Often that need delivered him to that damn club that supposedly caters to the elite of Paris with darker hungers. Where the owner, that monster of a woman, Isabella, happily helped feed Chris’s need to escape reality with whatever punishment he ordered her to deliver. Though in most cases, Isabella doesn’t need to be ordered to do such horrid things, but Chris never gives away control. In whatever role she plays, though, Isabella thrives on delivering pain, and ironically, gut-wrenchingly, considering my worries for Ella, that club—and therefore Isabella herself—is the one thing that Chris and Garner Neuville share in common. But Chris is ultimately all about control, and that means he wants to please and protect me, sometimes to the extreme. Chris would do anything for me, as I would for him.
But Neuville is no bad-boy version of Chris. He’s the mob, and the stories that have trickled to us say that he’s brutal to the point of evil, in both the bedroom and boardroom. Stories that have kept me up at night, worrying about Ella.
Right now, though, what keeps me awake is discovering that we’ve inadvertently involved this organization called The Jackals in Ella’s life. What if Kayden is Ella’s safe haven, as Chris is to me, and me to Chris, and in my desire to protect her, I’ve stolen that away?
ella
It’s raining.
The fireplace is glowing amber.
Those are the first two things I think when I blink awake in the dark bedroom, Kayden’s hard, warm body wrapped around me from behind, the fireplace glowing in front of me. Safe. Warm. Loved. I am no longer alone, and neither is he. And we both were alone, even when we were with other people. He nuzzles my neck and pulls me tighter against his body. The dark room, the thrumming of the storm on the window, and him make for a seductive combination. I love the rain in Europe. It’s eternal, and it soothes all the hot spots in my mind. I shut my eyes and savor the perfection of the moment. I’m safe in a way that’s indescribable with Kayden, in a way that has nothing to do with the physical. I can’t lose this or him. Garner Neuville will not t
ake this from me.
If he tries . . .
The next time I open my eyes, the darkness has become more of a dull, light haze cast by the storm, and Kayden is no longer in bed with me. Certain he hasn’t gone far, I roll over and find no note, which means I’m right. He’s probably in the kitchen fielding calls for Underground business and drinking coffee. I glance at the clock. Nine o’clock. Oh, yes. He is most certainly in the kitchen. Stretching, I smile with the realization that I’m still wearing his shirt, drawing in a deep, yummy whiff of his spicy scent before climbing out of the bed and pushing my feet into my slippers.
Fully intending to join Kayden for a caffeine fix, I hurry into the bathroom and take care of things like brushing my teeth and my brown hair, which I dare to imagine red again. Maybe, just maybe, I’m close to being me again. Just one mobster to kill, and a few other problems to solve, and I’ll be a redhead again. No matter how I try to convince myself brown is beautiful—and it is—it’s just not me.
Stepping into the closet, I grab my leggings from last night, pull them on under Kayden’s shirt, and turn my attention to my new memory wall. A few seconds turn into a minute, but apparently memories require coffee, because I get nothing this morning. Except . . . my gaze lands on that chocolate shop, Hermés Le Chocolat, and I press two fingers on it. “Is this where you are, little butterfly?”
I tear the page off the wall to show it to Kayden and start to turn, only to have my gaze land on my ballet slippers. In my mind, I see my father in my bedroom, holding one of them, talking to me about my lessons. It’s not a good or a bad memory. It’s just a memory.
I feel Kayden before I see him. “Morning,” he says in that low, gravelly, sexy tone he sometimes has, and I always love.
I pick up one of the ballet slippers and turn to find him in pajama bottoms, a snug white T-shirt, and slippers, his rumpled hair and shadowed jaw deliciously masculine.
“?‘Well, honey,’?” I say, imitating my father’s low voice, “?‘I guess if you have to do this dance thing, at least they’ll never expect a ballerina to kick their ass.’?”
His lips curve. “I take it that’s a quote from your father.”
“Yes,” I say, setting the slipper back on the shelf. “That was right before he handed me a quiz on types of ammunition.”
He laughs. “What else would a father quiz his daughter on?” He folds his arms in front of that broad, impressive chest and leans on the door frame. “Speaking of ammunition: Blake Walker. I want to know what he knows. And I want to be sure our men guarding Sara don’t conflict with his. I arranged to bring him here.”
“Here? Can’t he be tied to Sara that way? Should we allow him to be seen here?”
“Exactly why I don’t want us in public with him. Adriel is doing a covert pickup. And he’ll enter the castle in the car, out of sight.”
“Of course,” I say. “Why would I even question you having thought of this?”
“Better to bring it up than not,” he says, proving yet again why I feel he’s a great leader. He makes decisions. He makes demands. But he is confident in himself and in his role to listen to others and welcome input. “I do miss things.”
“Doubtful,” I say, “but you know I’m still going to give my two cents.”
His eyes warm, and while yes, there is a hint of that sin and sex he does so well, there is a different kind of warmth I decide is even better. It’s trust and friendship. When he glances at the piece of paper in my hand, he asks, “What’s that?”
“This is the chocolate shop I keep remembering,” I say, offering him the paper.
He reaches for it and looks at the page, then at me. “I know where it’s located.” He folds the printout and sticks it in the pocket of his pajama bottoms. “You think the necklace is there?”
“I can’t imagine there would be a place to hide it there, but I went there with it in my possession. Going there, when it’s possible, might be the final trigger to unlock my memory.”
“I can at least go there and search the place when I’m in Paris.”
“When you’re in Paris,” I repeat, my gut twisting with that idea. “I hate you going without me.”