Chapter 10 Lena
LENA
Iwake up in a strange place for the second time in two days. This time it’s the middle of the night, no sunlight to scare away the shadows. Nor the smell of Bianca’s homemade quiche to conceal the scent of cedar and sandalwood that lingers on the sheets next to me.
Rem was here.
I push up, brushing my hair out of my face and reminding myself that of course Rem was here.
This is Rem’s apartment.
After our sexually fraught standoff in my place, I agreed to come to his apartment to get some rest. We re-bandaged my side, with my shirt buttoned this time, breasts hidden away as I held up the necessary fabric for Rem to get the job done.
Everything after that happened with shocking efficiency. Rem salvaged a sweater from one of the shredded piles, wrapping me in it until he could get me into the car and tuck me into a blanket, which Johnny conjured from thin air.
Neither man commented when my stomach growled loudly. Rem just motioned to Johnny to swing by a nearby drive through and I ate my weight in burgers and fries as we drove in silence to a very exclusive part of town.
Even with the onset of a fast-food coma, I noticed the gates and key codes and security cameras protecting our progress from the street through the parking garage and up the private elevator into Rem’s apartment.
Penthouse is more accurate.
As soon as we stepped inside, Johnny vanished, and Rem guided me through a maze of hallways to an empty bedroom. He pointed out the ensuite bathroom (stocked full of luxe toiletries), a closet with spare clothes, and told me to get some sleep.
He closed the door behind him with a click. I waited for the lock to slide into place, but it never happened.
I tested the handle, just to be sure. It opened easily, silently. I was too tired to think about what that meant, so I did the fastest bedtime routine in history, found a shirt in the closet that swallowed only seventy-five percent of my body, and collapsed into bed.
That must’ve been about four hours ago, going by the bedside clock.
Four hours when I was dead to the world and reality had no chance to intrude.
Now that I’m awake, it’s come knocking very, very loudly and I’m in no state to let it in.
I reach for my phone only to realize I don’t have one. We found the shattered remains of it when we went back to my apartment last night. Great. Add that to my to-do list: spend money I don’t have on a new phone.
Every inch of me is restless. Going back to sleep isn’t an option. Flipping on the bedside lamp, I scan the room. There’s no TV, no computer, no signs of any high-tech screen-y thing concealed in the walls. Guess watching a movie isn’t an option either.
“Definitely going to knock some stars off his Airbnb rating,” I mutter, swinging my legs free of the duvet.
I tossed my underwear in the trash last night, along with the ruined work uniform.
I vaguely remember Rem saying something about buying replacement clothes.
Until that happens, I’m not going in search of snacks or a screen in only a shirt.
With a quick root around the closet, I find a pair of too-large sweatpants.
After rolling the waistband up at least ten times, I feel sufficiently armored to go looking for something to keep my mind in a blissful state of denial until sunrise.
I’m only a few feet down the hall when I realize my mistake. This place is more than a maze. It is a mythic-level labyrinth.
One hall leads to another series of bedrooms, all empty. Another dead-ends at a staircase that goes down into a darkness I have no desire to explore. Another leads to a set of balcony doors, the freezing winter air sketching ice against the glass.
Frustrated, and a tiny bit worried that I’ll never make it back to my bedroom, I try one last hall. There’s a light somewhere toward the end, a low glow that indicates there might be something worth heading for.
I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear someone talking.
The voice is coming from an alcove off to one side.
I tiptoe closer and the indistinguishable din becomes words.
Italian ones. Holding my breath, I peek around the corner and see a door in the alcove.
It’s partially open, light pouring from inside.
The voice inside sounds strained. Exhausted. Familiar.
Blissful state of denial. That’s the excuse I give when I push the door open and take in the man seated at the large desk in the center of the room.
Denial that this is a bad idea. Denial that this is dangerous. Denial that this isn’t some waking dream and there won’t be consequences come morning.
Denial full stop.
The door swings open on silent hinges but, always so aware of his surroundings, Rem’s head flies up. He starts to reach for something—his hand about to wrap around what looks like a gun sitting on his desk—when he registers who is standing in front of him.
