Chapter Five Larissa
Chapter Five
LARISSA
“DO YOU HATE me?” Tyler snaps into his phone from where he stands at his front door, palming the edge of it to keep me outside his space before shooting a cursory glance at the luggage piled next to me.
Luggage that took an obscene amount of time for his men to sort through, scanning their contents before repacking them in a way meant to piss me off.
Just after that, my luggage and I were deposited at the doorstep of the man glaring at me.
“So, you offer her a room in my goddamn penthouse?!” Tyler barks into his cell, and I swear I hear Tobias laugh on the other end of the line.
I know the name of the “French” friend he’d been referring to, along with a dozen or more key players in his organization, but I don’t dare tell him as much.
Though I’m sure he knows, naming his closest so soon could only damn me further in his already unforgiving eyes, especially when not an ounce of trust has been established—in either of us.
I stare back at him as he glowers at me, dressed in a stark white T-shirt, fresh out of the package, that stretches across his broad, muscular chest. This is paired with light gray sweatpants, his thighs straining the fabric and only making the bulge between them more prominent.
It’s apparent he wasn’t expecting me, because even his feet are bare.
I take all this in as he assesses me the same way, sweeping me from head to foot, his own appraisal far less appreciative.
“No, fuck no,” he says as I grow impatient, waiting for some acknowledgment.
Resolved to end their argument for them, I grab the handle of one of my bags and roll it toward the elevator.
I meant what I said last night during my interrogation.
I’m disappointed with his quick perception and conclusions drawn about me after discovering who I am, and with his using them as an excuse to treat me with so little human regard.
Maybe I’ve been delusional in thinking I knew him, even if I do understand the grudge that goes with my inherited name. From what I thought I understood of the Ravens, they weren’t so quick to condemn.
Then again, that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference when your last name is DiCicco. It’s a name to either fear or loathe—mostly both.
“A temporary situation you’re enjoying, you fucking prick.
” Tyler continues his rant as I approach to grab my second bag.
“I’m seriously going to get you back for this, man,” Tyler snaps, hanging up on Tobias before shifting his full attention to me.
Without the help of my heels, my true height now leaves me noticeable inches below him, forcing me to look up instead of over, which I decide I hate.
“I have no issue unpacking in one of your guest suites,” I offer as he regards me with unguarded contempt. “Or going back to my fucking apartment.”
“I’ve made myself clear on why that’s not a possibility, and we both know how that might work out if you decide you no longer like our arrangement.”
“I would credit us both with being grownups, but I’m afraid that might be a stretch right now where you are concerned. You should know you’re really highly wired”—I lean in slightly—“can’t be good for your health.”
Gripping the frame of the door, biceps bulging, he leans in and closes most of the distance, pure menace in his expression.
“Remember that—and let me make myself clear—the second you walk through this door, you will feel unwanted and unwelcome because you are unwanted and unwelcome, and no part of this will be pleasant for you.”
“So no more front door fingering?” I bat my lashes as the line he’s drawing becomes more and more prominent. “What was it you said, once we get to the bedroom, it’s dealer’s choice?”
“Stating the obvious, I was drunk and exhausted and had no idea who you were.”
“Let me guess—now that you are aware of who I am, I disgust you?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
I wrinkle my nose. “Well, that truly is a shame. I was a fan of your unusually thick tongue and fingers. This really won’t be pleasant.
” I bite my lip to try to hold my smile and fail.
In afterthought, I pick up the potted plant sitting next to my bags and thrust it toward him.
“Come on, let’s not start off this way. I brought you a present. ”
His gaze drops to the plant. “You took that from my fucking lobby.”
I shrug. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”
Turning, he slaps the door open and stalks in, and I grab what I can carry, following him into the living room before looking to him for direction.
His penthouse is far bigger than I had assumed, the large number of windows highlighting the staggering amount of footage in the otherwise dismal space.
“Any room down the hall on the right,” he directs.
“Okay,” I agree easily as he eyes my full hands and the bags behind me.
