by Donna Alam
10
Remy
‘I don’t know. Just get in here.’ I drop my phone to my desk and tear off my jacket and begin pacing once again.
What is she doing here?
This can’t be happening.
It just can’t. Because that would mean . . .
Non! I refuse to fucking allow it, whatever this is.
And what it appears to be is the fuckup to crown all fuckups—the kind of error that should bring a grown man to his knees.
‘You took your time.’ I swing around to where Everett enters the office almost silently.
‘I’ve got feet, not wheels.’ Closing the door behind him, he pushes his hands into his pockets as he saunters farther into the room. ‘What’s with the pacing? A new addition to the repertoire of angry arsehole mogul?’
‘The girl,’ I begin immediately, pushing aside his taunting reply. I’ll admit to sometimes feeling like I’m still struggling to adjust to the role my father’s death has cast me in, but that hardly signifies right now. ‘The girl,’ I repeat. ‘She’s here.’ My pacing halts, one display of my discomfort exchanged for another as I rake my hands through my hair.
How the fuck can this have happened?
How could we have gotten this so wrong?
How could I have made such a mistake?
‘So? That was the plan, wasn’t it?’ His lack of concern is jarring. I watch him stroll across the room, pausing at the concealed bar behind my desk. ‘Because if it wasn’t,’ he adds, sliding the panel and pulling a glass jar from the shelf, ‘we went to an awful lot of fucking trouble to get her out here.’
I glance down at my feet, not sure whether the impulse to move is for the purpose of crossing the room to punch him or to flee. This . . . this is not me. Not how I operate. I fight. I scheme. I tear down the competition to build up the Durrand name. I will not lose my peace over a girl.
A woman, my mind corrects. A goddess.
I grit my teeth, forcing my mind in the opposite direction. A girl. A piece of skirt. A one-night fucking lay.
‘No, not that girl,’ I reply, my voice icily calm. ‘The other girl.’
Even as I say this, I know in the pit of my gut they’re one and the same.
Mon Dieu. What have I done?
‘The surveillance photographs show her as blonde,’ I grate out. ‘She isn’t.’ Photographs I’d given only a cursory glance, less interested in who she was than why she was set to intrude on my life.
‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out,’ he answers. ‘I told the private investigator the images weren’t exactly stellar, but even the ones taken in that dark shit hole of a club, you could tell she was wearing a wig. She was no fucking Heidi,’ he asserts with a wink.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ My response is almost a growl.
‘You don’t find many good girls working in strip clubs.’
I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself and tamp back this wave of anger that I don’t quite understand. He’s talking about an anonymous woman who means nothing to him, not the woman with the tender heart who looked after me. Surely that’s the definition of good. Not that she wasn’t good in other ways.
A good girl. A piece of skirt. A one-night glorious lay.
Not now. I cannot think of that.
‘What about the interview? Didn’t you say there was a recording?’ I think this is what he would call clutching at straws.
‘Not one that I looked at.’ His answer is dismissive, the task below his pay grade.
‘In which case, there is a girl, here in this building, who we went to much trouble and expense to employ, who isn’t who she is supposed to be.’
‘They rarely are.’
I take a deep breath before continuing, resisting the urge to blame him for the magnitude of my mistakes. ‘For one minute, could you stop being so fucking obtuse? I’ve just met her. She’s the same woman who took me to the hospital the night I was attacked in San Francisco.’
That girl—non, that woman—the one I’d been looking for, she wasn’t supposed to be brunette. Not that the colour of her hair can be encompassed in that bland word. Rich, like mahogany. Strands of amber and red gold, silky to the touch.
When I woke in the hospital, I thought Rose was a neighbour, or perhaps a roommate of Róisín, the woman I was looking for, investigating, but not hoping to meet. At least, not yet.
If I’d known, I never would’ve—
I cut off the thought. As much as I don’t want to believe it, these women are one and the same. Confirmed by her introduction. Roísin, but no one ever calls me that.
Confusion and frustration morph into a volcano of thoughts; discomfort, disquiet, and fucking dread. But none of these encompass how I feel, none even touching the magnitude of this fuckup.
‘Say that again?’ From across the room, Rhett’s attention appears to be only for his afternoon snack.
‘The woman we had investigated, the woman I have employed; she is the same person who looked after me the night of my accident.’ The memory of her under me that night rises before me like an apparition. The dark, silken waves of hair in my hands, her eyes like melted honey. The taste of her tiny gasp as I’d slid into her.
Was she a taste of the forbidden?
I push away the thought because only madness lies there.
‘The woman you screwed, you mean.’ With a grin, he pops off the lid, throwing a protein ball into his mouth—the mouth I suddenly want to fill with my fist. ‘They’re good, these. Does Amélie make them for you?’
I glower his way without answering his asinine question, a look that would turn a lesser man to dust. But not him. We train together and spar regularly. We both live clean and fight dirty. And while he is the ex-Special Forces head of my security team, this doesn’t keep me from eviscerating him. What does is the fact that he is my friend. A very annoying friend, yes. But he’s probably the only person in the world I truly trust.
