“I’m good. I’ll check my messages, listen to some music.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’m currently infatuated with Alabama Shakes, so take your time.”
Rafe swung out of the car, then leaned back in. “Want me to bring the band to the island?’’
How sweet was that? Nicole smiled. “Maybe when your life slows down.”
“You gotta deal.” Blowing her a kiss, he shut the door, loped across the small stretch of pavement, nodded to the doorman who held open the door, then spoke to a smiling, well-dressed young woman at the desk in the lobby. Someone had made an appointment for him with Mr. Balthus at eleven, he explained in French, the predominant language in Geneva.
Taking the manned elevator up two floors, Rafe walked into Balthus’s anteroom more or less on time, smiled at another glossy, well-dressed receptionist, and said, “Hugo’s expecting me. Rafe Contini.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Contini. I’ll let Mr. Balthus know you’re here.”
The beautiful blonde was model perfect, although in this business, she had to have academic credentials too. But knowing Hugo, she served more than one purpose. Not that he was particularly virtuous, but then, he wasn’t married for a reason.
She looked up from the intercom. “Would you like coffee, espresso, tea, Mr. Contini?”
“No thank you.” Another smile, a glance at his watch to let her know he didn’t want to wait.
She hesitated.
Knowing Hugo, he was going to be kept waiting out of sheer boorishness. “Why don’t I just go in,” he said, moving toward the inner door.
Startled, she jumped to her feet and lifted her hand as though to deter him.
“Hugo and I are old friends,” Rafe murmured, walking past her. “He won’t mind. Will you, Hugo,” he said a second later, shutting the door behind him and smiling at the man who’d come to his feet and was scowling at him. “I’m afraid I frightened your receptionist. I don’t like to wait.” Giving credence to his statement, he strode directly toward the desk. “How’s everything going? I haven’t seen you since the polo tournament in Deauville. Wife and children fine? You all looked cheerful that day.” Rafe waved his hand toward the framed family photos on a shelf behind the desk. “By the way, how old are your daughters?”
The banker’s gaze narrowed. “Why the hell would you care?”
“Relax, I’m just making conversation.”
“Since you own your own bank, I doubt it. Why are you here?” Balthus didn’t even attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.
Rafe came to a stop. “Christ, not even an offer of a drink or a chair? What kind of business do you run?”
“A very profitable one,” the banker snapped.
Unmoved by Hugo’s insolence, Rafe stepped between the desk and one of the Empire chairs meant for clients, sat, leaned back, and pointed. “Sit,” he said mechanically as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, hit an icon, returned his phone to his pocket, looked up, and smiled. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable standing,” Balthus said, indignation tightening his mouth.
Hugo was dressed in a banker’s unimpeachable uniform: double-breasted, navy pin-striped suit, blue Winchester shirt, red executive tie. A big man, he’d been proud of his size at Lucerne, his bullying not confined exclusively to Basil. He stood sharply upright now, like an evangelist about to denounce sinners. Under the circumstances, Rafe found the mental image ironic. “Suit yourself.” Rafe jabbed a finger toward the faint buzzing sound emerging from Hugo’s jacket. “You might want to look at your phone. I just sent you some photos.” Rafe saw Hugo’s gaze flicker as his private phone, known only to family, vibrated in his pocket.
“And if I don’t care to look?” he said, still blustering.
“Then I’ll send the photos to your wife.”
Hugo’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Blackmail?”
“Such a dirty word,” Rafe murmured. “I like to think of it as a mutually satisfying business arrangement. Take a look. The photos might not be a problem. You know your marital situation better than I do. Maybe your wife doesn’t care if you’re fucking her little sister. At least Monique’s eighteen, right? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it was her birthday the first time and your wife was skiing at Gstaad. I like the birthday cake picture. I’d never seen that side of you, Hugo. Such a thoughtful brother-in-law.”
Rafe watched Balthus as he spoke, saw the man’s face turn an unhealthy shade of pale as he flicked through the photos. Saw him sit down hard, his desk chair creaking under the sudden weight. Saw the sweat break out on his forehead.
