29. Remy
REMY
It’sno surprise I fuck up and lay hands on her before we even step foot inside the house.
I’m paranoid about her safety, and when she didn’t stay in the car—like I fucking asked—I could barely resist the urge to drag her over my lap to make her see sense.
Now the feel of her is all caught up in my head, and I can’t get it out.
It’s not even like we’re at high risk out here in the middle of absolute fucking nowhere.
I’ve taken a shit-load of unnecessary precautions.
But my continued stupidity has me spending hours holed up in one of the bedrooms, pretending I need to make important business calls. I only leave the isolation temporarily to allow entry to the chef I contracted days ago.
I give Ollie and Carlo the well-needed time together.
I reply to contractor emails concerning Smoke Mirrors and sip the twenty-five-year-old Macallan whisky I asked the homeowner to procure, as if drinking expensive liquor will make the threat of Lorenzo finding out about this mini vacay any less of an issue.
Late afternoon a knock sounds at my door, raising my hackles. If Ollie tempts me again… But it’s the middle-aged male chef who pokes his bearded face into my room.
“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Costa. I’m about to serve antipasti to your guests beside the pool. Would you like me to bring a plate in here?”
I withhold a cringe, knowing I can’t stay in here forever.
“No.” I push from the bed. “I’ll join them.”
The man nods and backtracks, disappearing while I slide my cell into my pocket and ponder my pathetic weakness.
Carlo will seek me out if I don’t show my face soon, and the truth is, I’m not as immune to his impending demise as I’d like to be. I want time with him too.
I leave the bedroom, Lucy’s laughter carrying from the pool deck, Carlo’s quickly following.
I walk outside, finding the two of them sitting side by side on cushioned loungers before I instinctively search for Ollie.
She breeches from beneath the pool’s surface with a gasp, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her skin glistens as she begins to climb the steps like some otherworldly goddess in a skimpy black bikini that could potentially see me greeting Carlo in the fucking afterlife.
I don’t know what I expected her to bathe in, but I wouldn’t have dared to rent a place with a pool if the heavenly sight before me had crossed my mind for even the slightest of seconds.
She’s a fantasy, the bikini bottom hugging the petite curves of her ass, the top molding to her tits to expose every inch of her cleavage and too fucking much of her side-boob.
I clear the tightness from my throat and turn away. My eyes catch on Carlo, whose gaze is narrowed on me with far too much scrutiny as he closes the paperback memoir in his hands.
Fuck.
“Did you decide to take a nanna nap, Costa?” he drawls.
I huff a laugh, pretending like his daughter isn’t making my dick hard. “No, I thought I’d reserved those for the old man of the crew.” I stroll toward him. “I’ve been working.”
He raises his brows in disbelief.
Thankfully the chef approaches and places a tray of food at the end of Carlo’s lounger.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might be hungry.” The guy, who must’ve been a lumberjack in his past life, points to the delicacies displayed. “This is the prosciutto e melone. Then we have the arancini, bruschetta, olives and marinated mushrooms.”
Ollie joins us mid report, her skin covered in goose bumps as she wrings water from her hair, seeming completely oblivious to her appeal. “It looks amazing.”
He grins at her. “The mushrooms have been infused with balsamic vinegar, garlic, and parsley, but also have a dash of red peppers.” His focus dips momentarily to her tits before snapping upward. “So be prepared for a slight kick.”
The mushrooms won’t provide the only motherfucking kick if this piece of shit doesn’t mind his manners.
“I’m excited to see what you organize for dinner.” She grabs one of the arancini balls and takes a bite.
“I’m actually not sure if I’m in charge of dinner.” The fucker meets my glower, his eyes bugging slightly at my deathly expression. “Umm… have you decided if you’re staying in or going out?”
“Not yet.” I school my anger to address Carlo. “I made dinner reservations at Les Délices de Versailles. It’s French cuisine, but we can stay in if you prefer.”
“That sounds classy for Berkeley Springs,” Lucy chirps.
