“I don’t love you now. But I know I will. I don’t want to get married. But I know that’ll happen too. If something is right, I’m not going to push it away. There’s only one woman I could ever be with—and she’s you.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love. There wasn’t a ring on the table. But it was somehow the most perfect thing he ever could have said. It was our story, a story that was different from everyone else’s, a story that only made sense for us. Even if I could change the past and end up with a man who brought me flowers and dropped down to one knee…I would still want this instead.
The house was a mess.
All of her stuffed animals had vacated her room, and they were littered all over the couches. Her bear wore a crown in the armchair, like he was a prince on a throne, and Bleu sat on the floor with a paper crown on his head.
Bleu stilled when he heard us behind him—red in the face from embarrassment.
“Daddy, we’re pretending to be princesses.” Claire ran straight into Benton’s arms like we’d been gone a lot longer than a couple hours.
Benton lifted her effortlessly and swiped a kiss across her forehead. “I see that. And Uncle Bleu is the most beautiful princess I’ve ever seen.”
“Hey,” Claire said. “What about me?”
“Second to you, sweetheart.” He put her down again.
Claire took my hand. “Want to play?”
“Sure,” I said. “But only if I get to be the queen.”
“Ooh! You can be the wicked queen.” Claire grabbed another paper crown and handed it to me.
I put it upon my head and took a seat next to one of her ponies. “Yes…I can be quite wicked.”
Bleu tore off his crown and got to his feet. “You guys were out for a long time.” He gave his brother a look of accusation. “A very long time.”
Benton clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for watching her.”
“I better get paid next time.” Bleu gave Claire a hug goodbye, gave me a wave, and then left the apartment.
“Dad, here’s yours.” Claire handed him the paper crown. “You can be the king.”
He placed it on his head and took a seat in one of the armchairs, looking regal in just his long-sleeved shirt and jeans. One ankle rested on the opposite knee, and he propped his elbow on the couch. “Alright. Now for my first order of business…”
Twelve
Benton
Constance followed me to the door, the same sadness in her eyes as every other night when I left. They were dark like a glass of red wine, but so seductive in appearance. It made me want to stay—just for her.
She never liked to touch me over my clothing. Her palms always slid underneath my shirt and up the grooves of my abs until she reached my concrete chest. Her body came close, and she rose on her tiptoes to kiss me goodbye.
She devoured my mouth as if I hadn’t just made her writhe in my bed only a few minutes ago. She gave me tongue. Gave me heat. Gave me fire. Her long nails gently scratched my skin as they made their way down to my abs again.
The second Claire wasn’t in the room, Constance was all over me.
Always.
I broke apart first and looked at her parted lips, her small tongue pressed against her bottom teeth, the sexy plea in her eyes.
Our goodbyes were always wordless. An exchange of physical affection. An exchange of heated looks. I loved that she didn’t need to talk to get her point across, that she could do it with her lips and every other part of her body.
Her nails withdrew, and she reluctantly let me go.
But her eyes looked heartbroken.
My hand dug into her hair, and I gave her one more kiss before I walked out.
At the curb was the blacked-out SUV, the exhaust running, the engine quiet in the abandoned street. I got into the back, and we took off. “What’s happening?”
“Dinner party.”
I turned to meet his gaze.
“Remember Kline Weatherton?”
I gave a nod.
“He came through. We’re seeing Carlyle.”
“And what do you need me for? To kill him?”
“If I want someone dead, I’ll kill them myself.”
“Kline said you burned a bridge. What’d you do?”
He gave a subtle shake of his head. “It’s just business. Sometimes people forget that.”
“And what’s my business tonight?”
“To do what I tell you.”
My eyes narrowed as I stared.
He met my look, unapologetic.
I opened the door even though we were driving right through a green light and prepared to jump out.
“Alright.” He grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Poor choice of words…”
“You wouldn’t have brought me in unless you needed me, so stop acting like you don’t.” I slammed the door shut and strapped on my safety belt again.
“Just follow my lead, alright? And don’t shoot anybody.”
“I have half a mind to shoot you right now…”
He gave a smirk. “I’d shoot you right back, and we’d both be dead. Kinda sweet, isn’t it?”
We spent the next fifteen minutes in silence and approached an estate protected by an iron gate. The security guard let us pass through, and we pulled around the fountain to the front of the house. There was a statue lit up with floodlights, a soldier on a stallion.
We were met by the butler and entered the estate. Typical French architecture. Gold ceilings, textured mirrors, hints of rose gold in accent pieces, colorful rugs that looked like watercolor paintings.
We emerged in the sitting room, Kline sitting in an armchair with a glass of wine in his hand. A woman different from the one on his arm at the silent auction was propped on the armrest, her arm around his shoulders in a false display of affection.
Carlyle took one look at Bartholomew—and that set the tone for the night. He turned back to Kline, his eyes packed with an accusation of betrayal.
Kline looked away, too ashamed to meet that angry stare. “I was coerced—”
“And I’m insulted.” He set down his glass and rose to his feet. “To be in the same room as this swine is beneath me. Let him linger too long, and it’ll smell like a pigsty.”
I lowered my voice. “What the fuck did you do?”
Bartholomew moved in his way, keeping him from the foyer. “Surely, you must be over this by now—”
“Shut your fucking mouth before I turn you into crispy bacon on Christmas morning.”
The two men faced off, standing at the same height, but while Carlyle looked red and furious, Bartholomew looked like this confrontation was inconsequential.
If Bartholomew had brought me here to fix his mess, that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t even sure what provoked the problem. Carlyle was a diplomat by day, but he had deep ties into the drug trade, could get things done above and underground. So, he wasn’t a smart person to piss off.
“Your personal vendetta is irrelevant to our business relationship—”
“You slept with my wife.”
I tried to keep a straight face, but the cringe came.