Her attention darts toward the limo and the three SUVs trailing behind it. “You and ten of your security guards?”
I hike up one shoulder as I spin my wheel of chance. “Roughly.”
Nineteenis today’s pick. The ball whirls and bounces until choosing a pocket.
Eleven. Shit.
She struts over to me, her hips swaying to an erotic tune that pulls me from my watch and lands me smack dab in the midst of a brutal fantasy. As she glides her hand over my lapel, the heat of her touch sears me through the layers, branding my skin. But her voice is a frozen pond—alluring yet fatal.
“You’re too skilled for such blatant intimidation tactics, Axel. Don’t show all your cards so soon.” She latches those menacing emeralds to mine. “And so we’re clear, it doesn’t matter how outnumbered I am. Once we’re off resort property, I’ll have the house edge.”
That is a twist on the teasing warning I extended her in the high-rollers lounge. Brazen. Ordinarily, hubris like that would rankle me. It borders on disrespect, even when ushered by playfulness. But the more confident she is around me, the headier I become. And my first name on her lips is potent all on its own.
She pats my chest with a laugh and sashays to the limo, singing, “C’mon, Mr. Noire. You’re not nervous about going to lunch with me, are you?” before she slides inside.
I bite my fist and muffle an aggravated roar. This woman undoes me like no one ever has.
All the more reason it must be done.
We eat at a little hole-in-the-wall that is elegant inside and has a menu that changes daily. I’ve been trying to court the chef for years, hoping he’ll join our team. He’d be crazy to give up his place and accept the offer. And unfortunately, he is not. Everything served is always the best I’ve ever had.
Zara agrees. I get the impression she doesn’t take much time to smell the decadence. But here? She savors each bite, along with every sip of wine.
I ordered Screaming Eagle Cabernet because that’s what she’d had at Soirée Italienne, and people who drink it tend to be cult followers. She didn’t object. Thank fuck for that. I don’t think I could tolerate her consuming a cocktail with cherries again.
We share an easy back-and-forth about what she’ll be translating—just property contracts and pertinent laws. That conversation moves into places she’s traveled. It’s evident she’s been to many destinations, but relished the experience in very few. More proof of her loneliness. It fills me with an uncanny appetite to spoil her, which I quickly starve out.
Mid-meal, she begins to dig for what she came for, and I allow it.
“So, I heard the story about your family.”
I cut a piece of my pork chop without looking up. “I assume you’re referring to my parents’ deaths.”
“Indirectly, I guess.” She’s quieter with that, either a facade of sheepishness or authentic concern shining through. “I meant that there are six of you and you raised the others.”
“You heard correctly.”
“Forgive me for the personal intrusion. After I met Mercy, I was curious. She spoke as though you were all close, and I wasimpressed.” She works through a laborious swallow, her index finger massaging the stem of her wine goblet. “Maybe even envious.”
That I can work with. Again, I believe her. Not that it matters at this point, but I can’t seem to resist dissecting her confession. I push my plate away and wave to the waiter, so he scurries over with the bill. Since I have a tab, all I need to do is tip and sign.
Once I hand it back to him, I turn the tables on Zara. “You aren’t close with your family?”
“I am.” She wipes her hands, allows me to slide her chair back, and stands to leave with me. “My brother is my best friend, and I told you my father is wonderful. But we’re rarely in the same city. It must be nice, having everyone in the same place.”
I don’t confirm or deny where they all are. My gut wrenches with the cognizance that she could be snooping for Rena’s location. Instead, I keep her talking while we stroll toward the Riverwalk. “What about your mother?”
A heavy breath flows out of her as she studies me for the length of an entire block. “She died when I was nine.”
If I had any remaining doubts about her being Stone’s daughter, that swallowed them.
She probably wonders if I knew her mother or if I’m aware how horrid her death was. Maybe she isn’t privy to the details. Or perhaps she already deems me guilty. The sins of the father have a way of trickling down from the tree with the apple. I can shout that I’m not like him, but only my actions can prove it.
“I’m so sorry.” Something deep inside me is resurrected when I issue that apology, disintegrating one of the remaining embers of my father’s legacy. “Losing a mother in childhood is a devastation I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
“Thank you,” she whispers with vulnerability that gnaws at me.
We walk, chatting casually about our surroundings—a placid absorption of the vibrant city. Tourists with beads and phallic drink cups. Locals loitering the streets. Musicians grace us all with jazz and blues and new takes on beloved classics. We stop and enjoy a few, marveling at the brilliance found on the sidewalk. One is a teenage girl, slouched against a brick wall with a guitar in her lap, singing her heart out.
