Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Robyn
M y fingers trailed along the soft array of fabrics of clothes I refused to wear. I’d physically choked on nothing but air when I opened the door to find the closet lined with enough clothes to sustain someone for…ever. Every single piece of clothing still bore the price tag like a scarlet seal of truth: no one had worn any of them before.
Welcome home.
Damon’s words rattled around my mind like spilled marbles. Did he really think I could be tempted to stay here with him? That his beautiful house and expensive clothes would make me forgive and forget how he’d betrayed me? How he’d disappeared for almost two decades, leaving me shackled in secret to a criminal husband, one I couldn’t find, let alone divorce? How I’d lived for over a decade listening to whispers about the Casanova criminal?
Meanwhile, I’d had the comfort of no one and nothing but the well of my revenge…and the fantasies of the husband I ha ted. Fantasies where I could forget how he hurt me and drown in the pleasure he’d once given.
Did he think he’d help me bring down Belmont and that I’d just magically fall back into his arms after what he’d done—how he’d done it— whom he’d done it with?
Hell no.
I dropped my hand and returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind me with a determined thud. I wasn’t sure what kind of defiance it was to walk around naked in my luxurious, self-inflicted prison cell, but I welcome the cool air on my skin like an invisible sword to my throat.
On the nightstand sat the engagement ring he’d given me back at my apartment, his secrets buried in the fake stone. It was obvious he thought the gesture symbolic—a promise of his loyalty to his word. That part was bullshit, but the ring was symbolic to me as a mockery of the farce that was our relationship. Nothing but secrets and lies encased in a pristine, glittering facade.
Next to the ring, my new phone waited, plugged into a charging dock. It had all my contacts already entered into it, so I could message my brothers—and I would, but I needed a night to get my bearings, and they probably did, too. After all, they’d watched me flee the garage with a criminal in my passenger seat only moments after learning that the criminal was my husband.
I pulled my hair out of my towel and wrapped it tight around my torso. Returning to the bathroom, I collected my shirt, leggings, and underwear off the floor, rolling everything into a ball.
There had to be a laundry room somewhere in this monstrous house…
I’d taken my time in the shower so hopefully Damon and his housekeeper were both scarce by now. I could start my laundry, find something to eat in the fridge, and then lock myself in my room.
It sounded childish, but I’d just agreed to stay in the home of the world’s most wanted criminal. Did that sound like a safe place to be? Was I supposed to feel safe because that man was also my husband? Not even close. I saw the look in his eyes. The jealous smoke. The possessive heat. There was no greater threat to me than the man who still believed I was his.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the back of the door. A frown unspooled from my lips, seeing how high the towel came on my thighs. But adjusting it lower meant exposing more of my chest…no. I wasn’t going to care.
Damon wouldn’t touch me unless I wanted him to, and that was the problem. He knew parts of me wanted his touch. Ached for it desperately. One look and he saw the gnawing void that gaped steadily wider inside me, growing more vacant ever since he left. Because he left. And I hated that he knew it. Hated how he could turn my own body into a weapon against me.
There was a time when he’d put everything I’d ever wanted right in front of me, and as I reached for it, he didn’t just pull it from my grasp, he shattered it into a million irreparable pieces. And now, I would do the same to him. I’d let him think there was a chance I’d forgive him—let him think all of this was enough penance for his betrayal. And then, just when he truly trusted me like I’d once trusted him, I’d turn him into the FBI as promised.
Looking down, I found myself rolling my wedding band through my fingers, the ring attached to a fine chain around my neck. With a huff, I shoved the gold loop underneath the edge of the towel. It would be safer to take it off, I knew, but I never took it off.
I might still wear his ring around my neck, but when this was all over, the only jewelry Damon Remington would ever wear in my presence again would be the cuffs around his wrists.
My bare feet padded upstairs in almost complete silence. My quick search of the lower level revealed no laundry room, so I presumed it was on the main floor.
