Ronin's Return

by Elle James

  “You don’t have a choice. I won’t let you become a pawn in al-Jahashi’s game or that of my father’s enemies. Your job is hard enough without worrying about me. Can we leave it at that? I don’t want to talk of a future that will never happen between me and you.”

  Ronin wrapped a towel around his waist and followed her into the bedroom. “Okay, for now, I’ll let it slide. But I’m not done with you. Know that. You’re like a tick buried beneath my skin.”

  “Tick?” Her eyebrows drew together. “What is this tick?”

  He laughed. “A bug we have in the States that burrows into your skin and is hard to find and hard to pull out. In this case, I don’t want to pull you out of my skin. I want to keep you.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “But for now, we’re engaged.” Ronin held up a hand. “Only in your father’s eyes.”

  “We need to stage a fight and a breakup. You can’t be here for long, or you’ll become a target just like me.”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” He bent to brush his lips across hers. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t.” Isabella pressed her lips to his and pushed her tongue past his teeth to toy with his. “You truly are irresistible.”

  “Good. Hold that thought.” Then he claimed her mouth in a kiss designed to rock her world. The longer he could hang around, the more time he had to work on her and change her resolve from sending him away to keeping him forever. In the meantime, he wanted to get a feel for the real situation. Was she in as much danger as she saw potential for? If so, how could he make her safer?

  6

  Isabella wrapped her arms around Ronin’s neck and held on tight. For all her words about breaking up and sending him away, she really didn’t want him to leave.

  Being in his arms made her feel safe and warm, and it was getting even warmer.

  If the tent he was making with his towel was any indication, he was as hot as she was. A quick glance at the clock on her nightstand made her sigh and back away.

  Ronin snagged her hand and tugged her against him. “Where are you going?”

  She nodded toward the clock. “Dinner in this house is at six o’clock. My father does not like being kept waiting.” Her gaze shifted to Ronin and his bare chest. Her pulse ratcheted up several notches, and her core heated to an inferno. “Then again, we have fifteen minutes…” Isabella reached for the corner of the towel tucked against her breast and released it. The towel fell to the floor.

  Ronin didn’t waste time. His own towel hit the ground seconds after hers. He scooped her up in his arms, wrapped her legs around his waist and backed her up against the wall.

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t we be more comfortable on the bed?”

  “I like to be a little uncomfortable. It keeps me grounded. Fourteen minutes and counting.”

  “Mmm.” She nibbled his ear. “Protection?”

  “Damn.” He carried her to the chair where he’d left his jeans and let go of her long enough to retrieve a condom from his wallet.

  With her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, Isabella held on, loving that his cock was nudging her entrance, teasing her to distraction.

  Once he had the condom in hand, he tried to juggle her in his arms to get to his straining erection.

  With a quick glance at the clock, Isabella made the decision. “Put me down.” She unwrapped her legs from his waist, took the condom from his hands and shook her head. “We don’t have time to use this. But we do have time for…” She dropped to her knees and took his full length into her hands.

  He was thick, hard and throbbing. And completely magnificent in all his maleness.

  Isabella touched him with the tip of her tongue, flicking all around the rim of his cock.

  Ronin dug his hands into her damp hair and sucked in a deep lungful of air. “This isn’t all about me.”

  “It is for now.”

  “But I want you to enjoy this.”

  “Believe me, I am.” She drew her tongue the length of him and cupped his balls in her fingers. “I love the look on your face when you can’t hold on any longer. The way you look when you let go.” The she took him into her mouth. With her hands around his hips, she pulled him deeper and deeper, until he bumped against the back of her throat.

  She held him there for a moment, and then pushed him out. Then slowly, she set the rhythm—in and out, in and out.

  Ronin took over, moving faster, his hand on the back of her head, holding her steady as he pistoned into her mouth.

  She had him where she wanted him, knew what she was doing to make him lose control and loved the rush of power it gave her.

  Ronin tensed, thrust one last time and pulled free of her mouth before coming.

  Isabella handed him a towel and rose to her feet, a satisfied smile stretching across her face.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I got what I wanted,” she said and sailed past him into the bathroom.

  A knock at the door made her pause.

  “Could you answer that? I’m going to dry my hair.”

  “Sure. As long as it’s not your bodyguards wielding a chair.”

  Isabella chuckled, and then leaned out the door with a frown to make sure it wasn’t someone there to hurt Ronin. When she saw Andre standing there with Ronin’s bag, she left him to deal with the butler and hurried to get ready for dinner.

  A minute later, Ronin appeared behind her, dressed in black slacks and a white button-down shirt. He took the hairdryer from her hands and worked on her hair while she applied makeup to her eyes. She only wore makeup to please her father. Her mother had been the perfect hostess, always dressed to perfection, her face perfectly made up. She knew how much her father missed her mother, and she knew how much she looked like her mother, Viviana. Her father never mentioned the resemblance, but the photograph he had of her, when she’d been in her twenties, could have been Isabella today.

