“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Mr. Leone raises his voice. The other guests have no doubt been trying to follow the conversation, but now he is demanding all eyes on him.
“Are you threatening my sons?” Terry doesn’t raise his voice to match the guest.
“No, sir. I’m simply reminding you that you and your family will not win if you persist in falsely accusing my daughter’s fiancé.”
“Mistake number one, Mr. Leone. Assuming that my accusations are false.” Terry isn’t backing down. It’ll take a whole lot more than a visit from the NYPD to frighten our stepdad.
“We shall see about that.” Mr. Leone produces a cell phone from his jacket pocket and raises it to his ear.
“Stop, Dad.” Isabella speaks for the first time. She rises slowly, her movements calm and measured. “I can handle this.”
Her dad shakes his head, the movement so brief that I almost miss it. “I think you’ve done enough, Isabella.”
A flash of emotion, anger maybe, sparks behind her eyes, but she doesn’t look away or lower her head. “Trust me, I haven’t even gotten started yet.”
“Isabella.” Her mom’s voice distracts Isabella momentarily. “Have some respect for your father,” the older woman hisses.
A faint smile twitches her lips upwards and immediately vanishes. She turns to me and Cash. “With all due respect to my father,” she begins, “I think I have what you are looking for.”
My pulse spikes, adrenaline pumping the blood around my veins. Quinn is temporarily forgotten.
“Go on,” Cash speaks for us both.
“I know where Remy is.”
Mr. Leone steps around the table and grabs his daughter’s arm. “Enough, Isabella. Not another word.”
Isabella stares at her father’s hand until he releases her. She raises dark eyes to meet his. “You wanted me to take an interest in the family business, and that is what I have done. If you undermine me now?—”
I don’t hear what else she has to say.
George Quinn is gone.
20
REMY
My head is poundingwhen I rouse from a dreamless sleep with a start. I don’t know what woke me. One moment I’m in another world, and the next, I’m dragged into consciousness with the force of a tornado. My head spins as if it hasn’t accepted the crash landing into reality. My eyelids feel as though someone glued them down while I slept. And my heart is racing.
Fuck, it’s racing too quickly, but the more I focus on it, the faster it goes.
I’m hot. Panting. I need to get up, guzzle a glass of iced water, get my bearings.
But when I try to move, my limbs feel like someone pranked me by attaching buckets of sand to my hands and feet.
Nausea.
Headache.
Pregnancy hormones are wreaking havoc with my body.
Maybe I drift back into welcome unconsciousness. Or maybe my brain simply blanks out everything that I’m feeling until I’mbetter equipped emotionally to deal with it. Because the next time I come around, it’s with the overwhelming gut instinct that this is a thousand times worse than pregnancy hormones.
I know why my heart was racing.
It was fear.
I’ve been getting headaches throughout the first trimester. I’ve had morning sickness too, and the coffee aroma has made me gag on several occasions. But this is more of a hangover headache than a pregnancy migraine. I only remember Cash giving me a half-glass of champagne and very little after that.