It was still early, but it was already dark outside. The lights in the sprawling living space were off, highlighting the twinkling of stars and cityscape above the horizon. It was an exquisite view. Objectively speaking. But I was sure plenty of prisoners thought the same of their view from Alcatraz.
A faint glow illuminated from my right, a sliver of the kitchen island visible through the far doorframe. I took two steps, stopped, and looked over my shoulder.
The west wing…
There was a stretch of hallway to the left, lined with a collection of doors. All of them shut, but only the farthest one seemed sealed in shadow. Damon’s room.
Swallowing, I held my bundled clothes tighter. One of the other doors must be the laundry, but the sudden loud growl in my stomach suggested finding food first before I risked running into my unwanted husband.
I spun and headed quickly toward the light.
The sleek kitchen with its massive island, stainless appliances, and gas stove was as spotless and stocked as I’d expected. The fridge was stuffed to the brim with fresh vegetables, fruit, juices, and butcher-wrapped meats. My stomach threatened with another loud sound, warning that I should pick something quick and easy .
Turning to the cabinets along the wall, shelf after shelf was filled with pantry items and snacks, and as soon as I saw the box of cinnamon wheat clusters, I was reaching for them.
Dare always teased me for being the savage who snacked on dry cereal.
Setting my clothes on the seat of one of the counter stools, I opened the box, grabbed a fistful of Wheaties, and shoved them in my mouth. It wasn’t pretty looking, but I was too hungry to care. As I munched, my gaze wandered through the rest of the cabinet, pulling out at random the sliding shelves until I reached the bottom one.
No…
I stooped and yanked out the shelf, dozens of glass bottles clinking from the sudden movement. My eyes went round as I lifted them at random to see the labels. They were all different kinds and brands of hot sauce.
My fingers grazed the caps of some of the bottles. All unopened. Of course, they are, Robyn. You were the only one who liked spicy food, not Damon.
I shoved the shelf back, stood, and closed the cabinet, filling my mouth with another handful of cereal before I could curse him. A shelf of hot sauce didn’t make up for his betrayal. For his disappearance. For his lies.
A sound caught my attention. A splash? My brows pinched together as I strode over to the windows at the other end of the room, maneuvering around the dining table staged to have the best view.
And it did.
Looking out from here revealed a patio that bracketed this side of the house, angled around the back, and encompassed a large infinity pool overlooking the bay. But that wasn’t the view that made my throat work overtime to swallow .
The deep blue surface of the water rippled like silk around the body that sliced through it like a hot knife through butter.
My slack jaw would’ve hit the floor if I hadn’t snared my lip between my teeth, watching as Damon swam the length of the pool.
No wonder he was in such good shape.
The windmill of his strong arms. The powerful surge of his muscled legs. He reached the end of the pool in no time and went to spin—I choked again on nothing but the split-second sight of his bare ass.
My husband was swimming nude.
I should turn away—walk away—do anything but what I did, which was pop another piece of cereal in my mouth and admire for a single guilty moment just how gorgeous my husband was.
The long, sinewed lines of his arms down to his ankles, water sluicing over the ridges of his muscles. The firm swell of his ass as it rolled through the water, propelled the forceful kicks of his legs. The way he moved so powerfully, so agile and yet so vulnerably.
Air webbed in my throat as he approached the far end of the pool. If he wasn’t moving so fast…if the water churned just a little less near his waist…
The cadence of my pulse quieted as I watched, the anticipation weaving a low ache between my thighs. I could look because I knew better than to touch. I could look because the fantasy of this man still belonged to me even if the reality of him didn’t.
His head disappeared, and I leaned closer to the window, my breath confessing my desire to the glass. His whole body disappeared, and in a second, he’d tuck under himself and spring off the wall—except he didn’t.
Damon suddenly broke straight up through the surface like Poseidon rising from the sea, water streaking down his muscled torso like it wept to lose the feel of him. Didn’t we all?
