Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ANTHONY
My phone buzzes as I walk back up the beach. I need a moment of peace and air after my altercation with Isabella. Lucien's name appears on the screen. I answer before the second ring.
"Talk to me."
"We've been through the emails." Lucien's voice is measured, but I know him well enough to hear what's underneath it. "Richard returned Isabella’s correspondence. They are nothing but short exchanges, but Anthony…" A pause. "He's asking where she is. Specifically. More than once."
I stop walking. The wet sand shifts under my feet. "How precisely?"
"Enough to flag it. He's not just asking the way a man asks when he misses a woman. He's probing. Trying to get a location out of her." I hear paper rustling on Lucien’s desk. “I’ll speak to Stephen, have him ring Dallen’s father and see if he can up the security on her IP.”
“Can he do that?” I ask.
“He’s the Chief of Police. I’m sure he’s got contacts to ensure she remains hidden from the Dragunoviks.” He sighs. “Maybe we’re all a little on edge, and I’m seeing shadows where there aren’t any, but I can’t help but feel something is off, so best to be safe than sorry.”
It confirms the suspicion that sits in the back of my mind since Isabella first mentioned the man's name. A banker. A man she's been seeing for a handful of months. Convenient timing. "I want men on him. Today, Lucien. Physical surveillance, not just digital."
"Already ahead of you on that."
"And look into the job. The banking. All of it. The company, the supposed colleagues, how long he's been where he says he's been." I start moving again, heading back toward the house. "If it checks out, it checks out. But if there are gaps…"
"We’ll find them."
"Good." I pause at the edge of the garden. "What's the status on the Dragunoviks? The meeting?"
"Still waiting on their side for a time and a location. They're being cautious and keep changing locales."
"Of course they are." I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Keep me posted the moment you hear anything. Anything at all."
"Understood. How is she?"
I look up at the house. Isabella's balcony is empty now, the breakfast things cleared away. "Difficult," I say. "With mood swings, too."
"Also, as expected." I hear the ghost of a smile in Lucien's voice.
I end the call.
Lunch arrives in my office, and I eat at the desk, working through what Lucien sends me—financial reports, security updates, a preliminary background file on Richard Calloway that, even in its infancy, tells me more than its contents.
He's too neat, too assembled, like a well-oiled fish.
Like someone who builds a life carefully rather than simply lives one.
I eat without tasting the food.
The house is quiet in the afternoon heat, only the hum of the air conditioners breaking the silence.
Jane and the staff keep to their duties.
Somewhere in the house, Isabella moves through her day, keeping herself at the precise distance she decides on.
I’m aware of her like I'm aware of a barometric change before a storm. A pressure shift, something in the air.
I close the file and push the plate aside.
By late afternoon, I need to move. The frustration builds all day in a way that has less to do with Lucien's call than I want to admit, and the gym on the lower level is what I need. I change and take the stairs, already working through how I'll spend the next hour.
I push the door open and stop.
Isabella is already there. She's at the bag, working it with a precise combination of punches, her blonde hair pulled back, a light sheen of sweat on her arms and shoulders. She doesn't stop when I walk in, but she knows I'm there. The slight shift in her shoulders tells me that.
I cross to the rack and pull out wraps without looking at her. "You should get someone to hold that for you. You're dropping your left shoulder on the follow-through."
"My left shoulder," she says flatly, still punching, "is perfectly fine."
"I'm just saying —"
"I know what you're saying." She steps back from the bag, turns to face me with a defiant tilt to her chin. She’s breathing hard and, despite her disheveled state, looks magnificent. "And I'm telling you I don't need your advice."
I look at her for a moment. "Spar with me."
She almost laughs. "No."
"Your self-defense —"
"Is excellent, thank you."
"Humor me." I move to the center of the mat and gesture for her to join me. "Five minutes. If you're as capable as you think, you'll have me on the floor in two minutes."
Something moves across her face. The challenge lands exactly where I intend it to. She unwraps her hands with the slow deliberateness of someone making a decision and steps onto the mat.
We start, and despite my best effort, she slips my first attempt and turns it back on me, making me recalibrate.
