I stood from the wicker couch and searched for the remote control as the yapping voices of news commentators buzzed from the TV. I needed to follow Logan’s lead and put my past behind me, as well. It seemed like all these damned newscasts talked about was Trenchant’s corrupt executives and the missing persons, Trent Anderson and Kaci Baskel.
God, how the media loved this story, constantly debating the intricacies of the scandal and tagging the company leaders as wicked and evil. The speculation about what happened to Trent and me was rampant and varying, but most believed we were killed off by one of Trent’s criminal partners.
I found the remote under a throw pillow, powered off the TV, and stared at the blank screen.
The trial against Nicola Anderson, and Dalton and Kathleen Baskel began two months after Logan and I landed safely in a rural town in Southern Italy. The jury reached its verdict four months after the opening arguments.
Collin hadn’t messed around, and the pressure from his legal team led to confessions by our parents and seven others within the company. Sentencing would begin next month. Each faced a minimum of life in prison.
Since arriving in Italy, I’d floundered through a flurry of conflicted feelings about how everything played out, but I had no regrets. My parents were alive, locked away, no longer hurting people. I couldn’t visit them, not as a missing person. But I didn’t want to. They were my starting line. Collin, Benny, and Logan were my future.
Collin was finalizing negotiations to sell Trenchant Media to its liberal, ethical competitor, Newswide Corp. The conditions of his sell-off was to keep his job on The Anderson Angle and to publicly announce his sexual orientation. I was so fucking happy for him.
I tossed the remote on the couch and strolled through the open space of the villa, my bare feet slapping on the tiles. Wide stucco archways separated the rooms, the walls and furniture in various shades of yellow and brown. Two-thousand-square-feet of cozy, and it was ours.
And we finally had the house to ourselves again. Collin, Seth, and Benny came and went frequently. Benny left two days ago after a month-long visit. She was headed to Eastern Europe in her quest to devour every corner of the world.
And now I was on a quest to devour my corner of the world and the man who occupied it. I missed him. Pathetic really, since he’d only been holed up for half a day, and that hole was a garage twenty feet from the back door.
I slipped outside, my toes sifting through the warm sand, the sun a blinding ball of fire above the endless aqua of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The nearest neighbor was a five minute walk along the beach that might as well have been five days. We never saw them or anyone on this remote stretch of golden sand. We were learning the language, but Logan preferred the privacy. His protectiveness of me required it.
I shielded my eyes with one hand and quickened my gait to the garage. The doors stood open, and the whir of a power tool droned from within. Inside, I found him bent over the seat of his new BMW S1000RR, the muscles in his back flexing with the exertion of the drill in his hands.
The whirring silenced, and he straightened, turning to face me. The drill hung from his hand, his other lifting to wipe the sweat from his brow. His workout shorts hung low on his narrow hips, his blond hair flopping in random directions of chaos. And Jesus, the cuts and ridges of his bare chest made my fingers tingle.
He looked like a sun-soaked surfer, with his lusciously-tanned complexion, his chiseled jaw covered in scruff, and the smile on his gorgeous face so easy and carefree I couldn’t help but return one of my own.
“Did you get the fairing repaired?” I leaned to the side to check out his work and didn’t see any cracks in the plastic.
“Yeah.” He pushed a hand through his hair, the V of his abs contracting with the movement. “Only took four hours.”
“Mm.” I glanced at the silver Ducati parked beside his bike. “I fixed the cracked fairing on my bike in three hours.”
“Then you can do the next one.” He grinned, and his hand lowered to the waistband of his shorts. His thumb hooked beneath the elastic, dipping the black material an inch lower, taunting me.
Then it inched lower, and lower, my attention glued to the indentions in his hips, following the carved muscle with the descent of his pants. When I looked up, his eyes locked on mine, wanting me.
My body moved toward him, mindless in its need to close the distance.
He set the drill on the stool behind him and met me halfway. His hand lifted to my face, his fingertips sweeping along my jaw and down my neck. Maybe his body was mindless, too. We couldn’t share the same space without touching one another.