‘Remy.’ It’s no more than a whisper—a whisper of a whisper—a murmur of a denial as I try to convince myself otherwise.
The man’s attention lifts slowly from his phone, every moment drawn out, seconds and milliseconds appearing to slow. His eyes meet mine, the jolt of recognition like being plunged into an icy cold pool. His head turns as he moves past me, as though he’s unwilling to release my gaze.
My God, it is him.
My heart pounds solidly in my stomach, or at least I think that’s what’s thrumming down there, as his shoes suddenly scuff against the floor, and he stops, turning to face me.
‘I’m sorry?’
This really isn’t a question or even an apology from him, not with such a haughty delivery. Though it is delivered in faultless English. I know somehow I’m looking at the asshole who switched from yelling French to English so seamlessly. My mouth works soundlessly, words failing me because how? Why? And oh, hell no.
‘Alice?’
My spirits sink to my sandals. He doesn’t even remember my name? I belatedly comprehend he isn’t speaking to me as the girl beside me almost jumps to attention, bullet fast French streaming from her mouth. It doesn’t take me long to realise she’s offering an introduction as I add one more to the tally of times in twenty-five years that I’ve been called Raisin Ryan.
‘Actually, it’s Rose. Rose Ryan.’ I smile, and I shrug as though he and I are perfect strangers, and not two people who’ve tasted each other’s genitals. Oh, Jesus. I did not just think that—just like the responding image did not just flash through my head. ‘No one ever calls me Róisín.’
‘Rose.’ The way he says my name is like a replay of an aural memory, even if the visual part of that memory isn’t quite the same.
He was damn sexy in jeans and boots, and exuded a kind of rugged handsomeness. His charming nature was apparent even through our supposed language barrier. The man standing in front of me has the same self-assurance, minus the playful air. He’s made no effort to be charming, and he’s barely cracked a smile, but his presence is no less magnetic. He seems more somehow. Older. Harder. Darker. Urbane and self-assured. And the outfit he’s wearing the heck out of? It’s what the term suit porn was invented for, and even his pocket square is sexy.
And I know what’s going on underneath. All that swirling ink. From businessman to bad boy in the shedding of a shirt.
Bottom line? Remy version 2.0 is the off the charts kind of hot.
His attention is intense and like a brush of hot fingertips before the look is replaced by a flash of annoyance. His gaze glitters with an almost olive hue, and something in his demeanour changes in that instant. His expression hardens, almost as though he’s come to some kind of conclusion. A conclusion that becomes perfectly clear as he turns and walks away without a backward glance.
10
Remy
‘I don’t know. Just get in here.’ I drop my phone to my desk and tear off my jacket and begin pacing once again.
What is she doing here?
This can’t be happening.
It just can’t. Because that would mean . . .
Non! I refuse to fucking allow it, whatever this is.
And what it appears to be is the fuckup to crown all fuckups—the kind of error that should bring a grown man to his knees.
‘You took your time.’ I swing around to where Everett enters the office almost silently.
‘I’ve got feet, not wheels.’ Closing the door behind him, he pushes his hands into his pockets as he saunters farther into the room. ‘What’s with the pacing? A new addition to the repertoire of angry arsehole mogul?’
‘The girl,’ I begin immediately, pushing aside his taunting reply. I’ll admit to sometimes feeling like I’m still struggling to adjust to the role my father’s death has cast me in, but that hardly signifies right now. ‘The girl,’ I repeat. ‘She’s here.’ My pacing halts, one display of my discomfort exchanged for another as I rake my hands through my hair.
How the fuck can this have happened?
How could we have gotten this so wrong?
How could I have made such a mistake?
‘So? That was the plan, wasn’t it?’ His lack of concern is jarring. I watch him stroll across the room, pausing at the concealed bar behind my desk. ‘Because if it wasn’t,’ he adds, sliding the panel and pulling a glass jar from the shelf, ‘we went to an awful lot of fucking trouble to get her out here.’
I glance down at my feet, not sure whether the impulse to move is for the purpose of crossing the room to punch him or to flee. This . . . this is not me. Not how I operate. I fight. I scheme. I tear down the competition to build up the Durrand name. I will not lose my peace over a girl.