The investors were duly impressed, as expected. They smoked cigars and let out loud belly laughs over the remains of the last of the seven courses they'd enjoyed. Their pleasure seemed to ricochet off the paneled mahogany walls and gleam forth from the impressive Murano glass chandeliers that hung above them, in resplendent reds and blues, and would no doubt be reflected in the size of their investments, as planned. This would be another success, Cayo knew without the smallest doubt. More money, more power for the Vila Group.
And yet all he could seem to concentrate on tonight was Drusilla.
"Fine," she had thrown at him on the yacht, those gray eyes of hers both furious and something far darker, her mouth very nearly trembling in a way that had made him feel restless. Unsettled. "I'm not going to play this game with you any longer. If you want your two weeks, you'll have them-but that's the end of it."
"Two weeks as my assistant or my pet," he'd reiterated. "I don't care which."
She'd laughed, and it was a hollow sound. "I hate you."
"That bores me," he'd replied, his gaze hard on hers. "And furthermore, makes you but one among a great many."
"By that you mean, I imagine, the entire world?" she'd sniped at him. Her tone, the way she was standing there with her hands in fists-it had made him suspicious.
"I'd suggest you think twice before you attempt to sabotage me in some passive-aggressive display in your last days with me, Miss Bennett," he'd cautioned her, and the look she'd turned on him then should have flayed him alive. Perhaps it had. "You won't like the result."
"Don't worry, Mr. Vila," she'd said, his name a low, dark curse, hitting him in ways he didn't fully understand. "When I decide to sabotage you, there will be nothing in the least bit passive about it."
She'd stalked away from him that afternoon, and he hadn't seen her again until the following morning, when she'd presented herself in his suite at breakfast, dressed in the perfectly unremarkable sort of professional clothes she usually wore. No skintight white jeans licking over her long legs to taunt him and remind him how they'd once clenched over his hips. No wild gypsy hair to shatter his concentration and invade his dreams. She'd sat herself in a chair with her tablet on her lap, and had asked him, as she'd done a thousand times before, with no particular inflection or agenda, if his plans for the day deviated from his written schedule.
As if the previous day had never happened.
If he didn't know better, he thought now, watching her through narrowed eyes, he could almost imagine that nothing had changed between them at all. That she had never quit, that he had never forced her into giving him her contracted two weeks.
That they had never kissed like that, nor let their tempers flare, revealing too many things he found he did not wish to think about, and too much heat besides.
Almost.
Tonight she looked as professional and cool as ever, with the prettiness he could no longer seem to ignore an enviable accent to her quiet competence. She wore a simple blue sheath dress with a tailored jacket that trumpeted her restrained and capable form of elegance, her trademark. She operated as his right hand in situations like this, his secret weapon, making it seem as if he was not giving a presentation designed to result in lavish investments so much as sharing a fascinating opportunity with would-be friends.
She made him seem far more engaging and charming than he was, he'd concluded over the course of the long evening, and wondered how he'd never seen that quite so clearly before. She gave him that human touch that so many furious and defeated rivals claimed he lacked.
He'd watched her do it tonight-lighting up the carefully selected group of ten investors with her attention, making them talk about themselves, letting them each feel interesting and important. Valued. She hung on their words, anticipated their questions, soothed them and laughed with them in turn, all of it in that cool, intelligent way of hers that seemed wholly authentic instead of cloying. They ate her up.
And because of her, Cayo could simply be his ruthless, focused self, and no one felt overly intimidated or defensive.
She sat at the far end of the lavishly appointed table now, her tablet in her hand as always, periodically tapping into it as she fielded questions and tended to the various needs of everyone around her. She made it look so easy. She was smooth and matter-of-fact, as if it was only natural that the French businessman should demand a Reiki massage at two in the morning and it delighted her to be able to contact the concierge on his behalf. She was his walking computer, his butler, and, if Cayo was honest, his true second-in-command. Smart, dependable, even trustworthy. He should have encouraged her to leave him three years ago when she'd wanted that promotion. She could have been running companies for him by now. She was that good.
Which was, of course, why he'd been so loath to let her do it.
Or one reason, anyway, he thought now, darkly impatient with himself. He idly fingered his wineglass as he half pretended to pay attention to the conversation that swelled around him. Not that anyone expected him to charm them, of course. Or even be particularly polite, for that matter. That was Drusilla's job.
She is magnificent, he thought, and ignored the sudden pang that followed as he considered how soon she would be gone. How soon he would have to think up a new approach, a new game to get what he wanted from investors like this without her deft touch, her quiet, almost invisible support.
And how soon he would have to face this stubborn thing in him he didn't want to acknowledge: how little he wanted her to leave, and his growing suspicion that it was far less about business than he was comfortable admitting. Even to himself.
"Trust me, Mr. Peck," he heard her say to the self-satisfied gentleman on her left, heir to what remained of a steel fortune in one of those smaller, ugly-named American cities, making the man puff up as if she was sharing a great confidence, "this is the sort of meal that will change your life. Three Michelin stars, naturally. I've made you a reservation for tomorrow at nine."
She straightened then, and her gaze met his down the length of the table, with all of the investors and cigar smoke and concentrated wealth in between them. It was as if the rest of the room was plunged into darkness, as if it ceased to exist entirely, and there was nothing but Drusilla. Nothing but the searing impact of their connection. And he saw the truth on that pretty face of hers he could now read far too well. He felt it kick in him, as if she'd reached across the table, over the remnants of the feast they'd all shared and the money they'd won, and landed a vicious blow with the nearest blunt object. A hard one, directly into his solar plexus.
She hated him. He hadn't thought much of it when she'd said it, as so many people had said the same over the years that it was like so much white noise. But he was beginning to believe she actually meant it. And more, that she thought he was a monster.
None of that was new. None of it was surprising. But this was: he knew full well he'd acted like one.
He'd do well to remember that.
* * *
Much later that night, the investors were finally gone, off to their own debaucheries or beds or both, and Cayo found he couldn't sleep.
He prowled through the suite's great room, hardly noticing the opulence surrounding him, from the paintings that graced the walls of the vast, airy space to the hand-blown light fixtures at every turn and breathtaking antiques littered about. He pushed his way out onto the terrace that wrapped around the suite, offering commanding views across Milan. The spires of the famous Duomo in the city center pierced the night, lit up against the wet, faintly chilly dark. On a clear day the Alps would be there in the distance, snowcapped and beautiful, and he had the fanciful notion he could sense them out there, looming and watchful. But he could see nothing at all but Drusilla. As if she haunted him, and she hadn't even left him yet.