Chapter Twenty Larissa
Chapter Twenty
LARISSA
“JULIEN,” TYLER GRINDS out in introduction, grabbing the garment bag hanging from Julien’s fingers before jerking his head toward me. “Larissa.”
“Finally.” Julien stalks over and lifts my hand before kissing it. “I’m a fan of your work.”
“My …” I trail off as Julien rolls his eyes toward Tyler, who looks anything but happy about our introduction, his state indicative of the ‘work’ Julien’s referring to.
My smile deepens, my liking for Julien instant as Tyler starts to make his way toward me, or rather, the empty tent behind me, fingering the hook of the garment bag over his back.
“So, what’s this?” I ask, my question geared toward Julien, as Tyler disappears into the tent.
But it’s Tyler who answers, his words trailing him behind the material as he starts to zip it up. “I’m leaving. That’s what’s going on.”
“For good, I hope?” I call after him, turning in time to catch his hostile gaze snapping to mine before he zips himself out of view. I turn back to Julien, his grin deepening as I scrutinize him. “So I guess this makes you my babysitter?”
“We don’t have to title it that way, but I can give you references,” he counters, his easy demeanor disarming.
“No need, that one”—I toss a thumb at the tent behind me—“is so damned boring, I’d settle for anyone else at this point.”
“Sono tutt’altro che noioso.” I’m anything but boring, Julien replies.
“Thank God, and you’re fluent,” I say, pleased.
“So is he.” He points towards the tent.
“That doesn’t matter because we barely speak English.”
“Non è proprio un donnaiolo.” He’s not much of a ladies’ man.
“He’s not much of a man, period,” I counter, and he laughs.
Not long after, Tyler makes a mockery of my barb, jerking breath out of me when he appears wearing a perfectly fitted tuxedo.
Between his strengthening beard neatly trimmed this morning and the fit of the tux, he’s dressed to destroy.
His swollen nose is barely perceptible now, though our earlier fight continues to cloud the air.
Our company is just as aware of it, as Julien volleys his focus between us.
It’s obvious he’s enjoying our dynamic far more than we are.
Ignoring me entirely, Tyler addresses Julien as he tugs at the sleeve of his starched shirt to line it up with his jacket before easily securing a cufflink.
A move I find sexy as hell. Annoyed that I’m still able to appreciate a man I’m quickly coming to despise, I fix my gaze back on Julien.
I meant every word I said to Tyler earlier and have no intention of backing down or apologizing.
It’s clear Tyler’s in no mood to mend any semblance of the barely perceptible bridge we’ve managed to construct during our time together, as he stalks away without a glance back, his marching orders for Julien, his jab for me.
“Hit me up if you need to, and you might,” he drawls sarcastically before making his way to the parked UTV we arrived in.
“I won’t,” Julien counters confidently, eyes rolling down in amusement. “And we won’t wait up.”
Tyler doesn’t so much as pause as I call after him, “Not even a peck goodbye, honey?”
My reply is the rumble of the UTV’s engine before Tyler brings down a helmet and speeds off in the direction of thick trees.
Night descending quickly, I scan our surroundings while the man standing in front of me continues to scrutinize me.
A perma-grin on his face as he watches me watch him back—probably anticipating my next question.
“And where did you come from?” I ask, curious as to how he suddenly got here with no other UTV in sight.
“Let’s go with thin air,” Julien offers with a distinct French lilt.
“It would appear so.” I shake my head, knowing I won’t get anywhere but waste no time with another budding question. “So, who are you in all of this?”
“No one of real importance,” he lies as I size him up.
Though shorter than I prefer, every inch of Julien is pleasing.
From his eyes, which are an unremarkable brown but large, to his bone structure—Roman nose, perfectly bowed top lip, and glittering white teeth.
Dressed in designer jeans, a thick black sweater, and black boots, Julien is, in a word—dazzling.
His shoulder-length onyx hair frames his unique profile, and I decide it’s his confidence and bemused animation that elevate his looks to the next level.
In contrast to Tyler, he is very much a ladies’ man, and I gather all of this within a seconds-long assessment.
“I think we know that’s bullshit,” I remark of his position in the Ravens.
“Italian definitely,” he says, noting my candor, “but not,” he backtracks, clearly amused.
“I’m most definitely Italian-bred, though laced with strong Southern tendencies by my school friends, and annoyingly Americanized to my Italian-born relatives. You?”