The thought is followed in an instant by another. Perhaps less thought and more a memory, two voices almost floating from a grave. My childhood long dead, my father also passed.
Remy, when you grow up, you will be respected, revered, like the son of a king. People will seek to flatter you, but remember, they bring you close for only one reason. And what is that reason?
For the opportunity to stick a knife in my back, Papa.
Two years and the man is still haunting me. As for treating me like a king, he himself treated me as though I was begotten on a kitchen maid. When he said the business would never be mine, I thought he meant it as a punishment. But not so; as the adage goes, all war is based on deception, and he set me up to fail.
‘The woman who was kind to me,’ I correct. The woman who doesn’t deserve to be brought into my fucked-up world. Yet, she’s here anyway. Here within reach, a fact that should not bring any comfort.
Rhett’s expression darkens. I know he still blames himself for what happened that night. But this is no one’s fault but my own. It was midnight. I couldn’t sleep so I had gone out for a ride. Is it any wonder I found myself outside of her house? She was, after all, the reason we were in the city.
Investigation only, I insisted. No contact to be made.
An obvious mission failure.
‘The one who picked me up off the street after I fell from my bike,’ I add, rubbing a little salt into his professional wound. A low blow, but as I said, we both fight dirty.
‘I told you I should’ve gone with you,’ he replies obstinately, turning to place the jar back on the shelf. ‘If you’d woken me, none of this would’ve happened.’
And if I’d woken him, I wouldn’t have found her. Like an angel brought to earth, she saved me that night. She didn’t save me from the claws of death but rather my faith in humanity.
‘As for falling off your bike, I still don’t buy it. This has been a theme of Everett’s since I’d called him while Rose was sleeping—called him so I could l
eave without waking her.
Not cowardice. I sought to protect her.
‘We’ve been through this so many times already.’ I try not to let my irritation seep into my tone. ‘It was an accident.’
‘An accident during the middle of the night on an abandoned street? You’ve been riding since you were old enough to get a license—before you were legally of age—and not one accident. Do you know how rare that is? An accident at your age and experience is more likely to be the kind that’s life changing.’
Life changing is right. I’ve thought near constantly of Rose since I left her house that night. Thought of her kind heart and her consideration, of her soft lips and lush curves. I’ve remembered that night more times than can be regarded as healthy.
As the aphorism goes, you should be careful what you wish for.
‘And when I say change your life, I don’t mean for better.’
The censure in Rhett’s tone pulls me back to the present. I make my way across the room to him, laying a hand on his shoulder as I bring my gaze level with his.
‘There really is no other answer.’ I woke on the side of the road, my head feeling as though it had been split with an axe, and the bike nowhere to be seen. ‘I skidded or fell or had a minor accident, or else I was robbed.’
‘Remy, a Ducati Panigale—a bike worth eighty thousand—would’ve stood out like tits on a bull. It’s not the kind of machine that can be sold without notice, not without it coming to the notice of the authorities.’
‘Maybe it’s in a shed somewhere. Maybe it was taken out of the state. What does it matter?’
‘It matters because it’s my job to make sure these things don’t happen, and I wasn’t there.’
‘My fault, not yours. Stop beating yourself up about it.’
‘It’s not me I want to beat up,’ he replies meaningfully, while also fighting a smile.
‘I think the bike did a good enough job for you.’ I run my finger over the small scar bisecting my eyebrow. It was either the bike, the road, the curb, or possibly something purple.
Purple? Why does that suddenly seem probable?
‘I could’ve wrung your neck myself for putting yourself at such fucking risk.’
‘Ah, you could try, I suppose.’ My answer is flippant, though I tighten my hand on his shoulder, an action meant to reassure rather than exacerbate.
‘There’s just something not right about the whole deal.’ His brows draw together over brooding dark eyes.
‘You’re right. But the thing that isn’t right is that there is a woman in this building that shouldn’t be.’
‘Or there’s a woman in this building who you shouldn’t have been in.’
Immediately, my temper flares.
‘Sortez votre tête de vos fesses et écoutez-moi!’
‘Touchy,’ he drawls, his hand pushing mine from his shoulder. ‘I think you’ll find it’s not me who has his head up his arse, especially if you don’t remember how getting her here was all your plan.’
‘This is not a matter to joke about!’
‘Apologies. Am I interrupting?’
Both our heads turn to the voice at the other side of the room.
‘Ben. Come in.’ I direct him with a wave of my hand, ignoring his obsequious tone. ‘Everett and I were just discussing our training plans for tonight.’ Ben, or Benoît as he prefers, is my cousin as well as a member of the executive team for Wolf Industries, the company my father founded. The company that passed unexpectedly into my hands on his death. Damn the old bastard and his twisting, underhanded ways.
‘All right, Benny?’ Rhett offers with an annoyingly wide grin.
‘My name is Benoît, as well you know,’ my cousin retorts imperiously. His airs are often so high-handed, I sometimes think he forgets exactly who’s in charge. Which, I suppose, is not so very difficult to understand given he was always more involved in the business. And, much like myself, he was deceived in how things would eventually play out.