“Not your bellboy,” he adds, strolling toward the kitchen.
“Didn’t ask for your help, but the fact you’re fighting your inclination to help me says enough.” I glance around. “As upset as you may be about my company, it’s painfully obvious you’re in need of a woman’s touch.”
He doesn’t miss my double meaning even as he stares back at me blankly from behind his U-shaped counter before jerking open the fridge.
“Did you just move in, or …” Bronze metal death stare. “I mean, I guess it makes sense. You’re a single ex-marine, which probably made and keeps you a minimalist.”
He downs what looks to be a green protein shake.
“Come on, Tyler. Are you so childish you won’t make polite conversation with me?”
He remains mute as he rinses his now empty glass.
“Guess so,” I mutter before walking down the hall and opening the door to the first room.
It features a queen-sized bed and a connecting bath, and holds as much personality as the main living space.
All of the furnishings are just as bland and consist of earthy stone colors.
Mostly varying grays. Knowing the rest of the rooms are most likely duplicates of this one, I gather and haul the rest of my bags through the door before unzipping the first. Shutting the door, I decide to change into something more comfortable and kick my shoes off.
I’ve just pushed my head through my T-shirt when a sharp knock sounds, a millisecond before the door opens and Tyler’s eyes latch to my bare breasts.
Within the same length of time, he drops them. “You were just fucking dressed.”
“Just a suggestion, but maybe wait for a reply next time before bursting through a door?”
“We start in an hour,” he orders before snapping it closed.
* * *
I’ve just put the last of my clothes into a drawer when a knock sounds again, and I smile when there’s a pause. “Yes?”
“Are you decent?”
“According to your hospitality, not on any human level—”
“Larissa,” he barks, opening the door to glower at me. “I said an hour.”
“I lost track of time unpacking.” I pointlessly gesture toward my empty suitcases. “I’ll be right out.”
“Your dinner is on the counter. It’s cold and staying that way until you understand punctuality, and I’m irritated.”
“Sure that’s not just your natural state?”
“Hurry up,” he snaps before my door does.
I can’t help but laugh as I picture him stalking off like a toddler.
Forking my last bite of the Thai food some minutes later, I crumple the napkin and toss it on my plate, looking over to where Tyler sits across from me, his laptop open. He’s only looked at me twice in the half hour we’ve been working together.
“Thank you,” I say, opening my bottled water and taking a drink. “That was delicious.”
Ignoring me, he types furiously. “Who’s next? The fiancé?”
“Not my fiancé,” I correct with purposeful bite. “Not by choice.”
“Why? Daddy do a shit job of playing matchmaker?”
“No,” I draw out, which earns me my third look as I notice his shoulders are drawn in a tight line, which distracts me.
“Ciro made the perfect choice to support his own interests while giving zero thought to the situation he would be putting his daughter in. Speaking of …” I frown.
“I never wanted you to feel ill at ease in your own home. How can we remedy this?”
His expression remains impenetrable.
“Antony Livingston,” I sigh.
He types lightning-fast before turning the screen to me. “Not a very Italian name,” Tyler relays as I zero in on a picture of him.
“Not Italian, no, more of an emerging American prince.” I scrutinize the picture.
“Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland for prep,” Tyler begins. “He earned his BBA at HEC Paris, his master’s at Columbia.”
“Tall, dark, above-average handsome,” I continue.
“In every published picture, he fits the bill of the celebrated treasure both the press and court of public opinion have predicted him to be. He’s playing it up perfectly.
He’s got that Captain America white smile, but it’s the eyes that give the sociopath in him away, don’t you think? ”
“You’ve met him,” Tyler deduces from my reaction, and I look over to see him searching my face carefully for signs of emotional attachment, anything he can find to discredit my stance against Ciro.
“It’s not love,” I laugh without humor, “and yes, it was Ciro’s first order of business when I returned home.”
“To introduce you?”
“For us to start our courtship.” I sip my water. “Chaperoned, of course.”
“Of course,” he parrots dryly.