It’s not.
It’s a small family-owned restaurant that I called in advance to make a few requests Lucy is already aware of. “It’s black tie.”
“Black tie?” Ollie almost chokes on her arancini. “But I didn’t pack anything appropriate to wear.”
“You’ll find something.” I don’t chance glancing at her again, not when her cleavage is already fucking with me from the corner of my eye.
It also hasn’t skipped my attention that she’s not wearing my ring around her neck. I know why it’s not there—wearing it visibly would inspire questions—but I don’t appreciate her taking it off.
For protective reasons… as well as possessive.
“I was wondering why Lucy insisted on packing my tux,” Carlo says. “French cuisine sounds perfect.”
“Dad, are you sure you’re up for?—”
“Fragolina, relax. I’m living my best life.”
Ollie sighs and reaches for an olive. “Of course you are.”
“In that case… ” I return my glower to the chef. “Your services shouldn’t be needed until breakfast. Take the night off.”
He inclines his head. “I’ll put the snacks I prepared for later in the fridge, then tidy up and be on my way.”
I don’t fucking care, asshole. Just leave.
“It was nice meeting you, Nathan,” Ollie offers softly. “I can’t wait for breakfast.”
Leave now, fucker, before you do it in a body bag.
The chef smirks. “I’ll make sure I have something mouthwatering prepared.”
The only thing he needs to prepare for is an early grave if he doesn’t quit looking at Ollie like she’s a fucking blow job waiting to happen.
“You’re dismissed,” I growl, instantly siphoning the companionable energy from the atmosphere.
Lucy balks.
Carlo stares at me.
And Ollie? She pops another olive in her mouth with a condescending raised brow.
I’m going to kill that fucking chef.
Lucy clears her throat. “I guess I should iron my dress for tonight.” She picks up some bruschetta and walks for the glass living room doors. “I’ll come back for more food in a minute.”
Ollie casually helps herself to another olive, her brow still raised. “You could’ve told me to pack something nice.”
I ignore her words. Her expression. That fucking bikini.
I ignore everything as she turns on her heel and saunters inside. Everything except the pathetic jealousy coursing through my veins.
“You’re attracted to my daughter,” Carlo says without preamble.
I scoff. Mainly to brush him off, but also because attraction is far too weak of a word.
I’m not surprised it’s written all over my face. “She’s a beautiful woman.”
“Is your interest merely physical?”
The question is laughable when my interest is manic on every level. There isn’t anything about Ollie that doesn’t fascinate me. But I’m sure pondering a murderer’s fetish for his daughter isn’t something Carlo needs to think about while approaching his deathbed.
“I thought so,” he murmurs.
I shoot him an inquisitive look. “I didn’t even answer your question, Pelosi.”
“You didn’t need to. I can see it. I see it in her, too.”
I clamp my mouth shut and turn my stare to the pool.
My interest in her is one thing. The reciprocation is another.
Ollie doesn’t understand who I am. What I am.
Despite trying to lay it out in brutal technicolor multiple times, she still looks at me through rose-tinted glasses.
“Are you waiting for me to kick the bucket before you make a move, son?”
“What?” I scowl at him. “No.”
“Then what’s the hold-up?”
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. “You want me to be with your daughter, old-timer?”
He contemplates me with fatherly interest. “I didn’t say that.”
Exactly.
We don’t need to take a poll to determine my worth when it comes to Ollie.
Money, power, and notoriety can’t buy morality, integrity, and altruism.
“Olivia is a grown woman. She makes informed choices. If she thought you were the man for her, I could understand her decision.” He pushes to his feet, the movement labored with a pained cringe. “I’ve always told you you’re a good man, Remy.”
He has, but this time there’s skepticism in his tone.
“But?” I mutter.
“But if once I’m gone she decides you’re the guy for her, then you’d better live up to my expectations.” His fatherly gaze turns stern as he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Otherwise me and my wife are going to be busy haunting you in the afterlife.”