Rafe stopped talking and looked around the room as he waited for Hugo to understand how complicated his life had become.
It was an impressive office; heavy walnut paneling, deeply carved moldings, coffered ceiling, discreet gilding—nothing too ostentatious for this type of bank. The plush carpet was subdued in color, the furniture genuine Empire, the upholstery subtle shades of green and umber. The framed paintings on the walls were landscapes by minor masters, as if the firm’s founders were afraid their clients might be tempted to poach works of greater value.
Good God, was that a whimper?
Rafe’s gaze returned to the man behind the desk. “If you’ve seen enough,” he said mildly, “I’d like to talk business.” Nicole was waiting, Carlos was waiting, his jet was waiting. Hugo was just one small part of a much larger game.
Balthus’s jaw had gone slack. He visibly pulled himself together, set down his phone, and looked up. “What do you want?” he croaked.
“I need one of your accounts shut down.” Rafe held up a finger as Hugo began to protest. “You can keep the money. I don’t want it. I just need the account holder blocked from accessing the funds. He probably won’t live long, so look on the bright side. You do me a favor and your management fee on that transaction is going to be a hundred percent.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.” The banker’s voice was uneasy, his eyes full of fear. “We have procedures that—”
“I’m sure there’s an override for your more confidential transactions,” Rafe interposed quietly. “It’s your wife’s family’s bank after all, and you’re one of the directors. But your decision, of course.” Rafe sat up, leaning forward slightly. “I’d be more than happy to send those hard-core photos to your wife. I’ve never liked you. So if she leaves you penniless, more power to her. And consider,” he added softly, “if that happens, little Monique will find someone richer to fuck her up the ass. Your dick isn’t worth a middle-class life.” He flashed a smile. “Just a guess from those pictures.”
“I could notify the authorities.” But even Hugo’s voice indicated the lie.
“Feel free—if you want the authorities looking into your secret banking. The account I want shut down is completely illegal, the money stolen from a government without scruples, one that might decide to get it back through any means necessary. Think about it. Torture is a nasty business. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Torture?” Hugo’s voice cracked.
“Count on it. I’ll personally send them a note.”
“You’ve always been a son of a bitch,” Balthus hissed, pure hatred in his eyes.
Rafe stared back. “Takes one to know one.” Then he tapped his watch. “I’m in a hurry. So either do it or I’m leaving. I don’t have time to fuck around.”
Silence.
Rafe came to his feet, stood for a second, then turned and walked away. He was reaching for the door latch when he finally heard what he’d always known he would.
“Wait.”
He opened the door instead, because Hugo Balthus was and always had been one of the biggest assholes in the world.
“Wait, wait!” There was panic in the banker’s voice. “Don’t go!”
Rafe counted slowly to ten—for Basil, he thought. Then he closed the door and turned. “You want something?” His voice was chill.
“I’ll do it. I’ll d
o it. Jesus, come back. Fuck…just give me a second.”
“I don’t have a second. Turn on your computer.” Rafe moved back to the desk, took out a small notecard from his coat pocket, and slid it across the polished desktop. “That’s the account number.”
Hugo ran his palm over his sweaty forehead, then back over the smooth blond hair he kept longer than most bankers would out of vanity. “Jesus, if someone notices.”
“Tell them your wife owns the fucking bank. It’s a real chunk of change, Hugo. Grow a pair. Call it your retirement fund. Your wife might catch you fucking her sister someday. You haven’t been very careful. Just a word to the wise. Tone it down at home, okay? You’re really taking a chance whipping that little girl in your own bed.”
“How the hell did you get those photos?” The banker’s voice was uneven, shaky.
“None of your business. What do you need—a password, finger scan, retina scan? Just do it. Right the fuck now,” Rafe growled. “Or I’ll see that you’re screwed for life.”
