Chapter 2 Remy
REMY
I follow him into the private penthouse elevator and stare at the control panel.
I enjoy silence when it’s of my own choosing, but the few seconds it takes for the elevator to reach the top of the building feels like an excruciating eternity.
I promise myself before the door glides open that I’ll get my hand cleaned up, get out of here, and accept that my croupier experience is over before it has barely begun.
Bash gestures for me to enter the apartment first.
I’m not sure if he’s intentionally trying to wow me to get into my panties or if he truly is a gentleman. Either way, I’m suitably impressed.
It’s the kind of home you see in celebrity magazines.
Wall-to-wall windows with a backdrop of the New York skyline all lit up like a Christmas tree.
The plump eggplant-colored sofas are tastefully arranged around a low glass coffee table with a huge vase of purple flowers in the middle.
Sheepskin rugs decorate the polished wood floor, and the artwork depicts rolling green hills, blue sea, and ancient castles.
It’s mismatched, sleek interior design and homely comfort, but somehow it seems to fit the man standing behind me.
So close, I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.
I don’t move. The rational part of my brain is reminding me that if he touches me from behind, I can elbow him in the ribs, dart into the elevator, and get the hell out of here.
But this is outweighed by the part of me that I’ve ignored for too long.
The part of me that longs to be loved and made to feel special.
“Come through to the kitchen.”
He steps around me, disarming me with his smile and shattering the fantasy that had him stroking my hair away from the back of my neck and setting my skin on fire with his kisses.
The kitchen is cool gray, minimalistic, shiny, pristine.
I stand in the middle of the open-plan room and try not to compare it to the flaking cabinets and outdated microwave that pass for a kitchen in my dorm room.
It’s easily large enough to fit a couple of sofas and still hold a party, but my boss looks perfectly at home.
Bash switches on the coffee machine and locates the medical kit in one of the wall-mounted cabinets. He opens a pack of antiseptic wipes, takes my hand, turns it palm-up, and peers into my eyes.
“It’ll sting a little.”
“It already does.” My heart is racing, and it isn’t because of the cut on my hand.
He’s so gentle, I barely register the cool wipe stroking the bloody flesh surrounding the wound. Clean, the wound is about an inch long across the flat of my palm, the torn skin raggedy but no longer bleeding. I don’t move while he smooths a Band-Aid across it.
“You’re lucky. It doesn’t need stitches.”
I meet his eyes, and every nerve ending in my body seems to fizz with electricity. “Thank you.” I barely recognize my own voice.
Without warning, he raises his finger and touches the tiny pattern of freckles at the corner of my left eye. “They form a Triquetra.” At my furrowed brow, he adds, “A trinity knot.”
I instinctively touch the spot, and our fingers brush together. I pull away quickly, but not before I inhale the brandy and champagne concoction clinging to my clothes.
“I should go.”
Before I do something I’ll massively regret in the cold light of day.
He’s Bastien Murray. Sex-God. Casino owner.
And I could probably add playboy to his list of credentials.
This would be his easiest conquest to date, the clumsy croupier who accidentally lost her keys on the night she caused a scene on the casino floor.
“I’ll find you some clean clothes first.”
He’s still the boss, but unless my celibate imagination is playing tricks on me, his pupils are larger than they were when we were standing by my locker.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll get the uniform cleaned and returned to you.”
“Remy, this is the least I can do. Clean clothes, then I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
The reminder hits like a bellyful of ice. His kindness is because he wants me to keep quiet about what happened, not because he’s suffering from equally sex-deprived delusions. Because of course he isn’t. Look at him.
“I won’t press charges if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He blinks, tiny lines forming between his eyebrows. “Is that what you think this is?”
“Isn’t it?” I often speak without engaging my brain first, and tonight is no exception.
I should go home, get some sleep, and get embarrassed all over again tomorrow when I wake up and recall this moment.
“Remy, if you want to press charges, I’ll be your witness.”
My breathing speeds up. “But… he’s a guest.” An obviously wealthy guest with connections in all the right places.
