When our eyes meet, she jolts anew with recognition, her violet-blue eyes widening just as they did when she saw me from the top of the stairs. I manage a bland smile, but only because I’ve had time to compose myself.
Dressed in a demure but clingy black silk dress, her slender frame is too beautiful for words. Her hair is dyed that now-familiar toffee blonde and swept up in a neat chignon at the nape of her neck.
Juliet Carter was born to be my bride.
I must have her. I’ve always known, even when I lied to myself that I could keep away, that I would rearrange the heavens for us to be together. The connection is instant and undeniable.
Juliet Carter is mine.
But now she’s Jeanette Capelle and can’t be anything to do with me, however much I want her. She’s out of this life and I will respect that.
“What are you doing here?” She slides into the chair next to me, gaze flicking between her name setting and my face.
“I have a great interest in astrology.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” I can’t help but smile. Some things haven’t changed. She’s still a mouthy brat and I adore it. “I’m here to wish you happy birthday.” And protect her from whatever fuckwittery the Carter and Fletcher mafias have planned. “Eighteen.”
Jeanette has grown up into a siren with no vanity. She has the sort of beauty that compels a second glance. A casual observer might initially see her long hair and slim figure, but I see more. The titanium in her back. The determined tilt of her jaw. The uncertainty in her eyes.
“Tomorrow. You always did have bad timing.” Her words are harsh, but she shifts her legs together under her dress and licks her lips. Her body is responding to mine without her awareness, turning towards me and when our gazes meet her pupils are blown.
Every cell in my body clamours for me to claim her.
“This event ends at midnight, so I’m only a few hours early,” I say instead of taking her in my arms.
But when the clock strikes twelve the protective order I took out against her ex-husband and family runs out, and that is my only priority right now. Her safety.
We manage some polite conversation over dinner, and I can tell she wants to ask why I’m here, but can’t bring herself to admit she doesn’t already know. Part of her attention is on her boss, who barks orders to Jeanette even as she and every other person at the table tries to engage me in conversation about their nonsense. I’m used to it. Being rich trumps being lethal in most people’s minds. They know I could have them quietly murdered but the lure of my patronage is greater inducement than fear of my power. I might just dispose of Jeanette’s boss if she doesn’t cease telling me about her social media following. That was what got us into this mess in the first place.
“Why do they need a fancy event to reveal their winners, if the results are pre-determined by constellations?” I ask Jeanette in an aside when there’s the award for most improved something and Priscilla walks up to the podium and gushes about how much she loves all her followers.
“It’s not like that.” Jeanette rolls her eyes and answers from the side of her mouth. “It tells you about how you respond to events.”
“So if you know my horoscope you know my personality? Based on when I was born?” I am, to say the least, sceptical.
“Yes. Ugh. I bet you’re a Scorpio.”
“Maybe.”
“What star sign are you?” There’s a hint of curiosity in the way she unconsciously leans into me.
“Haven’t a clue.” As head of the Laurent mafia, if I want to know the future, I make it. I don’t read it in the stars.
Her pout, like she can’t believe I’m not aware of this crucial piece of information, only succeeds in drawing my attention to her sweetly pink lips. “When’s your birthday?”
“Twenty-ninth of March.”
“Oh!” She looks me up and down. “That figures. Aries.”
“What does that tell you about me?”
“Aries are born leaders. Impulsive. Domineering and energetic, you’re highly assertive. Passionate, you know what you want and fear nothing in getting it.”
“Huh.” Maybe there is something in this whole zodiac thing. “What about you?”
There’s a quiet point where someone is giving an acceptance speech and Jeanette leans over to whisper into my ear.
“Libras appreciate beauty, and are diplomatic. We’re social, idealistic and lovers of justice.”
Shivers go down my spine at her breath on my face. I turn slowly and our mouths are half an inch apart. Close enough to kiss.
“And are Aries and Libras compatible?”
Her mouth sets in a mulish line and I know. I just know… Under cover of applause, I say, “Very compatible, then.”
“Yes,” she admits.
The woman on the podium thanks everyone for coming and says the dance floor is open back in the ballroom. Several people head there as the music starts up and Jeanette casts them a longing glance.
“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hand for her.
“What? I don’t want to dance,” she protests, but bites her lip and her eyes say the opposite.
“Yes, you do.” And ridiculously, despite my never dancing, I’d like to with her.
She looks over to her boss who, seemingly placated by her award, gives Jeanette a gracious nod, and a word about having earned some fun. Jeanette’s show of reluctance is belied by a barely hidden smile as she asks her boss to look after her purse, and gives me her hand.
Then her expression is back to wide-eyed shock as my fingers clasp over hers. The touch is hardly anything, but I feel it to my bones and obviously she does too.