“Ah, I’m a Frenchman in every way.”
“I believe you,” I jest.
“You should,” he counters.
“I do on that, but you are most definitely someone of importance.”
He tilts his head as we continue to size each other up. “What makes you say that?”
“Tyler trusts you,” I remark. “That’s telling enough.”
“That’s a fair assessment.” He nods.
“So, what’s on the agenda tonight?” I ask as he glances around our camp.
“First, we build a fire.”
“He has one going.” I point to our running firepit as the chill from the setting sun sweeps in, amplifying the biting cold.
“This, he calls a fire? Pathetic.” He waves his hand, already moving toward the pile of wood Tyler’s been chopping and stockpiling since we arrived. “It would be a shame to waste all of this.”
Grinning, I’m already trailing him, picturing Tyler’s disgruntled expression when he sees his precious wood stash depleted. “Julien, I think I already like you.”
“I knew we would get along well,” he teases as if it’s a given, which only makes me laugh.
Two things become clear in my first ten minutes with Julien. The first is that he’s here to vet me. The second is that, for the first time since I approached the Ravens, I might have met an ally.
* * *
Hours later, Julien and I laugh hysterically due to his surprisingly comedic antics and dark wit, the full-on bonfire we constructed together roaring beside us.
Though I spent hours scouring Tyler’s tubs of supplies for anything remotely alcoholic this morning—and came up empty—Julien insisted he do the same.
Which ended in him cursing Tyler’s name when he got the same results, along with his friend’s assurances he ‘would have all he needed’ here.
“I should have known. He really is fucking boring, all business,” Julien agrees, sweeping the roaring fire with pride. “At least we’re warm.”
“True,” I say, glancing over at it. “So, Julien—”
“Uh-oh,” he jests at the premise of my question.
“Any idea of when I’ll get out of here?”
“When it’s over,” he states, his tone kind, eyes telling.
No matter how friendly we’ve gotten, he’s skillfully skirted my every attempt to gain information thus far, obviously expecting them.
Though he’s been forthcoming with other details, including his obsession with European football and aged alcohol.
As well as his contempt for American cuisine, especially fast food.
Though he did surprise me in one respect.
As an overtly proud Frenchman, he has a boundless appreciation for Italian culture, in which we quickly aligned.
“So that’s it, huh? Pose as a friend, but report as a foe when Daddy comes home?”
“Are you calling him Daddy?” he pokes, his accent thickening slightly.
“I’m calling him a lot more than that,” I tease back.
“I’m no foe, but I should warn you, I’m no friend either,” he states easily. “I’m—”
“No one of importance,” I recite back to him with a sharp nod. Our first uncomfortable silence ensues, along with a palpable shift in the air between us, where we sit at a relaxed distance from the inferno. Keeping my eyes lowered, I feel Julien’s assessing gaze lingering on me as he speaks.
“You could tell him why you’re really here, Larissa.”
“And you think you know?”
“None of us do.”
“I’ve been pretty fucking transparent,” I grit out.
“Not enough,” he retorts.
“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t and won’t believe anything I tell him.”
Julien stares at me for a long minute. “He’ll believe the whole truth when you tell him.”
“And at this point, I want to tell him that about as much as you want to admit your secrets and the part you played to get your ink.”
He stalls briefly, but not for lack of an answer. “It’s as you said. He trusts me.”
“Because you’re more dangerous than he is,” I state, keeping his eyes as the flames lick his profile.
“And that’s because you could easily discard the last few hours as if they didn’t exist, including our new bond over Francesco Clemente’s paintings and every kind word we’ve spoken, while driving a dagger straight into my fucking chest. Looking directly into my eyes as you do it, without an ounce of remorse. ”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but you know, what’s that saying?” He snaps his fingers as if trying to think of the turn of phrase. “That American saying, ‘You’ve got my numbers?’”
“That’s ‘number,’ and yes, I know the type, and you know exactly what the fucking saying is—verbatim. Just like I know you’re purposefully dumbing down to endear yourself to me, to seem less threatening. Don’t do that, Julien, it’s fucking insulting.”
His eyes spark up at my bite and observation. “You truly are his match in every way.”
“As if I give a fuck,” I clap back, hackles rising as the truth sinks in about my visitor. “Jesus, everything is a test with you birds, isn’t it?”
“Don’t let this insult you. I was trying to put you at ease.”