Dorian was clearly annoyed at the interruption, but to Charley, the man’s timing couldn’t have been better.
Now, staring at her stained lips in the bathroom mirror, Charley was truly afraid.
Not of Dorian, but of herself.
How could I be so careless?
She touched her fingers to her lips, the ghost of his kiss making her ache.
That’s how, girl. That is exactly how.
It reminded Charley of a paper Sasha had written for her psychology class. Check this out, Sasha had said, thumbing through her source material over breakfast one morning. Doctors say the line between passion and madness is so thin, the chemical profile of the brain of a person experiencing the early euphoric stages of love is nearly identical to that of a person going insane.
The girls had joked about it at the time, vowing to stay single and sane for life. But now, thanks to Dorian Redthorne, Charley was beginning to understand exactly what the doctors meant.
She closed her eyes as a sharp pain split her skull, feeling like her brain was fracturing into different people. One wanted nothing more than to finish the job and make a clean break, becoming no more than a distant memory for Dorian. The other wanted to call the police and turn herself in, saving Dorian a whole lot of trouble and heartache in the process.
But there, somewhere in the middle, lived a woman who wanted something different. Something better.
Freedom.
Charley sighed. Right now, that woman needed to stay locked away.
As the men continued their bickering, she cleaned herself up, wove her hopelessly tangled hair in a loose braid, and reapplied her makeup. Finally satisfied, she slid open the bathroom window and stuck her head out, drinking in the cool, misty air. For a hot minute, she considered crawling out like a grounded teenager, but the idea was fleeting. This side of the guest house faced the woods, and beyond the light from the bathroom, there was nothing but blackness.
Any sane, self-preserving person would’ve bolted the minute she’d connected the dots about Dorian. But even if she’d had a ready excuse, Charley couldn’t bail; things were way too volatile with Rudy. Reporting back with no more than a few meager details about the upstairs bedroom would be disastrous—for her and for Sasha.
Charley shuddered at the thought.
Before taking over the operation, Rudy used to be the muscle. Her father had tried to shield her from that side of the business, but he couldn’t protect her forever, and it wasn’t long before Charley started witnessing more violence. At first, she’d told herself it was all part of the territory. That Rudy only hurt the people who screwed them over. That he wouldn’t do it otherwise.
But cruelty quickly became his life’s work, and Rudy was damn good at his job.
Now, the old memories resurfaced.
Rudy, pummeling a man into a permanent coma for lowballing them.
Rudy, slicing up a woman’s face to send a message to her husband.
Rudy, brutally killing the dog of a freelance associate who’d threatened to rat them out after a failed heist.
The cries of that animal still haunted her nightmares, nearly a decade later.
Other than an occasional shove or a too-firm grip around the arm, Rudy had never been overly physical with Charley. But lately she sensed his patience thinning. And while these days Rudy preferred to manage rather than muscle, Charley knew his old tendencies weren’t gone. They were just dormant, waiting for the right opportunity to unleash hell—an opportunity Charley didn’t want to give him by blowing this assignment.
With her body cooling off from Dorian’s touch, Charley’s survival instinct was finally kicking in. Her emotions, her libido, even her guilt had to take a backseat to the more pressing matter of personal safety—hers and Sasha’s.
That old “someday” vision flickered through her mind, but right now, she needed to do her job. That meant getting the intel for Rudy, and getting the lowdown on the LaPorte painting.
Figuring out how to sabotage the robbery? That would have to come later—if it could come at all.
Charley shut the window, turning to face herself again in the mirror. She needed a solid plan.
Travis wouldn’t be picking her up for at least two more hours, giving her plenty of time. The first floor would be easy. She’d blend in with the crowd, work her way through each room, and catalogue everything important: artwork, entrances, doors and windows, locks, alarm systems. As long as Dorian was distracted by his obligations as host, Charley could then move on to the second floor, picking up where she left off.
With any luck, she’d be out of there and on her way back to the city before Dorian suspected a thing.
Feeling slightly more sure of herself, Charley applied a final coat of lipstick, then dropped the makeup into her purse, ready to execute her plan. Despite the turn of events, she had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work.
She was Charlotte D'Amico, after all. Trained by the best in the business.
All she had to do was set aside her personal feelings, her severely malfunctioning moral compass, and—oh, right—her last shred of human decency.
No problem! I’m sure my father is already saving me a seat in hell…
A soft knock interrupted her morbid thoughts.
“Charlotte,” Dorian said, “are you dressed? I’m afraid duty calls.”
“Just a minute.” Charley closed her eyes, committing to memory the sound of her name on Dorian’s lips. It might be the last time she heard it.
Steeling herself, she grabbed her purse and opened the door, arranging her features into a mask of polish and poise.
Dorian stood before her, his bowtie back in place, eyes sparkling as he held out an arm to escort her back into the home her associates would soon liquidate. “Shall we face the music?”
With a casual familiarity she didn’t quite feel, Charley looped her arm through his and smiled. “Lead the way, hot stuff.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A firing squad had assembled outside the guest house, each man more handsome and intimidating than the last.
All four of them stared openly at Charley—some curious, others hostile, all of them devastating.
“I see my brothers are here to roll out the red carpet.” Dorian sighed, then gestured at the men before them. “Malcolm, Colin, Gabriel, and Aiden. Meet my companion, Charlotte…”
There was an awkward pause as Dorian undoubtedly tried to recall her last name.
“D’Amico,” she blurted out, too quickly to think through the consequences. She’d never intended to share it, but considering she’d already shared her phone number and a good deal of her body with Dorian, one more detail hardly mattered.
Besides, she was a phantom, right? Nothing would be traced back to her.
“You must be a VIP, Ms. D’Amico,” the one called Gabriel said. “Our brother never allows guests in the guest house.” He forced a laugh, but his eyes held nothing but venom.
Charley fought off a shudder. She knew a mask when she saw one, and Gabriel—despite the good looks and finery—was six-and-a-half feet of pure, icy darkness.
“These overbearing savages are my brothers,” Dorian said. “Though you’d be hard-pressed to see the resemblance—clearly, I got the looks of the family.”
“If only your maker had been more generous when handing out brains,” the dimpled one—Colin—said. Unlike Gabriel, he seemed kind. Warmth radiated from his smile.