Her hand is tiny in mine. Precious and small and I savour it as we walk into the group of dancers. Then, even better, I place a palm on her waist and pull her to me.
Not too close. Certainly not as close as I’d like, as I don’t want to scare her.
It’s an upbeat tune and I lead Jeanette into turns, lift her in spins, and dip her low over my arm. She tries to keep a straight face but only holds out for about thirty seconds because she clearly loves to dance. After that she’s giggling and those violet eyes are sparkling like the faux stars on every wall and the ceiling.
The music merges into a slower dance and she steps into me with a shy smile.
Holding her in my arms is the missing words of a poem I’ve been repeating for my whole life. My very soul is at peace when I’m holding Juliet.
Jeanette.
Juliet was the child. Jeanette is this perfect young woman. Too young and beautiful for me, with my scarred body and ripped soul. She’s untarnished by the world, despite all that happened to her. That sort of resilience takes my breath with admiration. She is stronger than anyone thought, including me.
It’s only then I realise. She’s an innocent.
There is no way she isn’t a virgin. Not with the way she is learning to move with me, fitting herself to my sway with the music. She’s discovering her body and how it feels when she’s close to a man. I can see it in the inquisitiveness in her eyes and the softening of her stance.
I had feared Fletcher ruined her in some way before I got there, or maybe just scared her off the whole idea permanently, but no. She’s still untouched and curious.
And that thought is an avalanche of relief for her and a fire of lust for myself. It’s enticing in a way I didn’t anticipate.
We keep dancing, in tune with each other and the music. It’s too easy. We go to the bar for water, twice, and Jeanette tells me about her extrovert but grumpy Sagittarius boss and predicts the star signs of my team based on what I tell her about them. Apparently my second-in-command is probably a Taurus. I’m entranced by her. I’m more delighted than can be contained in my chest that she talks to me like a friend. I crave hearing every thought that goes through this woman’s mind.
And fool that I am, I don’t interrupt her. I can’t bring myself to spoil the mood of our enchanted evening until I absolutely have to. I want to be her prince charming until midnight. I ignore the two grunts in suits who appear at the bar, tracking Jeanette’s every move. She doesn’t notice them, as though she only has eyes for me.
We return to the dance floor when there’s a pop song she likes and the back of my mind is cringing at the music. But Jeanette takes so much joy in it and we work so well together—a prelude to how we’ll be in bed I’m sure—I don’t care. I shove all thoughts aside.
During a slow song—the third in a row—she tilts her face to look into mine. I’m struck anew by her snub nose and the smattering of freckles on her cheekbones. And that’s when I notice out of the corner of my eye a third of Fletcher’s henchmen moving closer. Too close.
Ah damn. Reality was going to intrude sooner or later.
“Angel—” I cut her off mid-sentence about her little apartment. “You’re in danger.”
She tenses and I wish we were back at the fun—twirling so her skirt swooshes and she laughs helplessly—part of the evening.
“If I am, it’s only because you’re here.”
I grit my teeth. I should have known this wouldn’t be easy. “See that man in the corner?” I nod to the grunt in an ill-fitting black suit that hides a gun holstered around his chest.
She lifts her chin in a gesture I interpret as a yes.
“That’s one of Ross Fletcher’s men.”
Fear goes through her eyes at the name of her ex-husband. I can see her trying to ascertain if I’m telling the truth. On the one hand, Fletcher drugged her and forced her into marriage. On the other, it has been five years since she saw anyone associated with her family’s mafia. My arrival coincides with the appearance of Fletcher’s men, and that’s suspicious.
“Is he with you?”
“Things have changed.” There used to be a trio of mafias that worked together. Then Laurent under my leadership became bigger, richer, more profitable. The tentative trust and peace broke down. “They want their lost princess back now they see a chance. Laurent is growing fast and it’s causing tensions. Your father thinks having you found and reunited with Fletcher would cement their alliance.” And Fletcher is still irate that his toy was taken away.
“They don’t know where I am, or who,” she protests. “I’ve been hiding for five years.”
“Your cover is blown. They know your new name and where you are. There was a social media post you did about goats—”
“Capricorns.”
“And you could be seen in the mirror.” Just a small image of her, in one video, but with Jeanette sending all her boss’ posts viral, she was recognised. A victim of her own talent and humble assumption no one would take any notice of her. Totally unaware of how gorgeous she is.
For a second I think she’ll believe me. But then her innate modesty gets the better of her.
“They’re not interested in me,” she scoffs. “The lost princess.”
“Not lost anymore.”
She is still in my arms, but she’s miles away. She doesn’t believe me. Or rather, she doesn’t want to believe me, but fears I might be right.
