Chapter Sixty-Two
Isla
With a seriousness so intense that I knew this was something much more than a swim, he nodded toward his house. “This is as deep as it gets for me.”
Taking in every controlled, dominant inch of him, the fierceness of his statement, the implication, the danger of it—I fought a shiver.
I also fought my poor heart that was pounding for every implied word of permanence this warfighter used when the very thing that made him a warrior was what made him a horrible risk.
I didn’t care.
And my heart didn’t understand that he was the absolute worst investment for my affections.
I was already reaching for him. Gripping his wrist, I slid my thumb over his pulse point to make sure he was real.
“I understand.” I absolutely didn’t. “Thank you for telling me.” I didn’t think I would ever fully understand the depths of this man.
He tried to warn me off. “You won’t understand unless and until you come inside.”
That was what I was afraid of. It was also what was driving me—had driven me—since I’d first met him. This man was inherently dangerous to every single one of my faculties. Smiling, I ignored what was left of my self-preservation. “That sounds like a promise.”
His penetrating stare was his only response.
I opened my door and got out of his giant SUV.
I was always going to get out.
“Wait,” he clipped, cutting the engine and following my lead.
Gripping my small clutch in one hand—the sole vestige of my free will I’d brought with me from the hotel—I shut the passenger door with the other, then glanced up at the brand-new-looking mansion. I didn’t care what he’d said about square footage. It was definitely a mansion.
Travertine steps leading up to massive double front doors, modern architecture, mirror-tinted glass planes for windows, concrete tiles covering the expanse of tiered pitches that made up the roofline—it was an imposing and impressive sight.
And while it wasn’t five enchanting terraces overlooking the Mediterranean, there was something very special about the place.
I was sure the inside would be incredible—vaulted ceilings, unobstructed views of the ocean, sheer luxury—but there was something more, something beyond the house’s owner that already had me captivated.
A large, warm hand landed on the small of my back as a warfighter silently appeared at my side.
I looked up at him. “It really is a beautiful house.”
“I’m glad you think so. Ready?”
With the sun shining down on him, turning his blond hair gold, making his eyes an even more vibrant green, I was reminded of that first moment I met him.
The scent of lemons, the cool Mediterranean breeze, the snap of sexual tension in the air between us.
Every nerve in my body tingled. “I’m ready. ”
A dominant led me up marble stairs.
I was living in a dream.
He entered numbers on a smart lock, then pressed his thumb to a biometric scanner and opened the door.
Classical music instantly spilled out, loud and mesmerizing and—
“Come.” A warfighter ushered me inside a grand entryway with soaring ceilings.
The door closed, the music stopped, and a deep voice carried.
“Oh, um, hey.”
A deep voice that was almost an exact replica of the thief’s who’d been plundering my agency.
I looked up at Nix.
A sliding chair sounded, footsteps followed, a warfighter’s fierce gaze focused straight ahead, and the hand at my back pushed me forward into a palatial house.
“Whoa.”
My head whipped to the source of the interjection.
Oh. My. God.
“Lincoln,” Nix said calmly, authoritatively. “This is Isla. Isla—” The warfighter, the former SEAL, the man I’d known as Nix “Phoenix” Erikson immediately became something more. “This is my son, Lincoln.”
For an impossible heartbeat, I stared at the tall, lanky, bright-green-eyed, blond teenager who had not only a matching haircut to his father’s but a matching everything else, right down to his prominent Adam’s apple.
Nix.
A father.
To this strikingly handsome young man who—minus his shocked, curious, shy, and altogether pure-of-heart expression—looked exactly like Nix.
My eyes welled, and my smile went wide. “Whoa is right.” I couldn’t stop myself. I hugged him, and I hugged him hard, because he looked like he needed it, or maybe I needed it, but I didn’t question it.
Stiff, awkward at first, and almost as tall as his father, he leaned down. Then he hugged me back just as hard. “Um, hi, Isla.”
I laughed, and that was it. My heart wrapped around a warfighter’s son. “Hi back.” I pulled away and looked up at him. “Okay, do you really go by Lincoln? Or is your dad the only one who calls you by your full name?”
His cheeks turned red, and he quickly glanced at his father with almost a look of guilt as he grabbed the back of his neck. “Um, kinda?” His smile held, but it turned shy, and his voice, so very deep for his age, quieted. “I usually go by Linc.”
I grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Linc.”