Recognition followed by surprise. Then comes something hotter, far more tempting before he looks away, abruptly ending his phone call as he resumes typing on his computer. “It’s late, piccolina, you should be sleeping.”
“True.” My bare feet make no sound on the thick rug. I bypass the two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk and stop by the side. “So should you.”
Rem grunts, keeps typing.
“I can’t sleep.”
He doesn’t bother looking up. “I can give you something for that.”
“I don’t think sleeping pills on top of pain killers on top of a gunshot wound is a good idea, do you?”
That prompts him to look at me. Maybe I’m still sleep-addled but I think I see guilt pass across his features. Rem reaches for my side then stops himself. “Does it hurt? It didn’t look infected when we changed the bandage, but I can check again. See if there’s any redness—”
“No, stop. I’m fine.”
There’s a notch of concern in his brows and, unexpectedly, it makes him look more approachable. Less fierce, more human.
Even more enticing.
I step around the corner of the desk and prop myself on the edge closest to him, my butt resting just to the side of his computer.
I really must be insane because I don’t despise the heat that crawls into his eyes, the way his lips part on a breath that’s a little too quick. Nope, I don’t hate it at all.
I tap his computer with my left hand, his diamond flashing at us. “Is this what’s keeping you up so late?”
Very slowly, Rem slides his laptop out of my reach and closes the lid. His eyes stayed glued to my hand. “Among other things.”
“Those other things…” I say, feeling wildly bold, so outrageously unlike myself. “Is there anything I can help with?”
I can’t explain why I say it. What I’m even doing here.
My only excuse, beyond the insanity defense, is that my body has lost is freakin’ mind.
I can’t forget the feel of Rem’s finger threading between my breasts.
Or the taste of his skin in my mouth. Or the look on his face when he saw my nipples through my shirt.
Whatever my brain thinks about Rem Cosenza, my body wants him. Craves him. With an intensity that’s making me want to crawl out of my skin and straight into his.
I’ve heard stories of soldiers being incredibly horny after surviving battle, of experiencing a driving need to celebrate life after escaping death.
Maybe that’s what’s happening to me. Maybe I want to strip Rem naked and climb his impressive form out of a desperate need to feel something other than fear and sadness and grief.
Maybe some part of me has decided I need to thank the man responsible for keeping me alive, selectively ignoring the niggling fact that he’s messed up in this situation in ways I don’t yet understand.
Whatever the reason, my body has effectively shut my brain down and gotten its way when I slide in front of him, filling the space between Rem’s desk and where he’s leaning back in his chair.
Leaning back and watching me like the predator I know he is.
A ripple of something—excitement, arousal, fear, all the above?—lights up my nerves from head to toe.
“What did I tell you about playing, piccolina?”
I sit back on his desk more fully, my legs hanging over the edge, my toes dangling just shy of the floor. With our height differences, with us both sitting like this, we’re relatively eye level. “And what did I say to you? I’m not playing any game.”
“Really?” Rem leans forward and I’m forced to open my legs, making space for him in between. “If you aren’t playing with me, bella, then you won’t mind answering a few questions.”
His hands land on my knees, keeping my legs spread. I have to swallow before I can make my voice work. “What sort of questions?”
“Well, for starters—how often do you get orders from the Paganos?”
The Paganos? “What?” I shake my head. “I’ve never even heard of—them? It? What are the Paganos?”
Rem ignores my counter-questions and slides one hand down my leg.
My shiver is noticeable when he presses his fingers into the hollow behind my ankle.
Feeling my pulse there. Like he can catch me in a lie.
“How many times have they met you at work, pointing out women in the Patron’s Lounge they want you to pay special attention to? ”
“Never. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t know what—who?—the Paganos are. And other than serving drinks, I don’t talk to guests at work.”
“You don’t receive instructions at work, messages instructing you to make friends with select female guests? No one ever pays you a little extra to take care of them at the bar? To make them an extra special drink?”
“What!?” It’s so unthinkable I laugh. “No, never.”
“None? Never?”
“No,” I repeat, frustration mixing with the fever only his proximity ignites. “None. Never.”