“Not anymore. He crossed a line that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“But…” I replay the moment in my head. Maybe I overreacted, but the asshole saw that I was feeling vulnerable, and he took advantage of it. Which means that he’s totally capable of far worse behavior. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for doing the right thing.” The frown lines are gone and the smile is back. “Clothes.”
He doesn’t wait around. I follow him along the hallway and stop when he opens the door to a room on the right and the flush ceiling lamps are activated. “You’ll find a walk-in closet on the other side of the room.”
I peer inside at the huge sleigh bed with a neat mauve comforter, and violet and silver cushions propped up against the pillows, hotel-style. The walls are pale gray. Silver curtains are open to reveal more of the city skyline. Even the thick-pile carpet is silver.
“I-I can’t…”
“This is the guest room. So, be my guest.”
I step inside the room and breathe in the smell of luxury. I feel like a little girl again going on vacation with my parents, standing in a hotel foyer and turning three-sixty until I’m dizzy to soak up the atmosphere.
I catch sight of the walk-in closet door and cross the room, squealing when I open it and the lights come on to reveal racks of clothes and shoes and accessories.
“Is this for real?” I glance at him standing in the doorway before returning my attention to the clothes. “I can’t take these clothes, but holy fucking cow. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You can take whatever you want.”
His voice is closer, so close that when I turn around to face him, I can see his enlarged pupils again. I’m not imagining it… this… spark. Desire. Lust.
“Whatever I want?”
My voice is thick with want now that I’ve stopped trying to deny it. I never learned to flirt. When I was old enough to date, I met George, and that was it for me. I’ve avoided men ever since, focusing on my career instead.
Until now.
“Aon rud. Anything.”
“Was that… Gaelic?” My heart feels as though it’s being squeezed inside a gigantic metal fist.
He reaches behind my head, frees my hair from the band holding it in place, and tugs it forward over my shoulder. “Go halainn. You’re so beautiful.”
I chuckle and look away. It’s my go-to reaction whenever I’m embarrassed, even though it always adds to my mortification. Every. Single. Time. When I face him again, his eyes are so intense I feel the heat rising up my neck and into my face.
“You don’t believe me.” His knuckles caress my cheek and send shivers down my spine.
“But you should, Remy.” His lips move closer, and I notice a tiny scar in his right eyebrow, a fine silver line, almost invisible.
I’m frozen. Burning up. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
“You should know that I can’t let you turn around and walk out of my life. ”
“But I don’t have a job to come back to.”
He smiles and tilts my chin so that I’m peering directly into his eyes.
I instantly feel the damp between my legs.
I don’t even care that I’m getting ahead of myself or that I swore to put my career first or that I’m standing in my boss’s guest room wearing clothes stained with two-hundred-dollar champagne.
“I’m not talking about work, Remy.”
“I… I can’t stay here. I have a dorm room at college. A roommate. I—”
His lips crush mine, and I barely register the relief that he has stopped my rambling excuses.
His tongue fills my mouth, and I stand on tiptoes, wrap my arms around his neck, and return his kisses.
I taste brandy, the expensive kind. I breathe in his citrussy scent until I forget the stained clothes.
I feel the bulge in his pants pressing into my abdomen.
“Give me one good reason why you can’t stay, Remy,” he murmurs against my lips.
“My dorm room.”
“It’s summer and you lost your keys.” His kisses drift along my jawline and down to my neck. “Too late to find a locksmith.”
“Ariel… my roommate…”
“Text her. Tell her that you’re stuck at work, and you expect it to be a long night.”
“A long night?”
He smiles. When he speaks his voice is husky. “Sure, I’m stuck here too.”
I furrow my brow. He lives here.
“Or tell her that you’ve received an offer you can’t refuse.”
My head is spinning. I can’t keep up with how quickly this is moving. “What offer would that be?”
“Me, Remy. All of me if that’s what you want.”
Jesus fuck I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. “I want.”
“That’s settled then. You’re staying here with me.”
He scoops me into his arms as easily as picking up a baby and carries me to the bed.
He lays me down, removes his suit jacket and shoes, and stretches out beside me, unhooking the waistcoat buttons before I even realize what he’s doing.
It’s such a simple gesture, taking off his shoes, that it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and hold him until he falls asleep.
Only my body has other ideas.