Chapter 11
Our first and only real conversation told me a lot about my dearest husband.
He was direct to a fault. He considered situations before charging, and he used words sparingly.
Impenetrable, heartless, and callous, his seriousness and brooding nature weren’t an act, and little seemed to pull a reaction from him.
He also didn’t like to compromise, except in the case of a good challenge.
That was my way in. I had to keep him on his toes, bouncing from one foot to the other until he tumbled headfirst into the abyss. I already paraded the prize. Now it was time to dangle some bait.
Which was why I sat alone at a table for two in a cozy little corner of one of Seaport’s most up-and-coming restaurants, spying on his dinner with a Boston district councilor.
Under the warm white light of the pendant lantern above their table, his bald tablemate engaged in animated conversation, one hand walloping the air, the other spearing his lobster.
Cillian barely touched his seabass. After the first three bites, he settled back against his chair, hands beneath the table, and hadn’t twitched since.
Neither had that bored look on his face—his gaze cold, like chips of ice in need of a heavy dose of sunshine.
Whatever the councilor was selling, Cillian O’Leary wasn’t buying.
Suddenly, the councilor jumped in his seat, slack-jawed, fear burrowed into his eye sockets.
His knee thumped against the bottom of the table.
His fork clanked against his plate. Water sloshed and spilled from his glass, and the heads of fellow diners turned their way.
Two solo men sitting at the nearest tables hooked their dominant hands into their suit jackets, their bodies angling toward the threat. Cillian’s guards, I supposed.
Cillian remained rooted like a black cloud over the horizon, locked onto his target with a ruthless nonchalance that could tear down the strongest egos. He loomed and threatened without doing a single thing, stealing the air out of the room with sheer will and presence. A chill ran down my spine.
I envied that power. I could lure and tempt almost anyone to empty their pockets with a few practiced words, a timed laugh or smile, and a well-thrown party. I mastered that game—I’d had to—but the ability to say nothing at all and earn everything eluded me completely.
“Alizé, don’t do it,” Erel warned in my earpiece as he watched the scene through the surveillance cameras from his laptop in the parking lot.
He should know better by now. I had long ago outgrown following demands. That cage of self-reprimand I’d trapped myself in for my parents and siblings cracked wide open when I took charge of my life and stepped away from the family business.
I stood and moseyed through the dining hall. My simple bodycon cocktail dress clung to my every curve, highlighting my assets. He clocked me before I got within ten feet of him with barely a flicker of his eyes.
A pang of dejection hit me square in the chest, but I didn’t falter. Anything worth the effort took time. Business taught me that. I had to believe the same applied to seduction and affection.
With the inside of my bottom lip caught tight between my teeth, I wiggled my fingers at him, plastered on my best grin, and pranced to the bar.
The way his brows knitted was delicious. He reacted…to me. A surge of pride rushed through my system, zapping down my spine and tingling my extremities. In seconds, it was gone, and I craved another.
The bartender slid me my ordered cognac.
I swirled the liquor and lost myself in its rich notes.
It reminded me of a bonfire in the middle of a forest, paired with dried fruit and caramel.
Add a little musk and citrus, and that scent could be bottled up in a bath wash.
With a few quick taps on my phone, I jotted down the idea.
I finished just as a server delivered the very same cognac to Cillian, a little umbrella I’d requested sticking out of the glass, along with the little handwritten note I’d penned: “I told you I’d be seeing you.”
This early in the game, I expected indifference when he read the line of text.
However, his head whipped my way. His midnight-blue eyes sizzled a hole straight through me, trying to melt me from the outside in, but I winked at him and lifted my glass in a toast, taking a page from his own book of insouciance. Two could play that game.
Alizé
You’re not drinking.
I watched eagerly as husband dearest, aka HD, picked up his phone and typed back, splitting his focus between me and whatever he was saying to contort the councilor’s paunchy face into a stricken grimace.
HD
You think you’re so clever.
I do have a master’s degree and run two businesses.
His lips twitched up, practically a curl, but flattened almost as quickly. He typed, deleted, then typed again. Those three little dots kept appearing and disappearing. My nails clicked one after the other along the marble bar top.
How did you get this number?
My mouth twisted. He had completely avoided my prompt for personal information.
A dull question not worth answering.
What do you think of the drink?
Not my type.
Lose the number.
If I sat in your lap, what would you do? Shoot me or kiss me?
Shoot.
Not very friendly of you.
Never am.
Pity, with a face like yours.
Your guest looks bored.
Right on cue, his eyes skipped up to his tablemate, who was white-knuckling the table. Sweat rolled down his face. The councilor nodded at whatever Cillian said, then proceeded to dab his forehead with his cloth napkin. Poor guy.
Enjoy the rest of your night.
See you again soon.
My phone vibrated as I stepped off the barstool, but I didn’t check it. This way, I kept control over our discussion. Inside, I both floated and plummeted.
Seven years of no communication, and all it took to get a response from him was anonymity.
More than ever, I wondered what it was about me—Alizé De Villier—that disgusted him so much.
That put my mind at war with itself. One side of me hated him and aimed a pitchfork at his soul.
The other begged for patience, preening under his scrutiny, and sought to peel back his layers to discover what he hid behind that blank stare.
I swallowed the last drop of my cognac. The sweet burn down my throat heightened my awareness of him.
The sweep of his gaze over my body. The high-handedness he exuded.
The way he tracked my saunter to the exit without turning his head.
Not to mention the flick of his finger that sent his two guards after me.
Too bad they were no match. I’d been trained by the best—my brother and Erel—and I slipped away between cars and into the night before the large brutes even made it outside.
“So?” Erel asked as I snuck into his rental Lexus LX after Cillian’s men ventured back into the restaurant.
“Phase one is in play.”
All I had to do now was keep at it.