  It felt nice to have Ronin brushing her hair as it dried. He was gentle but firm, smoothing the tangles. He’d brushed her hair like that two years before, much like he was now. When her hair was straight and dry, he turned off the blower and unplugged it from the wall.

  “Do you have a necktie?” she asked.

  He nodded and went to the other room, returning with one in his hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn one.”

  “Let me.” She wrapped the tie around his neck and made quick work of tying a neat knot.

  Before she could lower her hands, he captured her wrists.

  “We’re not done with the night. You know that, don’t you?” he said.

  She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

  Then she leaned up on her toes and kissed his lips. “Two minutes left, and I have to get dressed.” She let her hands trail over his chest then she grabbed the dress she’d hung on the back of the door.

  “Let me,” Ronin said.

  “At the rate we’re going, we’ll never get downstairs.” She handed him the dress.

  He held it over her head

  She slipped her arms up inside the skirt and into the straps and let the garment fall around her body.

  Ronin helped smooth the dress into place and zipped the back. “Ready?”

  “Just need shoes.” She hurried to her closet, slipped her feet into a pair of black strappy heels and straightened. “Ready.”

  Ronin held out his elbow.

  Isabella hooked her arm through it and led him down the stairs, through the maze of rooms on the main level to the dining room, where her father stood at the head of the table with a frown denting his brow.

  “You’re late,” he said, he said in Italian.

  Isabella released her hold on Ronin and crossed to her father to lean up and kiss his cheek. She responded in English. “But you can’t be mad at me. Besides, we’re only a couple minutes late. The world is still turning and you need to speak in English to make Ronin more comfortable.”

  In Engli
sh, her father replied. “This is my house. I will be the one who is made to feel comfortable.”

  To Isabella’s shock, Ronin addressed her father in Italian.

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Pisano. If you feel more comfortable speaking in Italian, I will manage.”

  Isabella shot a glance at Ronin. “I didn’t know you were fluent in Italian.”

  He shrugged and continued in English. “I had some spare time on my hands and invested in an online course of study. I might have picked up a few words. But, seriously, if your father would prefer to speak Italian, I’ll be all right.”

  Her father frowned. “Enough. We’ll converse in English. I could use the practice.” He waved to the table. “Shall we eat before our food gets cold?”

  “Will Niccolo be joining us?” Isabella asked.

  Her father shook his head. “He had other matters to attend. He will join us in the parlor after the meal.”

  Isabella nodded, her mouth forming a tight line. “Good.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows. “Good?”

  “I like that it’s only family at the table.” Isabella smoothed her hands over her dress.

  “If we were to have purely family at the table, Mr. Magnus would not be here,” her father pointed out.

  “Oh, but Ronin is practically family as my fiancé. Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”

  Her father frowned, giving Ronin a narrow-eyed glare.

  Oh, good, Isabella thought. They’d have a nice little family meal where her father shot dirty looks at Ronin all evening. It promised to be a night of indigestion.

  Isabella took the seat at her father’s right. Ronin held her chair for her and waited while she sat.

  When he started to sit on the other side of Isabella, her father stopped him.

  “You’ll sit here.” Isabella’s father motioned toward the place setting to his left, directly across the table from Isabella.

  Ronin rounded the back of Marcus Pisano’s chair and stood behind the seat indicated.

  When Marcus sat, Ronin sat. Not a moment sooner.

  Isabella’s lips quirked upward. Her father was testing her fiancé. That he’d do it with simple table manners made Isabella nervous. What else would he judge the man on? She braced herself for a long, arduous meal. The sooner she and Ronin broke up, the better off they both would be.

  Then why did she dread it? And when would be the best time to stage their little dramatic split-up scene?

  Ronin didn’t expect Isabella’s father to warm to him immediately, if at all. The man had to have an instant distrust of anyone who sought to marry his daughter. As rich as he was, he had to have run interference for a multitude of would-be suitors and fortune hunters.

  Mr. Pisano didn’t amass a fortune by being dense. He knew most men were more interested in Isabella’s potential inheritance than the woman herself.

  The problem was convincing Mr. Pisano that Ronin Magnus wasn’t interested in any of the billionaire’s money. He only wanted to get to know his daughter better and maybe sway her to change her mind about giving him a chance at a long-term relationship.

  Yeah, she had some baggage with the ISIS price tag on her head and being a prime target for a hostage and ransom attempt. But not much scared Ronin. He was up for the fight and, like every battle he entered, he entered to win.

  Winning Isabella’s heart was one of the most important battles he could undertake. He had no intention of losing.

  A dark-haired woman carried a heavy tray into the dining room and set it on a buffet nearby. One by one, she carried soup bowls to each person at the dinner table.

  “Did you and my daughter exchange correspondence while she was away in Africa?” Pisano asked.

  Ronin blinked. “Africa?”

  Isabella smiled brightly, though the muscles around her mouth appeared tight. “No, Father, we have not communicated for the past two years.”

  “Two years?” Her father shook his head. “And yet you return to Venice and immediately ask for my daughter’s hand? Whatever happened to getting to know each other again before jumping into such a commitment as marriage?”