‘You prefer Benoît, do you, Benny?’ Rhett’s brows retract to his hairline as though this is news, rather than one more thing he can do to irritate the man he likes least in the whole of Monaco. ‘Well, blow me. Not an invitation by the way.’
‘Not an invit—are you suggesting I am homosexual?’
‘Calmez-vous,’ I interject. I could well do without the whole pistols at dawn scene. ‘Rhett isn’t suggesting anything.’
‘No offence, man.’ He grins, juggling the spherical snacks between his hands. ‘Here, Benny. You should try these. I guarantee these are the best tasting balls you’ll ever have in your mouth.’
‘Arrêtte.’ Enough. One glance at Rhett’s supposed innocent expression makes me shake my head. What can I say? Rhett is Rhett while Ben is an uptight, supercilious pain in my ass. But he’s also family, and unlike my father, I intend to make that count. ‘What is it you wanted, ma cousine?’ I slip my hand around his shoulders, directing our footsteps in the direction of the door.
‘Your mother wanted me to remind you to sign off on the security for the Loup Foundation benefit ball.’
‘She has already. You know she can use email? She has even mastered the art of the smartphone. She also has a full-time assistant on staff. No need to offer your services as messenger.’
‘I was merely being courteous. Tante Josephine is not the sort of woman you can ignore.’
This might be true but that’s not why he’s here. No, not at all.
‘Also, my assistant tells me there is some confusion in one of the departments. HR, I believe. It seems some idiot has taken on a new hire who can’t speak a word of French.’
And there we have it. For a company of this size, very little gets past Ben.
‘Why is that a problem?’ I ask evenly. ‘The team speaks many languages. We have clientele from over thirty countries. And though you and I may be French, we are not speaking the language now.’
English is my preference, as well as my custom when Rhett is around. In fact, I’ve been speaking English so long, I no longer dream in French. Ben, meanwhile, prefers to speak in riddles, mainly to ascertain information; information being the currency he thrives on.
‘Yes, but Industries du Loup is a French company—in France.’
‘I’m almost certain Prince Albert would have something to say about that.’ Prince Albert being the country’s monarch, and Monaco being a small city state and a country all of its own.
‘Monaco is a French-speaking country,’ Ben retorts, the edges of his exasperation showing. ‘That is what I mean. You can’t work in Monaco if you don’t possess the language.’
‘There are many residents without command of the language,’ I argue reasonably.
‘The wealthy, yes. Monaco is a tax haven for those rich enough who may not care to speak French. But the ordinary working man?’ He shoots me a triumphant look. ‘One must question why they are here in this case.’
‘What about you, Rhett?’ I ask without turning to look at him. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To keep your arse out of trouble,’ comes his response. ‘And funny, here I thought I had a pretty decent command of the language.’
‘If a little butchering,’ I throw over my shoulder. ‘Have this woman sent to my office,’ I direct Ben.
‘Who said it was a woman?’ Ben turns to face me as we reach the door.
‘Come, now. You expect me to believe it was a man who caught your attention?’
Ben’s gaze slides to Rhett, and with eyes narrowed, he responds, ‘You know me well.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘She’s a very pretty girl,’ he accepts as his attention returns. ‘And Remy, I saw her first.’
It’s an assertion I’ll allow him to keep on believing. For all of us.
‘I’m not interested in making a conquest of a new hire. Have her sent to my office. Let me get to the bottom of this.’
Ben frowns, then consents with a perfectly Gallic shrug. The door is no sooner
closed behind him when Rhett speaks again.
‘Must be the only bit of her you haven’t had.’
‘Ta gueule.’ Shut it. ‘Also, leave.’
‘What, and miss the fireworks?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I answer, my tone bored.
There will be no fireworks. The plan mustn’t change. Rose might not be the woman I thought she was, but whatever has passed between us, she’s here at my behest. And here she’ll stay until I discover why my father sought to involve her in our family politics.
‘You think you’re confused?’ Rhett answers with a bark of a laugh. ‘That woman out there has travelled six thousand miles for a job to find she’s fucked her new boss, the same boss who’s been sending her creepy gifts—’
‘A coffee machine isn’t creepy.’ This is possibly not what I should’ve responded with. But I also suppose I should not be surprised he knows exactly what gifts I’ve sent. The why he can’t possibly understand because I’m not sure I understand it myself.
‘A coffee machine isn’t very sexy either.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be sexy.’ Especially now. ‘I was just showing my appreciation.’
‘Appreciation? Well, she’s out there now wondering if you’ve brought her here to gift her something else.’ As though there might be the slightest possibility I mistake his meaning, he palms his crotch.
‘I thought your right hand was your girlfriend, not your left.’
‘Better to fuck my hand than fuck my—’
‘I did not fuck Róisín Ryan,’ I retort angrily.
‘What do you call it? Keeping it in the family?’
11
Rose
‘Why do I need to see him?’
‘I do not ask.’ Alice throws this terse reply over her shoulder as she steps from the elevator onto, what is, I understand, the executive floor. ‘I only know, he says leap, I ask how high.’
