Chapter 10
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
My back aches from a night on a sofa, an annoying reminder of my age and my predicament. What the hell have I done?
When her dress fell to her calves with one harsh rip, the stupidity of what I’d done hit with the force of a grenade. One glance at her lacy white lingerie and my dick went rock fucking hard.
Those sheer white thigh highs burned into my retinas, along with the lace garter belt and the most perfectly fitting lace thong I’ve ever seen.
Jesus, I wasn’t expecting any of that. It wasn’t a real wedding. I wasn’t expecting her to be dressed like a Victoria’s Secret Angel underneath that fluffy dress. More like a Penthouse pin-up. She surpassed every erotic dream I’ve ever had and all the porn stars I’ve watched too.
She struck me speechless, and my view had been of her back. My fingers itched to touch the smooth slope of her neck, on display as her hair was still pinned in an elaborate twist. With one flick of my fingers, her strapless white lace bra would have fallen to the floor. Thinking of the lines of her waist, the dip in her lower back, and those two perfect ass cheeks tightens my throat.
I ached to push her up against a wall, to do things with her I had no business doing to a woman younger than my sisters. And who am I kidding? I still ache like a madman to do it to her now.
And I’m supposed to take her home with me? To my flat? Contrary to everyone’s notions, I am not a saint. And she’s already shared she’s not a virgin.
I tossed and turned all fucking night. One, because I’m on a goddamn sofa. And two, because I fucked up royally. When I close my eyes, I see her body, her curves. God, those thigh highs. When she turned around and I glimpsed her breasts, bound by lace and pushed into tempting pillows, I almost came right there like a fifteen-year-old. And if I had, who could blame me? It’s been five fucking years since I’ve had sex.
Over the years, as a syndicate member, I’ve had plenty of prostitutes offered to me, in countries where it’s legal, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I haven’t let myself explore anything real because I’m not real and it wouldn’t be fair to the woman.
And here I go and play hero to a woman younger than my sisters with a plan to bring her into my home. Not, of course, to my real home. I don’t have a real home. I’m in a never-ending job assignment where I’m playing so many sides you’d think I was a politician. I’m bringing the temptation wrapped in lace to my flat, and I’ll have to keep her at a distance because I’m so deep undercover doing anything else would be cruel.
I’m not a saint, but I’m not cruel either. Given how I can’t get her out of my head, I’m definitely not a saint, but apparently, I am a masochist.
Knock. Knock.
The sound is faint. I rub my tired eyes and glare at the narrow stream of light between the drapes.
Room service? What the fuck time is it?
I swing my legs off the sofa and reach for my watch on the coffee table.
Pound. Pound.
The soft knocks now resemble a hammer.
Room service wouldn’t knock that hard. Fuck .
The bedroom door is cracked. I pull it closed without looking inside the dark chamber, find my bag, unzip it, and remove my SIG.
My mobile vibrates on the coffee table.
What the fuck is going on?
“Who is it?” I ask, gun raised, standing to the side of the door should someone decide to blister it with bullets.
“Leo. It’s me. Open up.”
Nick?
I swing open the door, and Nick’s gaze drops to my briefs.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Didn’t want to call. Our lines might be compromised.”
I glance past him to an empty hall. He’s alone.
Nick strides into the suite like he owns it, and given he paid for the suite, I suppose he does. I lock the door and flick on the lights.
“You slept on the sofa?” He’s smirking and, mother of all things holy, I need coffee.
“What’re you doing here?” He’s fully aware that this marriage is a sham, and I’m not in the mood to deal with bullshit.
He strides over to the window, taking in the city view.
I ruffle through my bag, pull out a pair of jeans, and ask, “Can you order us some coffee? You hungry?”
“I won’t be here long.” He looks at the closed door. “Is she sleeping?”
“She was.” There’s no light beneath the door. I slide on the jeans and don’t bother with a shirt. “She grew up in the Italian mafia. I think you’re cleared to say most things. What’s up?”
If he’s knocking on my honeymoon suite, shit’s going down.
“If you turned on the news, you’d see.”
