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CHAPTERFIVE
Isaac
This is my happy place.This is why I gave up the CIA. I’m sitting on the Starlings’ private beach, the jewel in the island’s crown, with nothing but white sands and blue seas before me, a good woman at my side, my brothers—aka the Starling Key Security Team—around me drinking cold beers, and the delicious smell of a barbeque sailing past my nostrils. The Starlings have returned to Europe for a break so we’ve sneakily taken over their private patch of paradise to enjoy a little luxury of our own.
“Isaac, catch!” I look up to see a cold beer flying in my direction. I grab it and snap the lid off with my teeth, catching the bubbles before they overflow. Paris snuggles into my side and runs a manicured hand down my thigh. Tawny is sitting with Carter, Seleste and baby Safia under the shade of a palm, while Connor, Jax and Hud sit behind them arguing about the latest Buccaneers game. Luca is wielding metal cooking utensils like weapons, flipping burgers, lobster and corn, and Maisie, the receptionist from the spa, is walking out of the Grand House with two large bowls filled with potato salad and coleslaw.
I put an arm around Paris and feel her lips against my neck. “So soft,” she murmurs.
“You can’t still be horny,” I whisper. I gave her at least three orgasms before we came over here.
“I’m always horny around you.” A finger trails back up my thigh, threatening to stand a certain part of me to attention. I jab my bottle into the sand and place my cold hand over her errant one.
“You really have to learn some patience, Paris,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Her big eyes look up at me, innocently. “Why?”
It reminds me who she is and, more to the point, who she’s married to. Paris Navitsky never has to wait for anything. If she wants a night out in London,that evening, a private jet will be laid on within the hour. If she wants a quick nip and tuck, Roman clicks his fingers—or, his Amex—and it can happen that day. If she wants a brand new Bentley imported, she’ll be bumped to the top of the waiting list. She doesn’t know what patience is. She doesn’t need to.
“Because…” I want to say that I can’t be bought like everything else, but instead I say, “It’s not often we get to sit on this beach and I haven’t spent time with the guys in a while.”
She withdraws her hand. “And we both know why that is, don’t we?”
“Paris,” I sigh. “We’ve been through this. I hadn’t expected Aurelia to take up so much of my time. I’m sure as she settles in, and the live shows get underway, she’ll want to spend more time with her family.”
“You’re sure. Right. We’ll see.”
I shake my head, feeling the return of the familiar dark cloud that has been hovering over Paris and I since Aurelia arrived.
Things have been going well otherwise. Connor has found someone to take over the bulk of my other duties while Aurelia is here, and working with the young pop star has been surprisingly ok so far. She’s sweet enough, she’s hardworking, and she’s nothing like the diva I expected her to be. She’s obviously aware of her fame, but she hasn’t let it go to her head. Not like her parents seem to. She’s been prompt, polite, considerate and friendly with me. She’s been utterly lovely with the small team she works with every day—her choreographer, her backup dancers, her costume assistants and stylist. She’s always asking how they’re feeling and if there’s anything they need. Some of them are a long way from home and even younger than she is. She displays a maternal streak beyond her years towards them and I wonder if she is the same with her young twin sisters. I find myself wondering about a lot. More than I had expected to. I put it down to the fact she’s blown all my assumptions out of the water, and I actually respect the girl.
The only thing that gets me down is Paris. Well, not Paris herself, but her feelings about the arrangement. She’s jealous, even though she knows she has no right to be, but she’s having a hard time keeping a handle on her feelings. I’ve already had to replace a porcelain dish, two champagne flutes and a crystal tumbler after she threw them at the wall of the Hemingway villa when we navigated the first few days of Aurelia’s arrival. What I love about Paris—the passion, the fire, the frenzy—are becoming things I find I don’t have a lot of patience for anymore. Ironically.
My mind driftsback to that morning. I was watching Aurelia rehearse for the fifth day in a row. The choreographer was correcting the steps and the moves every two seconds, but to me, the whole performance looked perfect, seamless. Despite the repetition and the sweat, Aurelia didn’t falter once. Her dancers took turns to sit out of some rehearsals, but not Aurelia. She kept going like a long-life battery. And on the rare occasions I diverted my gaze from the surrounding area to her face, I saw immediately why. Every time she flipped around, ducked and weaved, spun, kicked, gyrated her hips, she looked the happiest I’d ever seen anyone. And so utterly in control. The sweat poured off her, but she didn’t care, she didn’t stop. She just laughed, took a giant swig of water and hopped back to the starting position every time.
Halfway through rehearsing, they took a break and Aurelia wandered across to me.
“So, what do you think?” She took another long glug of water.
“About what?” I replied, avoiding her eyes while maintaining a watch of the surrounding area, the doors, the roadies.
“The dancing?” I heard a grin. “You think we’re getting any better, or should we just quit now?” Her laugh lit up the air around us and I marveled at how infectious her energy was when she was immersed in her work.
“I can’t say I’ve noticed,” I said, teasing.
“Are you telling me, Isaac D’Amico, you haven’t even snuck a peek? There are some hot dancers up on that stage.”
I dragged my eyes to hers and arched an eyebrow. “I’m working, Aurelia Bird. But, if you want my opinion, which probably doesn’t count for much since I don’t know squat about dancing, I would say you couldn’t get any better.”
She tucked the bottle under her arm and clapped her hands together gleefully, as though a dear uncle had just given her the biggest compliment ever. It made me feel old. And strangely warm. I resolved to keep my eyes on the floor and the doors after that.
“You dodged that bullet, huh?”
I’m shaken out of my reverie to see Luca crouched beside Paris, nodding towards Seleste and baby Safia.
“I sure did,” she replies, thinly. “Roman was never interested in having children.”
“You get to sleep instead,” Luca chuckles. “Or not,” he grins across at me.