“Why should I trust you? You knew they were planning to marry me off. We got on well that one time we met, but you didn’t help me.”
The bitterness in her tone stings like salt on an open, festering wound. The injustice and truth of it knocks the air out of me.
I broke the arranged marriage between us after we met because she was thirteen. I’d never met her when I first agreed, assuming it would be a dull political arrangement. Then we met. I insisted on an afternoon to “get to know” my bride, and it revealed my mistake. She was a mouthy kid, as funny as she was unhappy, being coerced by her debt-laden father. I was having nothing to do with that shit. But I never anticipated they’d marry her off to Fletcher instead. He didn’t have as much money as I did, but neither did he have as many morals.
As soon as I found out, I fought and burned bridges—physical and figurative—to rescue her.
But she’s right. I should have known. No one else was protecting her, and we were friends during that afternoon. Weirdly united by shared disgust of the situation. I didn’t see then what she would become, and how she needed me to wait for her. I was new to my kingpin job and too focused on my own affairs rather than keeping secure what was mine.
“You have to be careful. Lie low until I can deal with this. I have a safe house ready—”
“Another prison. You’re not ordering me around,” she bristles.
“Yeah, but I am.” I failed to protect her before. I won’t again.
We’re not pretending to dance anymore. We’re standing, her small hand in mine, inches apart, her staring up at me.
She shakes her head. “Sebastian Laurent,” she murmurs. And then she does the last thing I expect. Boosting herself onto tiptoes, she kisses me right on the mouth.
It shocks the hell out of me. We were arguing? And now she wants to kiss me? It’s a sweet kiss, no tongues or lingering intent. Just her lips pressed to mine. But before I can gather my wits and kiss her for real, she has drawn back.
“That was goodbye, Sebastian. I’m done with the mafia.”
It’s then that I notice two more Fletcher men at the edge of the dance floor. I check my watch.
Five past twelve.
Shit.
I got so caught up in being with Jeanette, I fucked up. I intended to get her out of here and safe before she turned eighteen. Now our enemies are closing in and she hasn’t agreed to let me protect her. “We’re leaving.”
“Sebastian!” She protests but my arm is firmly around her waist and she doesn’t want to make a scene. I tow her through the ballroom and down the corridor leading to the back entrance where my armoured limo will be waiting to take her to a safe house.
“I’m not going.” As we get into the empty corridor she digs her heels in.
I release her to get her to meet my eyes. “You don’t understand the risks, Juliet—”
“Juliet is dead,” she says coldly. “My name is Jeanette.”
She turns away, towards the main lobby, and tosses over her shoulder, “Goodbye Mr Laurent.”
Fletcher’s man emerges from the ballroom and heads straight for Jeanette. I see what’s about to happen with dreadful clarity; my angel is oblivious. I have a split second to make a decision as he reaches into his jacket for a weapon and I move faster.
Jeanette shrieks as my silenced bullet hits him just as he grabs for her. He crumples to the ground, groaning in pain.
In two steps I take first one of her wrists then her other and trap them in my one hand at the small of her back.
“What?!” She’s in shock, staring at the slumped man, his gun loosely held and shoulder turning red.
“You’re coming with me.” No way am I letting this innocent girl be trapped back with her family and ex-husband. One arm around her ribcage, I bundle her out of the hotel side entrance, push her into the waiting limo and tug the door shut behind us.
“Let me go!” She tugs at her hands ineffectually and wobbles on her heels as the vehicle moves. Sitting, I pull her onto the seat next to me. The scent of her—roses—fills my head and makes me momentarily dizzy. As if I’m the captive, spun around blindfolded. But I keep my grip on her little wrists, so fragile in my big blunt fingers. It’s then that she realises she has legs, and starts to kick me.
“Stop that or I’ll tie you up.” Fortunately—or unfortunately, whichever way you look at it—this limo is sometimes used for nefarious purposes.
“Make me,” she hisses, and redoubles her efforts.
It’s the work of a moment to shift so one of my hands spans both of her wrists, and my leg is over her thighs. I refuse to acknowledge her slight body under mine, all tight skin and vibrating with anger as I flick open the compartment with bindings and secure Jeanette’s hands together. She makes her ankles a little more difficult, and we both end up on the floor, me holding her calves down with my forearm while my logical mind tries to shut down in favour of the sensation of her skin on mine.
I ruthlessly suppress my inappropriate arousal and lean back, but at the sight of her it returns. Hands and feet bound, her eyes glitter with fury. And…
Surely not. I must be imagining it.
It can’t be.
Her mouth opens in a pant but there’s no fear in her eyes. She’s… turned on.
