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I wanted to do this perfectly for her and she’s playing along.
We land on the roof of one of the most exclusive restaurants in the world. It sits nine thousand feet above sea level, overlooking the Swiss skyline.
It’s beyond stunning.
In fact, it's jaw-dropping.
“Holy heck,” Isabelle gasps, looking around us as the sun sets.
I help her out of the chopper, and we run inside, shedding our coats and then walking inside the candlelit restaurant.
“See, now this is warm, and we can see the pretty mountains,” Isabelle says, smiling at the server who pulls her chair out.
“You loved the skiing,” I say, placing my napkin on my lap and nodding as our wine is poured.
I’ve ordered it all. They will bring our food out fast and leave us to listen to the soft music and enjoy the view.
On our own.
I rented out the entire restaurant.
“I spent most of it on my back,” she replies, picking at her entrée.
I smirk across at her cheekily.
“You are so dirty,” Isabelle says.
“I said nothing.”
“It’s in your eyes.” She smirks, sipping her drink.
I swirl my Pinot Grigio around in the glass. I’m not as fancy as Connor, though I feel like it tonight in my black Armani shirt and the platinum Rolex on my wrist.
My true wealth, however, lies in the woman sitting opposite me. She looks like an angel in her white, long-sleeved woolen dress, which hugs her like a glove. The neckline sits delicately along her cleavage, just showing enough—not enough for me, but I get to unwrap her when we get home—showing off the fine diamond pendant I bought her when we arrived in Switzerland.
“Before you ask me,” Isabelle says, and I shake my head silently, laughing. “Are you done with all the gangster stuff?”
“Yes.”
“And the dangerous stuff?”
“Nothing I do in the future will put you in danger. I will always help protect others, that’s who I am, but your safety is my priority.”
“And—”
“No. Now it's my turn,” I say, tossing back the last of my wine and shifting my chair back.
“Wait!” Isabelle says and her tone gives me pause.
Suddenly, I’m wondering if she’s not ready.
Fuck.
The look on her face is severe and heavy. When she bites her bottom lip, I let out a curse.
“Tell me,” I say, feeling sick with dread. “Say it, Iz, what’s wrong?”
Terror in the face of a gun doesn’t even compare to this.
