7. Rhett
Rhett
W hy did I suggest going out for dinner? I wasn’t thinking right. Staying in this impressively huge manor to eat instead would be less ... intimate .
It is not a date.
Yet when Ana meets me in the foyer looking like a fucking goddess, I turn irrationally sour at the thought of her leaving this house looking like that with anyone else.
I wasn’t thinking when I blurted the suggestion of the boyfriend facade after her father presented the damn tabloid to me.
I severely underestimated how eager the press were already with their campaign starting to get serious.
I need this placement, and I haven’t even begun trying to get intel on the whole reason I’m risking life and limb to be here, yet it’s already being sabotaged by the savage media.
At first I hated the thought of having to pose as some rich woman’s guard for this. I expected someone pretentious and insufferable, but I’d tolerate it if it would lead me closer to Alister fucking Lanshall.
Anastasia Kinsley is ... very unexpected.
A fiery spirit for sure, and someone who is not going to make this side of my mission easy by any means.
But I’m addicted. In a way that terrifies the damn life out of me.
There was a moment I thought for the first time I might quit, find another way to get what I need.
But this woman has already become my problem, because I can feel an obsession growing from the roots of intrigue with every new thing I learn.
She plays violin. I want to know for how long.
Who for. Where? Why? I want to know what she fucking felt while doing so, and that is a dangerous line I will not cross.
“I hope you picked somewhere nice,” she says. I don’t think she even realizes how effortlessly she could seduce a man with that tone and those stunning hazel eyes.
She’s wearing red, a color that is my fast favorite on her. A dress that drapes like a crimson waterfall to mid-thigh and scoops low on her chest. I’ve held diamonds worth millions, but it’s nothing compared to the thrill of wanting to stake my claim on something far more precious, like her.
I won’t. Ana is not a pursuit. But she will make some guy rich beyond his means someday.
“Did you not learn from the party that the nights are growing cold with the fall?” I say.
She clicks her tongue. “Right, let me grab a jacket.”
Her heels clack across the marble and I have to force my eyes off her as she walks.
When she returns her smile disrupts something in me. It’s distant, still mostly dormant, and I won’t allow it to awaken me no matter how much some quirks of hers try.
The night is still and peaceful as we cross the front of the house.
This estate is almost the biggest home I’ve been in.
The only one to top it was the house of one of my uncle’s most elite drug cartel bosses.
I gained a nasty scar across my side and lost two great men that night we raided it.
But we stopped a whole load of dangerous shit from hitting the streets that had already taken the lives of many kids.
“Do you have a preference of car?” I ask as we step into the garage, glancing over the impressive range of sports cars and jeeps.
“You did look particularly good in the Porsche,” she says.
I slip my gaze to her in amusement, but she avoids my eye as if she didn’t mean to say it.
She suggests, “Or we can take an Uber so we can both enjoy a drink to take the edge off.”
“What edge might that be?” I ask, genuinely curious.
I notice how often she fidgets, as if nerves are eating her apart inside. She’ll pace or damage the skin around her thumbs or her eyes will tunnel a million miles away. I just can’t figure out what causes it. How to help it.
Touching Ana is something I try to avoid doing.
Though it should be innocent, like helping her balance at the party, I retreat to the fact I enjoy my hands on her.
There are seconds when I want to linger or feel more of her, and the guilt tearing me apart inside feels like a betrayal to the fiancée I lost because of who I am.
I won’t allow myself to enjoy this.
“I don’t drink,” I say.
She looks adorable, pinning me with accusation. “I don’t mean get wasted. Just a glass of wine or two.”
I pluck the familiar key from yesterday. “Porsche it is.”
“Killjoy,” she mutters.
I open her door, attempting but failing to keep from trailing my gaze over her legs, which are unfairly attractive as she folds herself inside the car.
In another life ... Shit , the things I want to do to this woman. I internally groan as I head to the driver’s side.
I’ve already seen her beyond her drinking limits, and nothing about that display was off-putting.
She gave me only a taste of her fire and I crave to see the blaze she can become; would gladly go down in the flames.
Ana’s attempts to push me away may very well be the thing that pulls me so much dangerously closer.
