“Are you going to at least attempt a pathetic excuse?”
I take a step back, shocked when she shakes her head without pause for thought. I’m grateful she took the honesty route, but her response isn’t close to what I anticipated.
After a prolonged stretch of silence, Isabelle’s stubborn stance finally falters. “That person you met on the plane isn’t me. I’m not usually like that.” It’s either shame or disappointment darting through her eyes when she adds, “I don’t do random hookups with strangers.”
“And you think I do?” I ask, willing to throw myself under the bus to keep our conversation alight.
The bus careens straight for me when Isabelle replies matter-of-factly, “Yes.”
I’ve fought men double my size and survived a cancer diagnosis that should have me seen as a victim, yet they seem irrelevant when it comes to the fight I undertake not to smile at Isabelle’s brusque reply.
For the first time in my life, I don’t win. My smirk is brief, but it ramps up the tension between Isabelle and me in less than a nanosecond. It’s as crackling as it was when I ran the back of my hand down her peaked nipple and even more perverted than when I imagined replacing my thumb with my cock when she nibbled on the tip.
When I step closer to Isabelle, trapping her as I should have the first morning she arrived at my nightclub after our failed date, I raise my hand to her cheek. She doesn’t pull away. She merely breathes through the tension hissing between us with shallow, perfectly-timed breaths.
After dragging the back of my index finger down her heated cheek, I redirect it to her pouty mouth. “I still want to bite that lip.”
I gobble up the air that rushes out of her mouth from me rubbing my thumb over her top lip. They’re not overly painted like the women who usually occupy my time. They’re neutral and nude, an enticing combination that has me forgetting every mistake I’ve ever made the past six years. Hasty decisions can cause unforgiving mistakes, but I don’t see that occurring this time around. This feels right. The overwhelming urge to make Isabelle mine feels right. And I’m going to make it happen.
With my eyes locked on Isabelle’s and my hand weaved through her thick hair, I tilt my mouth closer to hers. Our lips brush for the quickest second before the universe reminds me I still have a long way to go to fix the injustices I made in my youth.
“Sorry, boss, but we’ve gotta go.” Hugo’s tone alone assures me he wouldn’t have interrupted me unless it was urgent, much less the green light he gave me earlier today when I updated him on my plans for lunch.
The sigh that rolls up Isabelle’s chest curves my lips. I’m frustrated by the interlude in our exchange but knowing she’s as irritated makes it not as evident.
My earlier angst smacks back into me hard and fast when I discover the motive behind Hugo’s interruption. Two blocks down from my black Mercedes Hugo is helming like my chauffeur is the blue surveillance van that tails my every move.
When a curse word seeps from Isabelle’s mouth, I shift my eyes back to her. Mistaking the anger on my face as annoyance about her profanity, her throat works hard to swallow. Although I would appreciate the opportunity to explain things aren’t as they seem, I can’t do that while under scrutiny. Not even a man as dominant as me enjoys performing in front of an audience like he’s part of a circus act.
“Meet me at the bakery tomorrow.”
After gulping down a brisk breath, Isabelle shakes her head. “I can’t.”
An ordinary man would soothe the sting of her rejection by falling into bed with the first woman with looks similar to her.
I don’t concede that easily.
“It wasn’t a request, Isabelle.”
After running my index finger over the curve in her top lip, reminding her of the intensity that forever sparks between us, I head to my car, suddenly curious as to where Roger went. He’s been at my side even more than Hugo the past two months.
I’m a confident, self-assured man, but no matter how loud my brain screams at me to keep my exit dramatic, I can’t help but peer back at Isabelle as she did to me when she walked away from me at the airport.
The thrill of the chase thickens my veins when I spot her watch. It’s a hungry lust-filled stare—the very look I’ve wanted on her face since we met. “Tomorrow,” I reiterate before entering my car.
My trouser-covered backside has barely graced the leather interior of my car when Hugo plants his foot on the gas pedal. His race to get away from the surveillance van is understandable, considering he’s a ghost with no true identity, and I’m the man who drove him to his gravesite.
My teeth grit when Hugo takes the corner of First Avenue and Tate too sharply. His brutal tug on the steering wheel has our car careening straight toward a minivan overloaded with preschool-aged children.
“Fuck,” I push out in reliefwhen we skid past the loaded van by a hair’s breadth. It was a close call, but I’d prefer it over getting into a wreck.
With images of the horrifying event Ophelia was most likely forced to endure filtering in my head, my voice comes out sterner than anticipated. “Where’s Roger?”
Hugo shifts down the gears, which, in turn, lowers the revs of my engine before he slings his eyes to me. “Hunter needed his expertise for a couple of hours. I knew about your ‘date’ with Izzy, so I volunteered to keep an eye out for unwanted lurks.”
The last half of his statement makes sense. However, the first is far from plausible. “Before Roger joined my empire, he specialized in facial identity and falsification of official documents.” That’s why Hugo’s papers are so authentic. Roger knew exactly where to find the most realistic product as he had hunted the main players for years. “What could Hunter possibly need Roger’s expertise for?”
Hugo emulates the man I’ve always seen in his eyes when he replies, “It’s something I can’t tell you about right now, but when I can, I will.”
