Keeping Her

by Holly Hart

  At least she didn’t drag me to meet her parents last month. I’ve still got a little time to prepare for that.

  “Whatever,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll just wait till Tricialicious goes public and then buy the controlling interest. I’ll end up running the show in the end.”

  “Go right ahead, sucker,” says Tricia. “Your money’s as green as anyone else’s. We’ll be retired and rich, so what do we care?”

  We all bust up over that one. After the laughter dies down, the three of them go over some of the details of the plan, particularly the construction schedule, now that fall is around the corner. I watch them with a smile on my face and in my heart.

  My mind drifts back just a couple of months, to standing on a cliff in the Alps, thinking I was somehow going to find the meaning of life by jumping off. Now I realize how utterly ridiculous that was.

  This is the meaning of life right here, in a little ice cream shop in Midtown. With these crazy, frustrating, wonderful people. How could I supposedly be so smart and yet not get that for so long?

  Cassie runs a hand along my arm and leans close.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” she says. Then she holds up Maksim’s check. “I can afford it, I’ve got this.”

  I smile and kiss her temple. The same one Anna held her gun against.

  “I was just thinking we should go to Italy soon,” I say. “I think we’ve kept David waiting long enough, don’t you?”

  144

  EPILOGUE: CASSIE

  Four Years Later

  I stand at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes. Far below is an outcropping of jagged granite pointing toward the sky, like fingers from the earth reaching up to the heavens.

  In the distance is Lake Garda, the summer sunlight dappling off its turquoise surface as the Alps stand sentinel behind it. There’s not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind.

  Carson wraps his arms around my waist from behind.

  “What do you think?” he whispers in my ear.

  I smile at his touch, the warmth of his embrace, the feel of his beard scruff against my cheek.

  “I think you were a fucking idiot,” I sigh.

  He chuckles. “Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel.”

  I turn inside the circle of his arms to face him, wrapping my own arms around his waist. In the afternoon light, his gray eyes are the same pale shade as the stone fingers on the valley floor below.

  “A single miscalculation and you would have been bug splatter on the side of the mountain,” I say. “Or you could have hit the water at the wrong angle and broken your neck. You would have been the world’s richest quadriplegic.”

  He winces at my words.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he says. “Either of those things was very possible.”

  “That’s not why you were an idiot, though.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks for clearing that up.”

  I grin. “Hey, I was no better back in those days. A redhead disguising herself as a Middle Eastern woman and hanging out with terrorists is quite a bit stupider than jumping off a cliff in a flying suit.”

  Carson throws his head back and laughs. I chuckle at the memory, too. It’s been long enough that I can do that.

  “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand your point,” he says. “Why was I an idiot?”

  “Because,” I say, hugging him tight and pressing my face against his chiseled chest. “There was so much more you could have been doing with your time and your brain and your money.”

  “You mean like when you and I came that first time a few years ago?”

  “Exactly. That was incredible. A private tour of David in the Galleria d’Accademia, vineyards in Tuscany, shopping in Milan, hiking the cliffs of Cinque Terre…”

  The memories of that month still give me goosebumps to this day, even after all the times we’ve been back to Italy. We’ve tried on the entire boot, from here in the north all the way to the toe and beyond to Sicily. But that first trip was magical.

  We walk hand-in-hand back toward our waiting Aston Martin roadster. Carson rented it specifically for the sensation that we were in a James Bond movie as we drove the winding road through the mountains. He won’t admit it to me – the last thing he wants is a lecture on what a real secret agent’s life is like – but I know it’s true.

  It’s one of the many reasons I love him – sometimes he’s just a big kid. With a really expensive toy box.

  “In my defense, I was pretty lost in those days,” he says, opening the passenger door for me. “I thought I was bored; that I needed excitement to make my life worthwhile.”

  He slides in behind the wheel and sparks the Aston’s savage twelve-cylinder engine to life.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “And that’s changed how, Mr. Bond?”

  Carson laughs as he pulls away from the trailhead parking lot and onto the winding road that will take us back down to Bardolino and the villa we’ve booked for the wedding.

  “I met you,” he says, having to raise his voice over the sound of the engine and the air rushing into the cockpit of the convertible. “That was when I learned what life is really about.”

  Awww. I want to squeeze his hand, but it’s busy working the gearshift. So I figure I might as well take advantage of the opening he’s given me to fish for a compliment or two.

  “And what, exactly, would that be?” I ask.

  He grins.

  “Sex with virgins.”

  Oh, you little…

  I smack his rock-hard shoulder.

  “Try again, Romeo,” I say. “And bear in mind that we’re just up the street from fair Verona.”

  “Two households, both alike in dignity,” Carson says, reciting the opening lines of Romeo & Juliet. Show-off. “In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”

  “Exactly. So if you don’t want any grudges or mutinies or civil blood, I suggest you come up with a better answer.”

  He gears down in an attempt to keep me from losing my headscarf as we round a hairpin curve. It works, allowing me to maintain my Grace Kelly vibe for a little while longer.