Rafe stood behind Balthus as he logged on to his terminal, used a retina scanner to open the system, then keyed in the account number and locked it down. The no-access code a discreet line of four numbers and two letters that Rafe had Hugo explain twice so he understood that they were specific to that account. “A Russian found this account,” Rafe warned before he left. “If you didn’t shut it down, he’ll find that out too. You wouldn’t want that to happen. Clear?”
Hugo looked at him with murder in his eyes. But he answered, “Yes.”
Rafe walked out without another word, nodded at the receptionist as he passed, and took the stairs rather than the elevator. He needed a few minutes to get over the fierce rage that always overcame him when dealing with vicious, venal people like Hugo. The man was devoid of humanity, or shame for that matter. His heart pounding, Rafe suddenly felt nauseous as the uncompromising violence of that school year in Lucerne broke into his thoughts with total clarity. He stopped, steadied himself with a hand against the marble wall, took a deep breath, and felt a powerful urge to go back upstairs and beat the living shit out of Hugo.
He could.
Zou’s account was closed now.
It wouldn’t matter.
But he quickly calculated personal vengeance against his responsibilities and stifled his headstrong impulse. The stupidity Hugo was engaged in with his sister-in-law would bite him in the ass soon enough anyway. Let Hugo’s wife be his proxy for revenge.
Rafe was pulling off his tie with one hand and unbuttoning the top button on his shirt with the other as he strode toward his waiting car. The moment he slid into the backseat, he pulled Nicole into his arms and softly exhaled. “Thank God you’re normal,” he whispered into her hair. Then he dragged in a breath, looked up, said to Simon, “The airport,” and lifted her onto his lap. “Now give me a rundown of a normal day in your normal life in your normal world back home in San Francisco. Any day. Start with breakfast.”
“Bad meeting?”
“I wanted to kill the guy.”
“In that case, let me tell you about a day at the beach. And you tell me that you’ll come surfing with me someday. And we’ll both pretend life is grand.”
He laughed. “You first. Hey, hey, I’m coming, I promise. I like to surf.”
“Okay, then. Where I live, the best surfing’s at Half Moon Bay,” she began.
He didn’t actually listen other than to the soft, melodic rhythm of her words. He just held her close, inhaled the scent of her shampoo, cologne, maybe just her natural sweetness, and tried to forget he even knew people like Hugo and Zou. Only when his pulse finally stopped racing did he realize she’d stopping talking. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Head trip goin’ on.” Sliding his tie around the back of her neck, he wrapped the moss green silk around his fist and tugged her closer in an effortless act of ownership. “You mine?” An initial gentleness underlay his query, but before she could answer, he said brusquely, “You’re mine, pussycat. End of story.” His fist involuntarily tightened, drawing her closer, his expression grave, intent, a narrowed slant to his eyes.
“I wouldn’t have said no,” she whispered, wanting to erase the frown lines from his forehead.
He tried to smile. “Couldn’t take a chance.” Sliding a finger under her chin, he lifted her face, bent to kiss her, then just short of her lips slipped into his default setting—the one that made the world go still for a moment and let him forget. “Feel like a nap on the flight back?”
“A nap?”
He felt her smile, felt an overwhelming relief that she was still part of his world for a few more days. “Maybe a little personal massage thrown in,” he said, his voice lighter now, the bad shit beginning to switch off. “Wherever you like.” He gave her lip a little nip. “Or better yet, wherever I like…”
Davey was watching a movie when they entered the plane. Flicking it off, he came to his feet. “Back to the island?”
Rafe nodded. “Simon’s right behind us. Long wait to take off?”
“Fifteen minutes. Your meeting went okay?”
“Done deal, that’s all that matters.” He held Davey’s gaze. “It’s always a pissing contest with Hugo. We’re going to take it easy now,” he said, turning to smile at Nicole before glancing back at Davey. “We’ll see you in Split.”
“There’s a fresh bottle of Macallan in your bedroom.”
Rafe smiled. “You anticipate me.”
