Stepson?
I hand the cell back in a daze. Family business. Head of security. Maybe the lilting accent has wrapped me up in a cozy blanket and fooled me into believing that I’m safe in their hands, but what choice do I have?
“He said that you’ll get me home.”
Bash smiles. He doesn’t remind me that he already offered. “Hand first.”
2
REMY
I followhim 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, sleekinterior 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 I stand in the middle of the open-plan room and try not to compare it to the flaking cabinets and outdated microwave that pass for a kitchen in my dorm room.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 butno 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 whoaccidentallylost 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 becausehe’s suffering from equally sex-deprived delusions. Because of course he isn’t. Look at him.
