Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Robyn
F ifteen years ago…
I’d never forget seeing Damon for the first time. I’d been so certain that my focus would be instantly taken on Sinclair. My enemy. That one look at that evil man and it would be all I could do to not lunge for him and strangle his confession out with my bare hands.
Instead, I followed Sandrine into the sprawling dining room, heard her greet the two men who were in deep conversation next to the roaring gas fireplace at the far end of the room, and found my attention wholly consumed by the man I was destined to meet.
Damon Remington.
His dark hair fell in wavy disarray, only highlighting the perfect order of his facial structure. High cheekbones, straight nose, full yet structured mouth, and the slightest cleft in the center of his chin when the light caught it just right. He was beautiful, his features shaped with a precision that was…unreal. I’ d never been a believer in masculine beauty before, but now I was certain he had to be the very definition of it.
His navy pinstripe suit was sharp. Fitted to every nip and tuck. And standing there, with a cigar perched between his lips and a glass of whiskey in his other hand, he reminded me of a vintage mobster. The ones that had panache, but with a tailored suit.
And then those silver eyes landed on me, iridescent in the flickering light. No one had ever (or would ever) look at me the way Damon Remington did in that moment. Not like a lock that had found its key or a missing piece to a puzzle…he looked at me like a bullet wound to his chest. Like I was the thing that would be his undoing and it was too late to do anything about it.
I only recognized it because I felt the same. Instantaneous ache. A penetrating want. The intensity of it unnerved me, my senses going wild like thread unraveling from a spool. But the fear it created only amplified my attraction.
The cigar lowered from his mouth, his fingers barely holding it secure.
“Robyn…Foster, is it?” Only when Sinclair spoke did I recall the other man in the room— the one I was really there for .
Magnus Sinclair, by contrast, was exactly what I envisioned. Harsh, stocky features stitched into an expensive suit. When he greeted me, the corners of his cold, shrewd eyes never lifted no matter how he smiled, like two dead weights.
“Yes.” I took his extended hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how damp my palms were.
“And you met Sandrine at yoga, she tells me.” Sinclair’s dead stare was a different beast altogether. Pointed and inherently suspicious.
“Yes, it’s a great class. ”
He made a low noise, sipped his whiskey, and pressed, “When did you start going?”
My heart tripped against my ribs. “I?—”
“Magnus, do you mind, old sport?” If there was one thing that could make this Damon more gorgeous, it would be this. His voice. It was warm and silken. It dipped deep for a moment when he’d addressed Magnus, then leveled into a strong tenor before settling into light familiarity. Like the whiskey in his glass, it could be both powerful yet smooth, strong yet palatable.
It could be everything. Anything. At the time, it was an accelerant to my attraction, and invariably my downfall.
“Yes, chère, we’ll get you fresh drinks and let you two get acquainted.” Sandrine took Damon’s empty glass and led Sinclair away.
Biting my lip, my eyes followed the two of them—followed Sinclair—until he and his interrogation were a safe distance away to breathe again. To think. Sort of. I looked back to the man I’d been left with. No matter how attractive he was, it didn’t disguise his relationship with Sinclair and how equally dangerous to me he could be. Strangely, when I turned, I caught this man—Damon—watching Sinclair with the same calculated attention I had for a split second before he wiped all trace of it from his face, his beautiful mask back in place.
“Damon Remington, at your service.” He took my hand and lifted it to his mouth.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I shivered, my nipples pebbling against my dress. The depth of the neckline meant I couldn’t wear a bra. I didn’t think it would be a problem… I never expected to meet him.
“The pleasure is all mine.” The touch of his lips to the back of my hand released an army of goose bumps over my skin, and I went from clammy to combustible in the span of a nanosecond.
I’d prepared for a lot of things coming here but not this. Not these emotions. Not feelings that I would welcome or want more of. And certainly not for a man associated with my enemy.
Since I was sixteen, my life had unfolded from grief into shock into fury into vengeance. Those didn’t leave room for things like attraction and desire to work their way in. I’d hardly processed losing the two most important people to me before I’d learned Sinclair had stolen their legacy. How could I think about men—about dating? From that moment, I’d been trapped by Sinclair as surely as his charismatic wife.
But it was hard to stay trapped or even focus on the cage when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome crashed through it like a wrecking ball. What else could I focus on but the fog of attraction and the wreck of desire?
Like Rumpelstiltskin turned straw into gold, Damon spun the next half-hour of conversation into a span that felt like minutes. By the time Sandrine announced dinner was ready to be served, I couldn’t even recall what we’d spoken about, only the way his eyes had flickered as they stared into mine. The way my pulse jumped every time my arm or my hand brushed his. The way his head would dip when he spoke, his lips finding a spot close to my ear, and the way his warm voice reached like alcohol into my blood.
I went to my seat at the table, convinced solely of one thing: I’d never felt for any man the way I did for Damon Remington.
“Allow me.” His smile tipped easily over his face as he pulled out my chair.
Maybe if I hadn’t been so focused on the devil I knew, I wouldn’t have been fooled by the one I’d just met.