“Remember, I saw Hugo in action in Deauville. Figured you might need it.”
A steward stood beside the door to Rafe’s suite of rooms. “Your breakfast is on the table. The buffet is for Miss Parrish.”
“Thanks, Konsta.”
“If you need anything—”
“We’ll manage, thanks. A little peace and quiet is on my agenda. Unless you want something special to eat,” Rafe said, turning to Nicole.
She shook her head.
The steward leaned over and opened the door.
Rafe waved Nicole in, followed her ,and the door shut behind them with a soft click.
“Your staff all look—solid. Dependable.” Capable of snapping someone’s neck.
“They are,” Rafe replied in a cursory way, surveying the array of breakfast choices on the table as he shrugged out of his suit coat. “Would you like to eat first?”
“Have you always had bodyguards?”
His gaze swiveled back. “I’m sorry. Would you like Konsta to stay out of sight? It’s not a problem.” He tossed his coat on a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“No, he’s fine. I was just wondering.”
“My mother hired Carlos when I was twelve. So yeah, since then, I’ve always had bodyguards.” When he’d taken possession of his grandfather’s trust at sixteen, he’d begun hiring his own men. A flash of a smile. “I’m waiting to hear what normal people do on a normal day—people without bodyguards.” He slid his shirt off and dropped it on top of his suit coat. “Feel like grounding me in a more benign reality?”
“Sure.” She gave her head a little shake. “Although I’m not sure you’ll relate to very much of it,” she noted, kicking off her sandals. “Are you going to eat or do I have to hurry?” She pointed at her dress.
“No rush.” He smiled. “I’m just getting comfortable so you can tell me about your life back home in San Francisco. Why don’t you eat, I’ll have a drink. Let me help you with your zipper,” he added, abstractly, as though operating on dual streams of consciousness. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her around, unzipped her dress, and as his fingers slid over the soft curve of her spine, he suddenly came to his senses. His adrenaline pumping furiously, he stepped back from the deep, dark lure of mindless lust.
She turned around, surprised at his withdrawal. “You okay?”
“I will be.” His voice was tense, barely under control. “Talk to me while I have a drink or two.” He touched her arm lightly, just two fingers. “I’ll calm down. Seeing Hugo stirs up a lot of shitty me
mories,” he said, rather than try to explain the truly messed-up mysteries of his life.
He watched her slide her dress off her shoulders and down her hips, followed the yellow fabric as it slid to the floor, then looked up and smiled. As always, the word stunning came to mind when he saw her nude, or semi-nude, wearing only tiny white lace panties. “There you go. The perfect refocus.” He held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get some food and take it into the bedroom. I’ll watch you eat, then you can take my mind off my troubles.”
“You should eat something, too.”
“Okay.”
“Wow. Am I in charge today?”
“Aren’t you always?”
She laughed. “You must want me bad.”
“I always do. No surprise today. But seriously ,eat something first. We have a couple hours.”
Nicole selected a small quiche with sausage and herbs, a bowl of strawberries, and a mango smoothie. “How did the steward know I like smoothies?”
Rafe looked up, a tray of toast squares topped with caviar in his hand. “Want me to ask Konsta?”
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone just takes care of you?”
He didn’t want to argue, so he didn’t say that he oversaw six homes with staff around the world, not to mention offices in Geneva, London, and Mumbai. “I guess I’m just lucky.” He smiled and half lifted his hand toward the double doors into his bedroom. “Might I interest you in a more comfortable locale? One closer to my whiskey? Here, give me your smoothie. I’ll carry it.”
Moments later, Rafe had finished undressing; her panties came off with a couple wiggles of her hips and they were settled on his bed. Nicole sat cross legged in the center, her plate in her lap, her smoothie on the bedside table next to Rafe’s Macallan. Rafe rested against the padded red linen headboard in close proximity to his whiskey. He’d downed two glasses more quickly than the fine liquor warranted, then pointed at the tray of caviar on toast beside him on the bed. “Want some?”