  “Life,” he says, “is really about connection. That indescribable feeling you get when you realize that you’ve found the missing part of you that you didn’t even know you were looking for. Sharing your life and your heart and your experiences with that person.”

  Geez, even after all this time, he can still make my heart swell up. I take the silly scarf off my head – it’s not going to do any good for my crazy, curly mop – and dab at the corner of my eyes.

  “Not bad, eh?” he asks.

  I sniffle. “Been practicing that one, have you?”

  We reach a straightaway and he takes his hand off the gearshift to squeeze mine.

  “I just opened my mouth and that’s what came out,” he says. “That tends to happen when I’m with you. You bring out the best in me.”

  His hand slides down the hem of my dress and back up the bare thigh underneath.

  “And the worst,” he says with a grin.

  “I’ll be the judge of which is which,” I say, opening my legs a bit to accommodate his touch.

  He teases me for a couple of minutes, until he can’t avoid gearing down any longer. The road gets steeper the closer we get to the village, so I pout a bit and close my legs again.

  “Can I have a rain check?” he asks with just the right amount of begging in his tone.

  “If you play your cards right,” I say. “Maybe I’ll practice my own manual shifting with you later.”

  He flashes me a look that combines lust and theatrical surprise, eliciting a hearty giggle from me.

  Later, in Bardolino, we sit at our table at a little café across from the marina. It’s a tiny place, downscale, but that’s why we love it. It has an unbeatable view of the water, delicious food and wonderful staff
.

  Carson and I have both learned over the years that value doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with cost. My oversized D&G knockoff sunglasses, for example, were twenty-four dollars at the airport in Milan. His deck shoes were thirty-five dollars at a shop up the street from here. And we have to get used to living on less.

  I kick off my sandals and run my bare foot along the muscles of his calves under the table.

  “So,” I say. “Ready for the wedding?”

  He takes a sip of his after-lunch grappa. He’s developed a taste for it; I’d sooner drink kerosene myself.

  “Not really that much to it,” he says. “But it’s always easier for guys. Throw on a tux and show up. How about you?”

  I smile, thinking about the gorgeous dress I’ll be wearing tomorrow. Then I sigh, because it reminds me of the night Carson bought me that plum-colored Oscar De La Renta gown that eventually ended up on the floor of our suite at the Regent Hotel.

  God, what a crazy time that was. Then again, it was that crazy time that brought us together. Fate must have been tripping on LSD when it came up with that plan.

  “I can’t wait,” I say. “The planner has everything under control. Flowers, doves, orchestra, meal. I have to admit, having money makes it a lot easier to put on a wedding.”

  Carson raises his glass in a toast.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he says.

  I frown and return the salute with my glass of Orvieto.

  “I’m going to miss being obscenely rich,” I sigh.

  “Well, would you look at that?” I say. “Another hill. Better gear down.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah, gear down. Just like that.”

  “How many speeds are there on an Aston Martin, again?”

  “Suh-six.”

  “Six. Plus reverse. That’s back this way, right?”

  “Right,” he moans. “Oh yeah, that’s perfect.”

  Our pool is in the shadow of the villa, so it stays cool through most of the day. Which is good, because we’re both about as overheated as you can get.

  Carson floats on his back in the shallow end while I practice my “shifting” on him. I love watching his face twist and his mouth drop open as I go through each stroke. Meanwhile, his hand is under the water, working his fingers in and out of my opening in time with each of my shifts.

  Luckily, we’re still obscenely rich for the next few days, which means this place is gated and locked, and we can prance around as naked as the day we were born without fear of being disturbed.

  We’ve developed a rhythm during our years together, one that puts us in sync with each other’s movements and allows us to anticipate where the other is on the pleasure scale. Like right now – I know instinctively that Carson can’t take much more of this without going further, and he knows I’m on the verge of my first orgasm.

  He slides himself out of my hand and turns over in the water, leaving me the one lying on my back. He quickly manipulates his way between my legs, lifting them up onto his submerged shoulders. His eyes gleam and he flashes me a cocky grin as he wades his way ever closer to my slit.

  The sun sizzles on my face and breasts as his tongue darts in and out, combining to take me out of myself and onto a floating wave of sheer ecstasy. I entwine my fingers into Carson’s hands, gripping them tightly as I float closer and closer to the moment of release.

  So many times he’s done this to me, and each time is just as good as that first night in New York. As the pressure of his tongue gets stronger, my orgasm builds, relentless as a storm, until I can’t hold back any longer and I give in to the power of it.

  In my spasms, my hands release his and slap at the surface of the water, sending up splashes right into Carson’s face. It has no effect on the evil grin there.

  As my convulsions slow and the sensations ebb away, I float forward and wrap my arms around Carson’s neck. We bob there together for several moments, breathing in time with each other, feeling the delicious cool on our bodies, in stark contrast with the baking sun on our heads.

  When I have control of myself again, I let go of him and turn to face the side of the pool. I kick myself forward and reach out, grabbing the rungs of the ladder.