Dinner passed in an array of courses and drinks the likes of which I’d never experienced. So this was how the other half lived, I thought on more than one occasion, usually when I was trying to discreetly determine which utensil to use for which course. But Damon saved me there, too.
When the salad came out, I stared blankly at the array of three forks to the left of my plate. Panicked, I looked across the table to see which he reached for, only to find him watching—watching my confusion take hold.
Sorry, Sandrine, I don’t think I’m going to cut it in Damon’s world, I thought, as if we were even a possibility.
But then, to my surprise, his hand hovered slowly over his place setting, a finger touching down on the very outside fork, tapping it, and then moving to the next. He was counting them for me. The second one, he set his finger on and then picked it up, making a show of twirling it in his fingers before sinking it into the lettuce on his plate.
I grabbed the second fork and did the same. Our eyes connected across the table, and I mouthed, thank you. He winked back.
There were certain things I’d come to regret as the years went on, most of which had to do with not seeing any of the signs in front of me for just how bad this fall of mine was going to be.
After the dinner courses were finished, we rose from the table to take a small break before dessert. Instantly, Sandrine ushered everyone into the neighboring room—a music room, I realized by the grand piano that took center stage in the middle of the space .
Sandrine called for her daughter, who eagerly took a seat on the bench, her eyes wide with excitement and admiration for her mother as she began to play and Sandrine began to sing.
Within moments, the small group of us was enrapt by the performance. The fluidity of Daria’s playing combined with Sandrine’s lush, evocative voice wove a kind of spell through the song that held everyone hostage.
A perfect time to slip away. My heart boomed in my chest. Was it too risky? This was my first time at their house.
But what if it was my only visit here?
I would only have one chance—minutes to slip into Sinclair’s office and look for anything that proved he’d taken my inheritance. I didn’t need a smoking gun, I just needed something to give to the authorities.
My eyes drifted to Sinclair. He sat on the edge of the loveseat, sipping his tumbler of whiskey and beaming at his wife and daughter. Perfectly distracted.
I inched backward, glancing over my right shoulder toward the exit.
“I have two loves,” a voice rumbled next to my ear.
My breath vaulted into my lungs. Where had he come from?
Shivering, I tipped my head up to the man beside me, again impressed with his height before I was overtaken by his scent. Whiskey and smoked cigar.
“Excuse me?” Two loves. Had I misheard him? Or did Sandrine not realize that Damon was taken? Apparently by two women…
He grinned. “The name of the song, ‘J’ai Deux Amours,’ translates to ‘I Have Two Loves.’”
The small rush of relief I felt was irrational. “Oh, I see,” I murmured, losing myself in the swell of Sandrine’s voice for a moment as I worked up the courage to excuse myself to the restroom .
“It was originally written by Josephine Baker, a famous American-born French performer in the 1930s, speaking to her love of both America and Paris,” Damon continued, thwarting my departure with the rich husk of his voice that lulled me almost as much as the melody. “I think that’s why Sandrine loves it so much; it speaks to her.”
A Frenchwoman living in America.
“It’s beautiful.” The song…her voice…they were captivating, though I didn’t understand a word.
“She was an incredible woman. And an even more incredible spy.”
Air pushed like a knife into my lungs. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Was this a trap? A trick? Did Sinclair know who I was and what I was here for?
“A…spy?” There was no hiding the husk in my voice. There was no hiding, period.
Damon’s hand came to rest on my elbow, the touch like a flurry of tiny lightning bolts to my skin, electrifying the adrenaline that already thundered through my veins.
I turned to him, grateful for the dim lighting that lent only a luminous haze to the moody performance, otherwise, Damon would’ve seen the way my cheeks turned as red as my hair.
“Josephine Baker was a spy for the French Resistance during World War II.” His eyes roamed my face, their silver rims as delicate as the edge of a blade.
A garbled sound emerged from my lips, and I quickly turned it into a kind of strangled acknowledgment. “Really? That’s so fascinating.”
I didn’t like the way he looked at me—like he knew I wasn’t who I said I was. Like he knew who I was.
“And what about you, Damon? Do you have two loves?” I looked up at him from underneath my lashes, hoping he would do what every other man would in this scenario— run at the first hint of love and commitment.
But he didn’t because he wasn’t like the others. Had I only listened to Sandrine from the start, I never would’ve been caught in his snare…
“No.” He took my wrist, and my breath caught as he lifted my hand to his lips, murmuring against my knuckles, “But I’m starting to think I might have one.”
The press of his kiss was like twenty thousand volts to my senses. Sudden. Life-changing. Life-threatening.
I yanked my hand back. What was I doing? I needed to focus. I only had this small window of time, and I might never get this chance again.
“If you’ll excuse me. I need to use the restroom,” I murmured, distancing myself from him until there was enough space to turn and flee.
When I reached Sinclair’s office, I could hardly hear anything over the pounding of my heart.
