Chapter 14
RAFE
Two days later at Lake Como…
An eerily quietness descends over Lake Como, broken only by the soft lapping of water.
And her.
The sound of her humming drifts from the infinity pool on the terrace.
I should be inside, in the comfort of my office reviewing the upcoming itinerary for our public appearances in Milan.
Or preparing for tomorrow's staged breakfast shoot, where we'll fake domestic bliss for a carefully chosen photographer.
Instead, I'm standing in the doorway watching her. She floats like a damn goddess, stretched across an inflatable pink lounger in my pool.
Lake Como glitters behind her, a vast mirror reflecting the last rays of the sun. The water is calm, glass-smooth. And Nikki Ricci is barely contained by a black bikini made from dental floss.
She continues to hum, off-key and carefree.
Completely oblivious to the heat she radiates, or perhaps, completely aware of it.
With Nikki, it's impossible to tell where the real ends and the performance begins.
She's a master of illusion, a performer so natural that even I find myself questioning everything.
She lifts one arm lazily, trailing fingers through the water, creating delicate ripples. Her phone sits on a towel nearby. Screen up, camera app open. Not for posting, just collecting b-roll background shots. Quiet footage to fill gaps in the narrative we’re crafting.
Nothing live.
Nothing public.
Not yet.
Once again, my world, my secrets, are reduced to a backdrop for her next viral moment. The sheer audacity of it, her casual invasion of my carefully guarded space, burns in my gut. Even when I'm the person who brought her here.
Enzo is watching from inside, his silhouette faint in the glass. Cameras cover every angle. She isn’t truly alone—not ever—but the illusion is dangerous enough.
I move onto the cool stone patio. The slight scrape of my shoe on the tiles is enough.
She turns her head slowly, sunglasses perched on her nose.
A lazy smile plays on her lips, a calculated curve that hints at something deeper.
She reaches over and hits a button on her phone to stop the recording.
"Well, well. Look who finally emerged from his strategy cave.
Did you solve all the world's problems?"
"You shouldn't be out here alone," I say. "Did you forget you're a target? You're a complication I can't afford to lose control of."
Her smile widens. "I'm not alone," she purrs, a seductive hum that reaches me across the patio, wrapping around me like smoke. "You're here now. My very own personal bodyguard, or perhaps, my very own personal captor. It depends on the day, doesn't it? And on your mood."
I grit my teeth, the muscle in my jaw clenching. She knows how to push me. "That's not what I meant. There are risks. People know you're with me. My associates are watching. Your presence here is known which means you're a vulnerability."
She lifts a leg, slowly, deliberately, red-painted toes pointed, water cascading down her calf. It’s a casual, seductive movement, designed to draw my eye, to fucking distract me. And it goddamn does.
Fuck, does it ever.
My gaze follows the water, the line of her leg, the subtle flex of her muscles. My cock stirs, a low thrum that promises trouble.
“Oh no,” she purrs, her voice a silken lash. “Are you going to order me out of your beautiful pool? Because I’m quite comfortable right here. And I just put on a fresh layer of sunscreen.”
Shit! The image of her leaving the water, walking towards me, dripping wet and naked beneath that damn swimsuit, is a dangerous thought. One that makes my pants suddenly too tight.
She shifts then, rolls off the lounger, and disappears smoothly beneath the surface like a goddamn mermaid. The water barely ripples. My eyes scan the surface, searching for her, a primal urge to find her, to possess her, taking hold.
She pops up again near the edge, just a few feet from where I stand, her hair slicked back, water clinging to every curve of her body.
She swims to the ledge, until she’s directly in front of me.
She hooks her elbows up onto the cool stone, her chest rising and falling with each breath, inches from my feet.
Her lips curve, a soft, inviting smile as she looks up at me through wet lashes.
“You’re staring,” she teases, a knowing glint in her eyes.
Hell yes, I’m staring. If she looked closer, she’d notice my dick is suddenly rock hard. My eyes are fixed on her, unable to tear away. My self-control, the iron will I pride myself on, it’s melting fast, dissolving like sugar in hot whiskey.
“Come in,” she challenges, her voice a low murmur that strokes my nerve endings. Her eyes are wide, innocent, yet filled with a knowing mischief that promises trouble I’m desperate to get into.