A darkened screen hangs on the far wall. I scan the room for a remote, but Nick waves his hand.
“Don’t bother. There’s another bust. Shipment through the Red Sea. But that’s not all. One of our shell companies was hacked and liquidated. Two hundred mil gone. We’re under attack.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing about the hack. My tech team is on it.”
I’ve got a good idea how it all came down with the bust. But hacking syndicate financial accounts is a death wish. We’ve got the best in the world, and when they trace it, the guilty parties will die a slow and gruesome death, after their loved one’s die in front of them.
“When do you plan to introduce your new bride to your family?”
His question startles me out of my sleep-deprived fog. The first image I have is of my sisters, and they can’t ever know about the life I’m leading, or else they too might end up on a firing line.
“Did you tell your relatives about your marriage yet?”
I blink, and it slowly dawns on me he’s talking about my cover family, the Sullivans, back in Texas. I really need coffee.
“Haven’t gotten around to it yet.” His expression is unreadable. “It’s a sham, Nick. You fucking know that.”
“Right. Well, I propose you play it like it’s real.”
“Why?”
“One, it’s better if Massimo De Luca believes the love story. If he thinks he got played because someone didn’t want to give his brother what he wants, he’ll see it as a sign of disrespect. It won’t play out well for the Gaglianos, and I don’t want issues for Titan Shipping.”
“I don’t plan on returning to Italy anytime soon.” Therefore, Massimo can believe whatever line Willow’s family feeds him.
“A trip to Texas to introduce her would give you some time to talk shop with your family. Face to face, no risk of breach.”
“You think someone’s monitoring us?”
“They’re always trying. Either they were successful, or we’ve got a leak. I want to know what deals the Sullivans have struck and with whom. I want to know who, outside of our circle, is buying right now. Your wedding is the perfect excuse for one-on-one time.”
The bedroom door opens, and Willow stands in the doorway. She’s no longer wearing virginal white thigh highs, and the garter belt is gone, but she’s wearing a see-through white gown that falls mid-thigh, and her breasts are on full display. The way the light filters through the gauzy fabric, she might as well be nude, and I’m instantly hard.
Fuck me. One more image burned into my retinas.
“Get back in the room.”
She spins, giving us a clear view of her bare, fine ass, and the door closes. Fucking hell. Could she not hear our voices?
“You slept on the sofa instead of with that?” I glare at Nick, and he chuckles. “She’s your bride. It might not be love, but it’s legal. You might as well fuck her.” He pushes off the armchair and stares at the closed door. “I certainly would.”
I faked a marriage with her to protect her, not to use her.
“You silly cunt.”
I want to smack that irritating grin right off his face.
“Right, then. I’ll be getting out of your bridal suite. Call me when you’re back at your flat. Let me know when you’ll be returning to Texas.”
The door closes with a loud click, the sound emphasized by the heavy weight of the hotel door. I scrub the back of my head with my hands furiously. Coffee or shower?
Fuck it. I’ll go with a shower. Maybe after I jack off, I won’t be so pissy. I need to meet with Nomad, but I’ll have to be careful. With a battle brewing, eyes will be everywhere.
When I sling open the bedroom door, she’s sitting on the bed, a pillow pulled over her stomach, knees bent up to her chest, timid and impossibly younger looking. Christ.
“Why in the devil did you come out dressed like that?”
Glassy, innocent blue eyes peer up at me.
Tears. I fucking hate tears.
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“And you thought it was okay to walk around in that around me?”
Does she think I’m so old I’m not affected? She’s a fucking walking pin-up. Jesus fucking Christ.
“It’s what my mother packed for my wedding night. The trunks aren’t here.”
She’s right. They shipped the trunks straight to London.
She sniffles, and I just don’t have the patience. I head to the bathroom and catch myself in the mirror. I am a better man than this. Sexual frustration is clouding my judgment. I pause in the doorway, head bowed, back to her, an apology on the tip of my tongue, but it’ll never pass.
“Look. I get that we have an arrangement. I’m older, but I’m still a man. Unless you plan on throwing sex on the table, cover up.”
With that, I close the door, turn on the shower, and take care of business.