zed collapsed them and slid them into the little bag I had at the back of my seat.

  “Just my times tables.” He dropped to his seat. “Helps me cool off when I’m irritated.”

  I stared at him in confusion while he drank his entire water and set it down with a long slow exhale. Then Zed turned toward me and grasped my hand. “That guy back there nearly trampled you, so rather than bringing the Boston crazy out, I just blew off a little verbal steam using a trick I developed in grade school. Fourth grade to be exact. I was a bit of a hot-head.”

  “No,” I teased.

  “After I beat the piss out of Frankie Lombardi for launching a spitball at the back of my head, Sister Maria dragged me up by my ear and said next time I was tempted to answer immaturity with my fists, I needed to take a deep breath and practice my twelves.”

  “Twelves?” I frowned and took a sip of my own water. “Those are the easiest.” Seriously, who couldn’t recite their twelves in their sleep? Twos and fours all day long.

  Zed shook his head emphatically. “Fuckers still elude me. Every other number up to twenty, no problem. Fucking twelves. Anyway, it worked. I was a student above reproach for the rest of my days.”

  “Zed, I’m nowhere close to fluent in Italian but even I know what you said was not all numerical. And would probably make Sister Maria’s hair curl.”

  He smirked and brought my hand to his lips. “You would be correct.”

  Our table was empty still but for one older couple who were soft-spoken, sweet, and French. We chatted and I figured out they were Christophe’s other grandparents—his mother’s side who weren’t at all involved in the Mercier textile business drama.

  Nerves and nausea about presenting kept knotting my belly, but the heat of Zed’s strong body, his petrichor scent calmed me. His steadiness was palpable—a physical bulwark as much as it was tender feelings. His warm hand on my thigh and his arm around the back of my chair caged me in. I sank into his body like a warm bath.

  Christophe arrived at our table and sat sulkily on the other side of his grandmother. Zed smiled to himself as he took a sip of his wine.

  “You did that on purpose—sat me between you and the grand-mère.”

  He set down his wine. Squeezed my thigh and spoke against the shell of my ear. I shivered and my nipples hardened against the silk of my dress. “Yes. Because if he touched you once more, I was going to have assault charges on my record, and I think we have enough going on as it is right now, don’t you?”

  I smiled to myself as his fingers danced along my spine. He let them linger near my scar, which was always excruciatingly sensitive, a weird grafted erogenous zone that he knew lots about exploiting. I glared at him from the side of my eyes.

  “Zed.”

  He smiled innocently and kissed my hair before sitting back in his seat. Our eyes met and one thing alone crossed the wires between us. Want.

  God, I wanted him. Inside me. Whispering things in my ear and groaning like I undid him as much as he did me. He’d be gone soon again for the rigors of his schedule, and I’d be back to hunching over genetically mutated viruses and typing until my fingers ached and my eyes burned. I loved it of course, but I liked aching and burning elsewhere and for other reasons, too.

  Zed shook his head slowly. “Don’t look at me like that, innamorata.”

  I smiled innocently.

  The table filled, with one lone seat empty next to Christophe, presumably for his cousin. Dinner was about to be served, and Zed excused himself, but not before he leaned close, squeezing my hand with his. “I’m just going to use the restroom. Stay here. Tom and Marc have their eyes on you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Leaning in, we kissed, and he stood, making his way briskly across the room toward the hallway. I admired the athleticism and poise of his body as he strode efficiently, winding through tables and stopping briefly a few times to shake someone’s hand when they recognized him as the footie phenom he was. My eyes took in his handsome profile—strong nose and high cheekbones. Scruff that was designed to abrade my skin, and as he escaped the final fanatic’s grasp and turned toward the lavvy, I praised our Maker for Zed’s especially tight, delicious arse.

  “That derriere should be illegal,” Christophe’s grand-mère muttered to me. She managed it in thick accented English and winked.

  I turned to face her and laughed. “Agreed.”

  “Lucky girl.” She smiled, patting my hand. “I remember when Jean-Claude and I were that age. It feels like yesterday.”

  I smiled as she sighed wistfully and went on. “Love is precious. And nothing is promised to us. You must enjoy every moment.”

  I leaned her way. “Believe me, I mean to.”

  She laughed at the naughty implication and tsked. “Oh, to be young again,” she said. Her husband tapped her shoulder and we broke apart from our conversation.

  As I turned from her, I froze, assailed by a horrible, familiar scent. Cognac and cloves. Then a voice. Low, terse French. The peripheral shadow of long limbs in a fitted tuxedo as he dropped into his seat next to Christophe.

  The facts dropped like dominoes, tiles of realization snapping into another. Christophe looked familiar to me because he was related to Alexandre. I hadn’t connected them because they didn’t share a last name. Bloody idiot that I was, when it was a simple matter that the Mercier side of Alexandre was his mother and thus not the surname he inherited. Alexandre had made a sudden donation, demanded to be here on the pretense of good publicity, or in Christophe’s mind, to rub it in his face. But it had all been to get to—

  Me.

  You’d think in such a moment, when memories flooded my mind, when so many terrifying pieces finally fell into place, that I would have made a scene. Fainted perhaps, or screamed. But I didn’t. Because if that monster saw my fear, then he won.

  And I’d never let him win.

  I steeled myself and raised my eyes to meet his.

  Twenty-Six

  Nairne

  Dinner was being served, a flurry of china plates and sparkling wine, as I met eyes with my stalker and antagonist. Whose cold brown gaze I’d looked into too many times, accusing it, wishing him away. It had been years, but I could still
picture and recognize his eyes exactly. Frigid and lifeless. They raked over me, as I tried to keep my breath steady and hide my terror.

  Alexandre was dressed exceptionally, as he had been when I met him years ago. Every piece tailored and expensive looking. His wavy hair had grown longer, now falling to his shoulders, and he sported a short beard. If he weren’t a psychopath, he’d be startlingly handsome. But I knew what kind of a man he was, so all I saw was a devil possessed with cold danger.

  He spoke in French to Christophe, who sat tense and irritable. Christophe’s gaze shifted, then bored into me critically. Alexandre was probably saying something poisoning about me to my lab mate’s observing eye. When Alexandre stopped speaking and sat back, Christophe stood, threw down his napkin, then strolled off.

  His grand-mère looked up and frowned over her shoulder. “Where is he going? Aren’t you two speaking soon?”

  We had about half an hour, so it wasn’t necessarily alarming in terms of timing, but more in temperament. Christophe’s behavior was off. He seemed angry with me, and now he was gone.

  She turned to Alexandre. “What did you say to him? You’ve upset him.” She was feisty, that grand-mère, but Alexandre just stared at her, unenthused.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Sylvie.”

  Hearing his voice, I shuddered involuntarily. It made the hair on my neck stand up.

  When he stood, I fought the urge to startle and flee. He sauntered slowly toward Zed’s vacant seat and dropped into it, acting as if we were two old friends catching up.

  Sylvie glanced between us. “You two know each other?”

  “We met in Paris,” he said. “Years ago.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “What a coincidence.”

  “Not particularly,” I muttered.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  Alexandre waved her away. “Nothing, Sylvie. Go back to your dinner.”

  She gaped, then shut her mouth and turned to her food.

  “It’s been too long.” His eyes roamed me hungrily and he shoved Zed’s place setting back so he had room to rest one long arm on the table.