Zara throws a hundred bucks in her empty guitar case. My brothers and I have done that countless times, but something about that simple gesture has me in awe. Maybe because it has nothing to do with her agenda. It’s an unfiltered peek at who she really is.
“I went to the Louvre once,” she says as we resume our trek, “and across from theMona Lisawas this stunning painting. It was massive—the largest one in the whole museum—and so detailed.”
“The Wedding Feast at Cana,” I supply, having been there myself.
“That’s the one.” She bobs her head, seemingly pleased that I know precisely what she’s referring to. “I stood alone and studied all the intricacies in it for the longest time while a crowd, which had to be controlled with a queue, formed in front of theMona Lisa. Because that’s the art that people are told to appreciate. There’s a certainty to its worth.”
That is yet one more treasure from the unfiltered Zara, and it resonates with me. I’ve always valued the fortune found off the beaten path.
“I’m not sure any painting in the Louvre would be considered undiscovered, but I’ve always thought hidden gems were more valuable. That’s the basis for our whole resort, the inspiration from Prohibition. It’s the places most people don’t notice that will deliver the gold.”
She beams, flinging her arm behind her. “Exactly. Like that girl back there. A voice rivaling Billie Eilish, and people are strolling past her because she’s sitting on a sidewalk.”
We plod ahead, and my guards trail us the entire way—some in step, some in vehicles. She seems to notice that the crowd parts for us, but she doesn’t comment on it.
The itch to reach for Zara is so palpable that it crawls over every inch of my flesh. I try my damnedest to ignore the sultry bend from her waist, spilling into the flare of her hip; the cashmere dress hugging the mouthwatering curve of her ass with each plod of her poised gait; and the way her eyes light up when she soaks in the Creole architecture and exuberant spirit of the Big Easy. Her cherry-scented perfume wafts over to me, drowning out both the sumptuous aroma of eateries and the city stench.
I can’t get lost in her. There is no other way.
As we near the Riverwalk, just past Jackson Square, where they load passengers for a steamboat excursion, she notes a barricade and a police car with flashing lights. “Maybe we aren’t supposed to go down this way.”
“It’s fine. There are people everywhere,” I assure her, losing my battle over the urge to touch her and sliding my hand across the small of her back. Still, my fingers tingle with the impulse to grip her hip and drag her against me. But I resist and guide us around the barrier to a railing overlooking the Mississippi River, doing what I have to do. “This is your one and only opportunity for freedom.”
She laughs, an enrapturing feathery warble of mirth that denotes how in the dark she is, standing with me in this sun-soaked tourist area, the shimmer of the water sparkling in her eyes as she shades them with her hand. “I’m not sure I follow. Are you going to grant a wish or present a genie lamp?”
“I’m letting you go,” I say simply.
“Wow.” She blows out a dramatic breath. “That might be the fastest firing in employment history.”
“You aren’t fired,” I correct. “The job is yours. The suite is yours.”
Her gaze flicks to the steamboat and crowded ticket building and the people milling about beyond some shops not too far off before landing on me with her query. “The membership?”
“Pending.”
Her nose scrunches into the most adorable token of confusion, but her hackles are up, her chest heaving. “And how is that letting me go?”
“The same day you showed up at my resort, a hit was issued on me. There are other oddities with your arrival, but there’s no need to go any deeper than that.” I drink her in, sick because I know she’s dissecting her surroundings to determine how much danger she’s in, and regardless of why she stormed into my life, I don’t find joy in that.
“I have an uncharacteristic soft spot for you, which I find hard to explain, but it has an expiration date. Today, you have choices. You can walk away, not look back, and move on with your life, leaving me, my family, and my resort alone. You can make a move, right here in the open, but it will come at a deadly cost.” Shoving my hands in my pockets to signal a lack of physical confrontation, I lose myself in her beauty for a beat and offer one more option. “Or you can tell me you have no sinister agenda against me, that you truly need refuge from your well-meaning father, and look me in the eye with a vow that my family will not see your face in their nightmares.”
She ruminates on that, her attention snagging on a trio of senior-citizen musicians entertaining the line of people and passersby until she finds her words. “Whose face do they see now?”
More probing.
“Probably my father’s.”
She appears wounded by that, likely because of her own mother’s death, but then she lifts her chin with an expression I cannot pin down. “And is that who you see too?”
“No, Zara. I am the star of my own nightmares.” A shuddered exhale escapes me, but I don’t attempt to cover it. “Don’t become me.”
Boldness grows in her. “Just so you know, I could take ten men.”
I chuckle at her tenacity. “I have no doubt. But for your information, there are more than thirty.”
“Well done,” she commends with a healthy dose of snark. “I don’t appreciate threats. And judgment based on my chosen career is hypocritical from the leader of the underworld. Surely you know the difference. That is my job, but it’s not who I am. I’m not a monster. I’m not a heroine either, but I live by a code. I’ve worked for the CIA, and I’ve worked for those who outsmarted the CIA. In a twisted way, I make the world a better place. I have never acted rashly or out of anger, nor have I harmed anyone innocent, anyone I cared about, or anyone who was not the target or part of the target’s primary team.”
She’s offended, which I didn’t anticipate, but it’s not enough.