I should say no. I should walk back inside, shut the door behind me and barricade myself in my office. But the thought is drowned out by the sight of her, shimmering in the water, waiting for me, a siren beckoning me to my damn undoing.
My hand goes to the buttons of my shirt. I begin to strip it off. The fabric falls away, revealing my chest covered with scars that tell their own brutal stories.
Her mouth parts slightly. The teasing confidence in her big eyes falters for a split second. She’s caught a tiger by the tail and now doesn’t know what to do with it.
I step into the pool. The water is cool against my hot, inflamed skin.
I stop a foot away from her, the water between us a thin, ineffective barrier that feels more like an invitation.
She doesn’t move away or flinch. She simply watches me, her eyes unblinking, assessing, taking me in with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I rasp, the words meant to establish boundaries, to reassert some semblance of control. Even as every fiber of my being screams to pull her closer, to drown myself in the impossible promise of her, to take what she’s offering.
“Did I ask it to?” she counters, a sharp edge to her voice.
She’s pushing again, seeing if I’ll fold. She wants to see how far she can go, how much she can unravel me. It’s a dangerous game, one I’ve played before, but never with an opponent quite like her. She has no fear. Or if she does, she hides it better than any man I’ve ever known.
I move closer, ignoring the voice of reason that screams caution, that this is a trap.
Close enough to reach out and touch. And I do.
My fingers skim the edge of her jaw, the skin impossibly soft, impossibly warm.
I feel the rapid pulse beating beneath my fingertips, a wild rhythm that mirrors my own.
My hand trails down, over the delicate curve of her neck, to her collarbone, my thumb brushing the hollow of her throat, feeling the frantic beat there.
She shivers, a tiny, involuntary tremor that runs through her.
“Cold?” I ask.
“You wish,” she breathes, her eyes locking with mine, daring me. “I’m burning up.”
Her hand reaches out, slow, hesitant. It brushes my waist, just above the waterline. Accidental, maybe. Strategic, definitely. A delicate touch that sends a jolt through me, igniting a fire in my blood, a primal ache that spreads through my groin.
We’re chest to chest now, the water swirling around us. There’s no camera here. No audience. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, pulling me into a dark, intoxicating abyss. My gaze drops to her lips, parted slightly, glistening with water, full and inviting, begging to be kissed.
She lifts her chin, just a fraction. An invitation or a dare, I don’t care.
And I almost, almost succumb. My head tilts, my body leans in, drawn by an irresistible force, by the scent of her, subtle and sweet, filling my senses, intoxicating me, blurring the edges of my control.
I feel the warmth of her breath on my face, the promise of her mouth, so close.
No.
The single, sharp word rings in my head, pulling me back from the cliff, a lifeline thrown by the last gasp of my self-control.
This isn’t real.
This is only a game, a necessary deception for show to protect my empire.
And to protect her.
I force myself to pull back, just an inch, a devastating retreat that feels like tearing myself away from a vital part of me.
Her lips part in surprise, the vulnerability returning, raw and exposed. She seems genuinely shocked, as if she expected me to finally break, to finally take her.
“I told you.” I grasp her shoulders, my fingers pressing into her wet skin, a warning in my touch, a desperate attempt to reassert control. “This is for show. This is a performance. Not pleasure. Not for us. Not ever. This can’t happen.”
“Speak for yourself,” she snaps, her eyes still fixed on mine, but they’re no longer challenging. They’re searching, seeking an answer I can’t give her, an answer I can’t even give myself.
I release her and climb out of the pool without another word.
The water cascades off my body, creating small splashes on the patio.
I don’t look back. I walk away, dripping, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat that still burns beneath my skin.
I stride through the silent villa, leaving the shimmering pool and Nikki behind, leaving behind the temptation that threatens to burn my whole fucking world to the ground.
I reach my office and flick on the desk lamp. The computer screens glow, displaying the cold, hard facts of my business.
This is my reality. This is where I must remain.
Because if I didn't walk away, if I didn't pull back in that moment, I'd still be in there. Her arms around me. My mouth on hers. Tasting her, touching her.
And forgetting every single reason why I ever planned to let her go.
Forgetting the danger.
Forgetting the price.
Forgetting everything except the feel of her body wrapped around mine.
And that, I can't afford.
Not ever.
The cost to both of us is too high.