  “Father, don’t start on the subject of our engagement. I’d like to have a quiet meal without arguing for once.”

  So, the old man was argumentative and picking a fight. Ronin was always up for a good fight. Bring it. “Sir, I understand your concern. If I had a daughter as beautiful—”

  “—and rich,” her father added.

  Ronin tipped his head in acknowledgement. “And rich, as yours, I too would be suspicious of every man walking through the door professing his love for Isabella.”

  Mr. Pisano’s eyes narrowed. “So, you understand if I don’t welcome you with open arms.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Pisano crossed his arms over his chest. “What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

  “I would think it’s obvious. I intend to marry your daughter.”

  “And will you marry her if I write her out of my will? If I give every last cent of my money to charity?”

  “I would still marry your daughter. I didn’t know until earlier today she was the daughter of the Marcus Pisano.”

  “Ha!” Isabella’s father slammed his hand on the table. “And you immediately proposed to her.”

  The woman waiting on them jumped, her dark eyes rounding.

  Isabella reached out to her and spoke in another language. “It’s all right, Amina. My father is loud. But he is harmless.”

  Ronin understood her words and recognized the language. Arabic. A language with which he was all too familiar. What the hell? The woman spoke Italian, English and Arabic? What more did he not know about her?

  “Since when did you learn Arabic?” her father asked.

  Ronin wanted to know the answer as well.

  Isabella’s cheeks reddened. She focused her attention on the soup bowl in front of her. “Asaf taught me.”

  Her father shook his head. “A good man, Asaf. Too bad he is no longer with us. I would like to know why he left you unprotected for your trip back from Africa.”

  And Ronin would like to know more about the trip to Africa, which he suspected was a front for her trip to Syria, and how her father, who kept her well protected by multiple bodyguards in Italy, still didn’t know she’d gone to Syria instead of Africa.

  “He had good reasons,” Isabella said softly.

  Amina, the woman waiting on them, left the room and returned with another tray. This one full of plates of the main course, a seafood pasta with sun-dried tomatoes. The room filled with the aroma of delicious food.

  Ronin’s belly rumbled, but the conversation between Isabella and her father bore close scrutiny.

  “Asaf worked for me,” the older Pisano stated. “He should have notified me before he left you unattended.”

  “Father, could we not talk about Asaf?” Isabella said, her voice low and strained.

  “It was very unprofessional of the man to leave you when his only job was to protect you.”

  Isabella slammed her palm on the table, much like her father had moments before. “Asaf couldn’t do his job because he died!”

  Amina almost dropped the plate she’d been carrying toward the table. She set it down quickly in front of Ronin and backed away, her eyes wide and her body trembling.

  Marcus Pisano’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Asaf died protecting me.” She threw down her napkin and pushed back from the table. She was on her feet and turning toward the door when her father grabbed her wrist.

  “Sit, Isabella,” her father commanded.

  “I can’t. Asaf was my friend. He died defending me. He should be alive, enjoying a long, healthy life, but he died to save me from ISIS fighters.”

  “I know,” her father said. He stood and pulled his daughter into his arms, smoothing a hand over her dark hair. “I know now what you went through.”

  “You do?” She looked up at her father, tears
trembling on her lashes. “How? When?”

  “I sent people out to find Asaf when he didn’t return with you. I learned more than I wanted to know.” He shook his head. “Daughter, what you did was pure insanity. You could have been killed.”

  Ronin pushed back from the table and stood. “Do you want me to leave you two alone to discuss this?”

  “No,” Isabella responded.

  “Yes,” Marcus said. His gaze met Ronin’s over the top of Isabella’s head. “I would like a few minutes alone with my daughter. Could you wait in the study?”

  Ronin nodded and left the room.

  He could hear the murmur of Isabella’s and her father’s voices as he walked away from the father-daughter meeting. Though he would have liked to be a fly on the wall, listening to all that was said, he understood the need for Isabella to lay all her cards on the table for her father. She lived in his house; he deserved to know what he might be up against with the ISIS price on her head.

  In the study, Ronin wandered around the room, looking at the mahogany book shelves lining the walls. Many of the books were in English. Some classics, some dealing with international law and a surprising collection of science fiction. The latter were newer volumes and well-read, according to the broken spines and hand-worn covers.

  Footsteps sounded behind Ronin. In his peripheral vision, he noted the approach of Niccolo Costa, Pisano’s executive assistant. The man wasn’t armed, but he had the stance of one who had come to do battle.

  “Mr. Pisano is a well-read entrepreneur,” a voice came from behind him.

  Ronin didn’t jump or spin to face the man. He slowly replaced the book on the shelf before turning. “And apparently he likes to read fiction.”

  Costa shrugged. “Everyone has his faults.”

  “I don’t see reading fiction as a fault. I myself like to pick up a book for entertainment on occasion. It helps me compartmentalize my life and remember not to take it so seriously.”

  “Mr. Pisano is a very serious man.” The executive assistant tilted his head, looking down his nose at Ronin.

  The man seemed to have a chip on his shoulder and didn’t like Ronin being there.