The thought pained my chest, but I couldn’t look away. Not even when I risked him seeing me. He ran his hands over his face and pushed his hair back. Lower, the water began to settle, the pool lights coalescing on the parts of him underneath the surface as they began to come into focus.
I regretted my choice of food then. The dry cereal sat like tumbleweeds on my tongue. Did water make things look larger than they really were? I couldn’t remember. And neither could I remember if the man I’d ached for all these years had been that large for the moments I’d had him?
A hand crashed onto the water in front of his waist, breaking the clarity of the surface. Even though I was inside and on a different level, the muted thwack still made me jump.
I jerked my gaze up, thinking something was wrong. And there was.
Dark steel eyes found mine—found me watching him.
Shit.
Double dammit shit.
Damon’s brows rose along with his smile, a blatant invitation as the hand that blocked my view of his groin patted the water. To join him.
My core clenched, ready, wet, and willing to be his victim. To let him consume my body into a state of bliss that was as otherworldly as it was untrue. Thankfully, there was an entire floor and the structure of a house separating us, and also me from a moment of pure insanity.
Holding his stare, I brought the cereal to my mouth and popped a few between my lips, giving him my best blasé expression before turning away like I’d seen nothing of interest.
“Madonna Robyn? ”
I squeaked, cereal flying from my hand and almost losing the entire box to the floor.
“Oh, Madonna!” the older woman exclaimed. “Please, let me. Let me.”
I winced as she swatted my hand away with surprising force, sweeping in with a dustpan and brush that I hadn’t even seen her get out.
“Thank you.”
She stood, smiled, looked at the cereal box, and then frowned.
“Cereal is not for dinner,” she declared, her heavy Italian accent as scolding as the way she yanked the box from my hand.
With a string of muttered curses, she left me standing there, gaping, as she returned the box to the cabinet.
“I kept warm for you,” she said, opening the bottom of the two wall ovens and pulling out a plate covered in foil.
Guilt rushed through me. She’d made me dinner, and I’d offended her by going for cereal instead. Damon had mentioned the dinner, but I’d assumed it came with his company, so I avoided it. In my defense, I hadn’t known she’d hidden my plate in the oven to keep it warm, otherwise, I would’ve eagerly eaten it.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, banding my arms over my chest.
She plucked the foil off the ceramic dish, the scent of pecorino and pancetta drawing me right to her.
“What’s your name?”
“Nonna.”
My lips pursed. That was what Damon called her, but it wasn’t her name; it meant grandmother in Italian.
“No, I mean?—”
“Nonna,” the older woman repeated staunchly, pressing her calloused thumb to her own chest like I was four years old instead of approaching forty. And then she pointed to the pasta. “Nonna’s carbonara.”
“Grazie.” It was more or less the only Italian I knew.
In a blink, there was a fork, a napkin, and a glass of red wine stationed around my favorite pasta dish.
“Mangia. Mangia.” The wave of her hands felt threatening as though she might swat me again if I didn’t obey, but I had no desire not to. I could refuse to wear the clothes he bought me, but I wasn’t so petulant that I’d refuse good food as well.
And Nonna didn’t give me a choice. She stood there with her thinning hair pulled back in a severe bun and her arms crossed like she was prepared to force-feed me if I didn’t do it myself.
“Grazie,” I repeated, spooling several strands of noodles onto my fork and taking a bite.
For a brief— very brief— moment, I let myself hate my husband a little less because he’d introduced me to a woman who’d just made me the best carbonara I’d had in my entire life. And it was leftover.
“Traditional carbonara.” She pointed again to my bowl. “No cream. Egg. Pecorino. And guanciale.” She lifted one knobby finger after another as she recounted the simple ingredients.
“Delicious,” I said, my mouth full.
“Grazie. Grazie mille.” She beamed like I’d told her she’d just won the lottery.