“Did you always want to study English literature?” I ask. The silence with her is peaceful, but I have a hundred questions that thwart my attempts to believe I don’t care.
“No. It was either that or medicine. I was terrible at science in high school.”
My chest squeezes. Sarah was so close to reaching her full qualification to become a doctor. She loved helping people, with such a kind and gentle nature that wouldn’t harm a thing in the world. And how despicable it was that this brutal world harmed her. No— I harmed her. I fucking killed her.
“Are you okay?”
Ana’s careful voice makes me relax my tightening grip on the wheel. Part of me wants to call this night off. How can I be taking another woman out for dinner? Even if it’s just friendly. I can’t get rid of my guilt that this is wrong. Not the company— me . I shouldn’t be cheating on Sarah.
“Why only those two choices?” I ask tightly, needing the distraction.
“My parents. In fact, my father was very in favor of a political major, but that was never a consideration of mine. So English lit it is.”
“What do you want to do after?”
“Teach, perhaps. I don’t know really.”
Ana would make a wonderful teacher. She would be stern yet playful. Patient yet firm.
“What about you?” she asks. “Did you always want to join the police and end up in the secret service babysitting a senator’s daughter?”
“Right down to the very specifics,” I muse.
She chuckles quietly, and I capture that sound like treasure.
“I wanted to join the FBI, actually,” I admit. A few truths feel right to share. How much of a lie I am to her is starting to weigh on me.
Her father has unknowingly placed his daughter in the hands of the leader of a notorious dark network attacking crime the very illegal way. It doesn’t matter if the guys who die from our work are corrupt; we’re all criminals to the US justice system.
“How come you didn’t progress there instead?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone who’s asked about my past. I’m not prepared to be slammed so hard with my failure. The memory of the night that changed the course of my life surfaces so raw I almost stop the damned car.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says softly. “But I’m quite a good listener if you ever want to.”
I ease at that. She doesn’t need to care, nor be patient, but here she is, and it’s so damn nice that my instinct is to push her away before she can offer me more.
“We’re here,” I say, hating how dry I sound, but I can’t help it.
Ana looks out at the small restaurant wedged in the middle of fancy high-rise apartments. Tucked away and hidden, most would overlook it since you have to go downstairs to get inside.
She says nothing as she unclips her belt, still staring at it, and I wonder if I’ve ruined the mood of the night already. Before she can open her door I’ve slipped out and come around to her side.
I grit my teeth, despising myself as I hold out my hand to her.
Once again she seems to notice.
“You don’t have to make yourself suffer my touch,” she says, more lighthearted than the last time, as if she’s accepted my distance.
She doesn’t know it’s because I want to touch her. So fucking badly that I hate myself for it. But if this ruse is going to work, I have to get the hell over it. I need to touch her and not feed the craving inside of me. Touch her and keep cold to it.
When Ana refuses my hand and gets out, the impulse overcomes me to slam the door shut and step into her.
She gasps, parting full red lips that are so sinful she doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me with no effort at all.
Her scent is becoming a natural attraction.
She wears something floral with notes of spice that reflects her perfectly. A delicate rose on fire.
“No man who wouldn’t beg on his knees for your touch deserves you. Don’t forget that.”
“What are you doing?” she breathes, pressing a hand to my chest as mine slips around her waist.
“Practicing,” I say. “We should set some basic expectations about how we should be seen in public, wouldn’t you agree?”
I can handle this. No feelings. No attachment.
“Yes,” she says.
“Good. Now come, or we’ll lose our reservation.”
I slide my hand down to hers, interlocking our fingers so effortlessly.
“May I ask why here?”
“I looked up the best Italian restaurants in the city.”
“Have you been stalking me to know Italian food is my favorite?”
Her excitement makes me giddy like a damn girl. She isn’t far from the truth. I don’t think she’d appreciate knowing that when I took her phone to insert my number I hacked into it. I need her location at all times in case she tries to ditch me like her father warned.
“I asked around. The answer was unanimous.” This isn’t a lie. It’s how I knew what she’d like to eat.
“I’ve never heard of this place.”
It’s small, intimate, an authentic Italian, and I didn’t stop beforehand to consider it would be low-lit with soft-playing music. I try not to let my regret for this location arise.