Page 85 of Lethal Obsession

I also know that sleeping with a thousand such women won’t even come close to eradicating the memory of Ofelia’s body beneath my own.

Besides, I tell myself as I lean hard into the tight curves of the mountain road, maybe this is what needs to happen, for us both.

Maybe it’s just unfinished business, this thing between us. A hangover from a traumatic experience that several intense days in bed will finally lay to rest.

But not even my mental gymnastics can rise to that level of self-delusion.

I sailed the Quantum Drift south because I knew I had to see Ofelia again, soon, before the thoughts of her drove me fucking mad.

And because after that night in Paris, she deserves more, much more, than simply being ghosted.

Much more, huh? And what, exactly, does that look like, asshole?

But since even thinking of what that might look like makes my cock harden instantly, I lean into the wind and drive the bike harder and faster toward the coast, unsure whether I’m trying to outrun my twisted mind or racing toward my darkest fantasies.

“I want men on that beach when Lola gets there.” I’m already giving orders before I’m fully on the deck of the yacht. “I have a guest coming aboard who must remain anonymous. That means no paparazzi shots, not even idle tourist snaps. I want eyes on any boat that gets close. No marinas and no casual chat with the locals when anyone goes ashore for resupply. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Andrew nods. “I do need to know if there is an additional security threat to plan for.”

“My guest is Ofelia Borovsky.”

His eyes widen.

My mouth twists at the corner. “She’ll be accompanied by two of her own security detail. Women, handpicked by Makari Tereschenko, so they’re competent. Any questions?”

“Ah.” Andrew clears his throat. “You said she wants to remain anonymous. Does that include . . . ?”

“Her father?” I suppress the urge to laugh at the alarm on his face. “Yes, it does. But Borovsky isn’t your problem. Just stay focused on security here and leave Roman to me.”

“Copy that.” To his credit, Andrew turns away without any further comment, but I don’t miss his tension.

I could reassure him further, but I’m not beneath hijacking his fear of Roman’s wrath, if it means ensuring his vigilance about Ofelia’s safety.

Privately, I find his visible nerves amusing. Unlike Andrew, and everyone else, Roman doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest. I’d prefer not to piss him off, but that’s out of respect for my sister, not because I’m afraid of him.

The truth is that I’ve faced a lot worse in my life than Roman Borovsky.

And while his story is known, at least in part, by everyone in our world, mine is known barely at all, and understood even less.

I like it that way.

Stories are meant to have a hero’s journey. My only journey was a one-way ticket straight to hell, without a hero in sight.

Least of all me.

And nobody knows that better than Ofelia.

I grip the railing, staring across the cerulean water to the isolated cove where she’ll arrive.

The galley is stocked with every gourmet delight Chef could come up with, and the guest suite is equipped with clothing and enough luxury items to last Ofelia a year, if she chooses to stay that long.

And face it, asshole: you hope she does.

I’m honest enough to admit it’s crossed my mind. More than once.

When I commissioned the Quantum Drift, I had a salon custom fitted with a Steinway grand piano. I told myself it was a nice touch for corporate guests.

Then I had an electronic lock put on the door and conveniently forgot to give Andrew the code.