We move around each other, breathing harder now, the air in the gym close and warm.
She’s good. Better than good, if I'm honest with myself.
Damn fast, with an instinct for opportunities that tells me she trains seriously and not just occasionally.
Then she overcommits on a pivot, and I take it, catching her weight, turning her, and we go down together onto the mat in a tangle of momentum that neither of us entirely plans.
We land hard.
Isabella ends up on top of me.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We’re both breathing hard, both sweat-damp, her hands braced against my chest and my hands, realization dawning, still on her waist where they caught her on the way down.
Her hair has come loose on one side. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are dark and furious and something else entirely that neither of us has a name for.
Five years is a long time to hate someone.
It is, it turns out, not long enough to douse desire. I sit up, placing myself just a breath from her. She doesn’t move, and time stills.
I clasp her hips tighter, and her hands shift from my chest up to my shoulders. I expect her to slap me. My cock is hard, and grows harder the longer she sits on me. I could tear her skimpy little exercise outfit off with my teeth, and for a moment, I consider doing just that.
It would be so easy to roll her onto her back and…
Her pulse flutters against her neck. I hate how much I want my mouth there, taking what I want, and have craved for far too long.
“Let me up,” she says.
I lean back on my hands, letting go of her hips. “I’m not holding you hostage.”
We stare at each other, but she doesn’t move an inch. Instead, she leans forward and grinds her sweet pussy against my cock through our workout clothes. We both moan, and I feel a hint of relief that finally I will have her again.
I don't move or say anything for fear of her leaving me here, hard as rock and unsatisfied.
She undulates against me, working herself on my cock.
My head spins, and I'm torn about what to do.
Do I flip her onto her back and give her the release she clearly craves?
Or do I let her come apart on my cock this way?
My balls ache, and there’s a good chance I'll come just from the sight of her taking her pleasure.
She closes her eyes, her hands clasping my shoulders as she grinds harder. I growl, forcing myself to behave. My heart hammers and my skin prickles. I rock against her, sucking in a harsh breath at how fucking good she feels.
“You want to come, sweetheart?” I sit up and slip my hand down the front of her tight exercise pants.
“Is that what you’re asking for?” She’s achingly wet, and I roll my fingers against her clit, pushing her toward release.
She wraps her arms around my neck, her face buried in my neck, and moans as I slip one long finger into her sex.
One globe of her ass fits in my other hand, and even though my abs scream at the position we’re in, I wouldn’t move for the world. She rocks against me while I flick her sweet cunt.
“Anthony…”
I close my eyes at the sound of my name on her lips, a desperate plea for satisfaction, and I can't control myself. I flip her onto her back, clasp her hands, and pin them above her head. I meet her eyes and slowly slip my hand back into her pants.
She moans, spreads those long legs wide, and gives me the access I want. “I’m going to make you come so hard, Bells.”
She mewls something incoherent and closes her eyes, biting her lip. I want to kiss her; the desire to lean down and close my mouth over hers is strong. But I know she doesn't want that. Getting your rocks off is one thing; kissing is another.
It's intimate. She doesn't want that.
Yet…
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Her words cut, even if they're true. I know it won't change anything; nothing can change the past. “Doesn’t mean we can’t fuck our way through this seclusion.”
“Yes, oh God, Anthony, I’m coming.” Her fingers tighten within mine, and I feel her climax thrum through her.
I work her sweet sex, knowing the next time she comes, she'll be sitting on my face or riding my dick.
She undulates against my hand, and I watch, mesmerized, as pleasure crosses her features.
She's so damn beautiful that pain radiates through my chest. Or maybe it's my balls. Probably both, on reflection.
For several moments, we lie there, panting, my cock still hard, before she pushes up against my hold and I let her go, rolling onto my back. She stands and goes to the showers, and I hear her turn on the faucet.
The urge to follow her in there is great, and I almost do, but she's out again before I make the decision, towel wrapped around her body, walking from the gym. I groan and get up, heading to shower myself. I need to come, but, being a glutton for punishment, I hold off.
The next time I come, it'll be in one of the orifices of her body. Good things come to those who wait, and all that shit, and I have time.
We both do.