I tested the knob. It was unlocked. I was prepared in case I had to pick the lock—a skill I’d taught myself over the last few months, figuring I’d need it at some point to achieve my goal.
The door seemed to let out an exhale when it opened. Or maybe it was mine.
I slipped inside, my dress sinking me into the shadows of the room. I drew my phone from my purse, turning on the flashlight and swiping it through the space to get a sense of the layout and then letting it linger on the massive desk at the far end. That had to be where he would keep this kind of information. Documentation of the money he stole from people.
I hurried over, opening and closing drawers as quickly and as quietly as I could, barely contained cries of frustration eking out every time I came up empty-handed. Maybe it wasn’t here. Maybe it was at his office.
I closed the bottom drawer and turned, angling the light up the ceiling-height bookcase behind the desk. It just seemed much riskier to keep proof of illegal activities there. My breath snagged, the flashlight reflecting off a small metal circle.
The cabinet beneath the bookcase had a lock on it.
I felt around the edge of the door. It was large enough that it could contain files—a paper trail or hard drives with information proving that he’d taken my inheritance with the help of that lawyer, McCullough, who’d recommended him. I grabbed the knob and pulled. It was locked.
Shit .
Resting my phone on the ledge so I had some light, I reached in my purse for the small lock-picking kit I’d borrowed from Harm’s things. My brothers were overseas right now, so he wouldn’t be needing it.
My hands were damp, my fingers fumbling to pull out the right-sized tool?—
“What the hell are you doing?” The low growl rippled through the tomb-like room.
I froze, panic gripping my heart and flinging it against my chest like a stone to be skipped. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stood so quickly, I knocked my phone off the ledge. It landed on the floor with a thud, the flashlight doused into nothing more than an eclipse on the carpet.
Now, the only light in the room was what stole in through the cracked door, bathing the gorgeous mobster in silver streaks of light.
His head jerked to the side. “Shit.”
It took a second to realize the curse hadn’t come from me.
“What is it?” I demanded as he strode toward me, backing myself up against the shelves as he got closer. “What are you doing?”
He was going to capture me—take me to Sinclair. Tell him where he’d found me. What he’d found me doing. My hands felt along the ledge, searching for something—anything that I could use as a weapon. Nothing. My fingers curled into a fist, my thumb locking on the outside like my military brothers had taught me.
“Jesus Christ, Robyn.” His shadow stalked closer, ricocheting off the walls until he seemed larger than life when he reached for me. “Who the hell are you?”
New plan. Punch and run.
“Don’t—” The thwack of flesh hitting flesh, the crack of the blow striking the bone, reverberated through the room.
Damon stumbled to the side, landing on one knee with a groan that morphed into a curse.
I whimpered out, the pain surprisingly potent. Unlike the hot sting of slapping someone in the face, this was a throbbing coil of pain that pulsed from my knuckles all the way up my arm. But I didn’t have time for pain. I didn’t have time for anything except to get out of here.
I kicked off my shoes and hauled up my dress to give my legs more room to move. I didn’t care how low the temperature was outside. I’d rather have frozen feet than be caught spying by Sinclair.
In the end, I ended with neither.
I made it two steps before a strong hold gripped my arm and hauled me back. My hands landed on the hard planes of his chest, prepared to shove him away when the floor disappeared from under my feet.
“Let me go,” I hissed, clawing at him as he set me on the desk.
My bunched dress only made it easier for him to wedge between my legs, white-hot panic flooding my system as this took a turn I wasn’t prepared for.
“Let me go, or I swear I’ll?—”
His big hands boxed in my face, holding it a breath from his. “I’ll let you go, but first, you’re going to kiss me back like your life fucking depends on it.”
I felt my eyes go wide just as his mouth crushed to mine.
In that moment, I knew time had stopped. There was no racing of my heart or pumping of my blood. There was no panicked flood of thoughts or adrenaline coiled in my stomach. There was only him. The scent of his cigar. The taste of whiskey on his lips. And the heat that flowed through me like lava when I gasped and his tongue swept deep in my mouth.
Seconds later, the voice of the devil started the clock again, breaking through the fugue of desire with the cold fury of his question, “What the hell are you doing in here, Damon?”
Oh god. This was it. What was I thinking? I was no one to him. Of course, he was going to hand me over to Sinclair, he just wanted to cop a feel first.
I tore my mouth away, and Damon instantly pulled my head to the crook of his neck. As he spoke, I heard the smile tacked to his lips.
“Sorry, old sport. I waylaid this beauty on the way back from the bathroom. You know how I am when I find something I want…” His words and low laugh would’ve been sickening in any other scenario. “I couldn’t control myself. Figured…hoped you wouldn’t mind.”
He was lying .
He was saving me.
There was a long pause. A very long pause barbed with displeasure.
“We’ll talk when you’re done.” Sinclair’s growl made me shiver against my savior’s arms.
“He’s gone,” Damon said, and I started to breathe again as he carefully drew me away from him. “Are you okay?”
I blinked slowly, the beauty of his face focusing into a mystery I never expected to find, and then croaked, “Who are you?”