  “Um,” he says. “Excuse me? Where are you going?”

  I pull myself up two rungs and stop, bending slightly at the waist. As I do, I drop a smoldering look over my shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just left my scarf up on that top shelf. Do you think you could help me reach it?”

  Carson’s eyes light up and he crosses the gap between us in two seconds, despite having to wade through thigh-deep water. He glides up behind me and suddenly the heat of his erection is pressing against my bare ass.

  “Of course,” he breathes into my ear. “But we’d better hurry. Don’t want someone to walk into the coatroom and get the wrong impression.”

  “No,” I sigh as he slides the tip of his shaft between my lips, back and forth, front to back, back to front. “A girl could get a reputation that way.”

  He covers my shoulders with kisses as I grind my hips in time with his movements. His hands reach up and gently massage my wet breasts and rock-hard nipples.

  “I think it’s just a bit too high for me,” I groan.

  “No problem,” he pants. “Let me get that for you.”

  He takes a step forward and upwards, finally thrusting his stiff cock into my slick entrance. I shudder with pleasure as it penetrates deep inside me.

  I steady myself with the railings as Carson grabs my ass with both hands and I can tell he’s barely able to control himself. His powerful hands grip me tight and pull me toward him as he thrusts harder, faster. My second orgasm begins to radiate upwards from my core even as I feel his building inside me.

  “Cassie,” he rasps in my ear, giving voice to his urgent need. I can’t help myself – I let go of the railings and drop forward, hands on the pool deck, allowing his cock to go as deep as possible inside me. His hips move so fast and hard that it all blurs into a sprint of orgasmic delight, until I finally let out a cry that startles the birds in the copse of beech trees next to the pool into flight.

  Carson explodes inside me in a wave of heat and pressure that sets me off one last time, wracking my body with shudders of passion and leaving me a shaking mess. If it weren’t for his hands holding my hips, I’d simply collapse in a heap on the pool deck.

  He leans forward, still buried deep inside me, panting in my ear. His chest is like a bellow against my back, expanding and contracting. His arms are wrapped around me like he’s holding on for dear life.

  “How is it we keep getting better at this?” I moan, trying to catch my own breath.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he pants.

  The cool shower was glorious, and the nap was even better. But alas, nothing lasts forever.

  “Honey,” I say, rolling over onto my back and stretching. “You need to feed me or I’ll fade away.”

  Carson’s already bringing a tray of fruit and cheese into the bedroom. Apparently he can read my mind while I’m asleep, too. He’s even dressed, which is more than I can say for myself.

  He hands me a small plate of provolone, gorgonzola and grapes. I snatch it away and dig in.

  “You’re the bestest billionaire in the whole world,” I coo.

  “For a little while longer, anyway,” he sighs.

  I smile and shake my head.

  “We’ll still be able to afford cheese and grapes,” I say. “Just not in a $50,000-a-night villa.”

  “Probably supermarket cheese,” he mumbles morosely.

  I stick out my tongue, which is probably pretty gross from his perspective, given that it’s covered in green-veined cheese.

  Carson glances at his Rolex. “Just about time to get ready for cocktail hour,” he says.

  I stretch one more time, giving him an unobstructed view of my boobs. He smiles appreciatively.

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll get dressed if I absolutely ha
ve to.”

  As I rise from the bed, the electronic chime of the intercom system goes off. I reach over and hit the “talk” button on the tablet next to the night table.

  “Yes?”

  A cold male voice with a thick Russian accent fills the room.

  “We have your son,” says the voice. “If you ever want to see him again, I suggest you let us in.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Just a second, Maks.”

  My finger taps the “unlock gate” button and I continue into the en suite bathroom and walk-in closet.

  “I hope they fed Leo,” Carson says absently. “He’ll go down for his nap more easily if he’s had a snack.”

  I pull on a camisole and a pair of capris before stepping into my sandals.

  “You know who you’re talking about, right?” I say, running a brush through the briar patch of my hair. “I didn’t come up with the name ‘Tricialicious’ for nothing.”

  He kisses my neck as we step out of the master suite and head for the parlor one floor below.

  “I just hope Maks didn’t try to set him up with any girls,” he says.

  My heart sings as I see the familiar strawberry blond mop on Leo’s head. He’s holding Tricia’s hand, until he sees me: then he drops her like a hot potato and makes a beeline for the base of the stairs.

  “Mommy!”

  I scoop him up in my arms and hug him fiercely. It’s only been a handful of hours, but it might as well have been years. He wraps a pudgy arm around my neck and lays a wet kiss on my cheek.

  “My mommy,” he says absently, looking around the expansive room from the elevated perspective of my arms.

  Carson tousles his hair and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hey buddy, did you have fun today?”

  “Uh-huh. I saw a clown.”

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “Where did you see one of those?”

  Tricia grins, and her own brows go up.

  “Down by the marina,” she says brightly. “He was rummaging through the garbage outside the bar and started talking to us.”