Maybe if it didn’t taste so good, I would’ve been annoyed by how she stood there and watched me eat, like the second she looked away I might reach for the cereal again. But it was that damn good, so I didn’t care what she did.
After a few minutes, I warmed to her presence. At least, if she were here and Damon came in, we wouldn’t be alone.
“He swims every night. ”
I stilled. Spoke too soon. Staring in silence was okay. Talking about my husband wasn’t. I shoved another forkful in my mouth, hoping that translated into “less talking, more eating.”
“Normally with clothes on.”
I choked and reached for the glass of wine—the only thing quickly available to drink. Gulping down a mouthful of the dry red, it burned alongside the embarrassment in my cheeks.
If it wasn’t so good and I wasn’t so hungry, I would’ve considered calling it quits on calories for the night and retreating to my room. Instead, I twirled another round of noodles onto my fork.
“Well, it’s his house,” I said, sounding slightly like a frog, adding, “I guess he’s allowed to do what he wants,” and then shoved the next bite in my mouth.
Nonna’s eyes twinkled in a way I didn’t appreciate. Damon probably told her some fairy-tale version of us. His estranged, beloved wife that he’d finally returned to reconcile with. What a load of bullshit. But that was what he was— a load of bullshit in a beautiful suit.
“He give me menu for the week.” She pulled from her pocket a crumpled piece of paper, her arthritic hands kneading it as flat as it would go before sliding it to me.
My jaw stopped working for a second. Between the delicious-sounding pasta meals, there was Chinese written next to Tuesday, in parentheses the name of my favorite Chinese restaurant in the city, the restaurant I’d ordered from every Tuesday that I was home. The restaurant Damon and I had ordered from every Tuesday for the six months we’d lived together. There was also sushi written next to Wednesday and pizza attached to Friday.
We’d had a routine we’d found together. It was the only thing he left behind of us—of him. That and his ring that lay like a marker over my broken heart.
Instinctively, I reached for my neck and then quickly dropped my hand before I absentmindedly pulled the ring into view.
“Everything okay?”
I swallowed and nodded. “Si. Looks great. Grazie.”
Again, her wide, crooked smile warmed me. “Good.” She came around the counter and carefully folded the paper back into her pocket. I was surprised then to feel the weathered skin of her hand on my cheek.
I turned to her, my throat tightening to see the unshed tears that wet her eyes.
“It’s good you are here. Good for him. Good for you, too.”
Yeah, she had no idea what she was talking about. The only good that came from Damon Remington was the orgasms, and even those, I would argue in the end, had only magnified the shattering of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”
I had no intention of arguing with an old woman who was clearly under the influence of Damon’s charisma; I knew I’d never win. This was what Damon was good at—had always been good at: making anyone and everyone, from criminals to Italian grandmothers, fall under his charming spell.
I set my fork on the empty plate, grateful I’d already finished eating because I’d just lost my appetite.
I went to turn away, but her hand on top of mine stopped me. She stared at me, making sure she had my attention, and then nodded to her arm. With her free hand, she unsteadily pushed her sweater up her forearm, revealing a long, jagged scar.
“Signor Damon save me.” Her knobby pointer finger ran the length of the injury, and my next heartbeats felt pinched from the organ in my chest.
Of course, he saved her. He saved people. Helped them. Protected them. He painted the picture of a perfect gentleman right up until helping someone else directly conflicted with his own ends, and then the man who saved them instantly became the first to sell them out. Or maybe that was just me. The only one he’d ever vowed his loyalty to.
“Broken things heal stronger.” She poked at the smooth seam of the injury to make her point.
My fist balled and then released. “Bones, yes,” I returned, covering her hand with mine and sliding her sweater back down as I added firmly, “Not hearts.”
The sadness in her eyes tightened my chest for the briefest second before I shivered, my body attuned to another presence in the room.
“Robyn.”
My head jerked to the doorway and the man that filled its frame.