Gabriel
Goddammit.
I don't need this from Riley, not tonight. Not when my lawyer and two men involved in taking down the Russian hitman in Georgia were waiting to conduct business.
She'd waltzed down those stairs and out the door, all blonde hair and pouty lips, with eyes that were devilishly flirtatious. The men couldn't help but stare. None of us could. Even Andre, who is gay, was captivated by her.
But goddammit. Why did she have to defy me on a night when I had a million fucking details to take care of?
She'd even had the audacity to kiss me in front of everyone. Like she was claiming me as hers. Normally, I wouldn't mind. But tonight, it was infuriating.
Mostly because all I could imagine was dragging her into the office, tearing off that ridiculous jumpsuit of hers, and fucking her hard from behind. Our recent forced dry spell had me simultaneously going out of my mind with lust, and feeling a deep well of guilt because my insatiable libido had caused Riley's body to riot and develop an infection.
In short, I had practically fucked the poor girl to death and I needed to give her a break.
Oh, sure, the doctor said it happens frequently, and infections like hers occur in many women. But that didn't make me feel any better. I'd hurt her. Seeing her in pain in that hospital bed still sends waves of shame crashing through me.
That doesn't mean I'm any less angry right now, though.
Where the hell had she gone?
From the way she was dressed, in black, looking artsy and cool, there was only one answer.
Catherine's party.
And that was another thing: Cath. Her presence seemed to stir Riley up, and now here she was, going out when she should be resting. Probably drinking when she shouldn't. What the hell, Cath?
I lead the group of men into my office, sighing silently along the way.
Once the door is closed, I begin to pace the room. "What's the latest? Tell me everything that happened."
One of the guys clears his throat. "We carried out the hit. No civilians were involved."
"Excellent. When do we expect the police to find the body?" It's always good to know details like this. I hate to be unprepared.
As the guy talks about how the safe house was on a desolate road, set apart from neighbors, my mind is a million miles away. I find myself imagining Riley at the party, surrounded by people in the art world – some beautiful, some eccentric -– as she flirts with one after another. I also wonder if others in the underworld know Catherine has returned to Florida, and is hanging around, hoping for information about her late father's businesses.
Those people are my major concern. And I know that if I'm not there to protect Riley, or Catherine then something sinister is sure to happen. Catherine can handle herself, but together with Riley, I'm not so sure.
I wrench my concentration back into the room. My lawyer scans the headlines in Savannah, then says a local TV station has covered the discovery of a body.
"Let's see if it's our body," I order.
There's a flurry of activity while they hook up the lawyer's phone to the wide-screen television on the wall. Thankfully, that doesn't take too long, and we all stare at the report my lawyer had pulled up on the internet.
A bare-bones local television news report flashes on the screen, about a dead body being found under suspicious circumstances. A wide shot of a farmhouse on a dirt road pops up.
"Yep, that's the place," one of my guys says. "Looks like they found him. Probably someone needed him for another job, and went looking for him. Surprise, motherfuckers."
I click off the television. "Nice job, guys. Let's keep our ears to the ground. I want to know any time a Russian sets foot in this city."
My men respond with gruff affirmations. They're as upset as I am about the restaurant shooting, probably because it cuts them off from their source of the city's best meatballs — and because they know it could've been them sitting at that table.
They begin to banter, and I pour everyone glasses of whisky.
All the while, however, my thoughts keep wandering back to Riley and what she might be doing right now. Is she drinking? Is she flirting? Has anyone made any moves on her? The thought makes me want to rip someone's head off their shoulders.
The conversation turns to other business matters, about foot soldiers falling in line, making money, and new business opportunities.
By the time we finally wrap up the meeting it's getting late into the night and I can feel my phone buzzing against my thigh with texts coming in from various contacts linked to tonight's business dealings. But all I want right now is to brood and sit with my anger, sickeningly aware of how vulnerable Riley is amidst all that alcohol and temptation at Catherine's party.
I could, of course, go to Catherine's party. Show up and force Riley to come home with me.
But no. Not tonight. I'd done that once for her, in a very public way, and I'm not doing it again. I have too much dignity for that.
No, this evening, Riley will have to bear the full brunt of my anger. I hate that it has to be so soon after her hospital release, but she deserves my wrath this time. She's being a brat, defying me in my own home, and I have to correct her in the strongest way possible.
I'm done being Mr. Nice Guy, babe.
It doesn't help that I can't shake this feeling of dread clawing up along my spine like a spider each time I think of Riley being out there – while the Russians are out there, hell bent on my destruction.
"One moment," I say to my assembled guests as I step behind my desk. "I must remind my assistant of something."
I quickly text Andre, asking him to come into the office. Less than a minute later, he does.
"Yes, sir?" he asks. Despite his obvious soft spot for Riley, Andre's a model of efficiency.
I lean close to him, murmuring so the other men can't hear. "Send someone to Catherine's party at the gallery. If Riley shows up, I want a full accounting of what she's doing, who she's talking to, and when she leaves. Make sure someone follows her when she leaves, and most importantly, ensure that no one follows her here."
# # #
Riley
Once I find Catherine, everything is fine. Better than fine. Hilarious. She folds me into a giant hug, squealing. I cackle in response. Everything all of a sudden feels wild and out of control.
"How did you get away from Gabriel?" she shrieks.
I smirk saucily. "I walked out the front door. He was busy anyway, with a meeting or business or whatever."
"Look at you, you little rebel. I'm so glad you're here, though. Cocktail?" She points to the bar, where there are three glasses of amber liquid that look as though they're on fire, all lined up in fancy glasses.
"No, I've already gone against doctor's orders and had a glass of champagne as I walked in. I only have one liver, you know."
She rolls her eyes. "Livers can regenerate. Or, I can give you part of mine."
I clutch her arm and laugh. "No, that's okay. I'll just have a soda."
"Fine. But come see the drinks."
She leads me over to the bar and we ooh and ahh over the smoky cocktails. I get my soda and we stand in the corner gossiping like teenagers. She tells me that there are two art collectors from Miami here tonight, and they're interested in her doing a show in that city.
As she talks, her face lights up. She's almost a different person now, much more bubbly and approachable. Or perhaps we've come to some informal, unspoken truce. That Gabriel's my boyfriend, and she's someone from his past that I can live with.
Whatever it is, I'm here for it, and I'm enjoying being around her tonight — and in this packed gallery party. Somehow I'm even having such a good time that I don't ask about why she's used my boyfriend as a muse. That isn't a question for tonight.
There are others, though, that are.
"Oh, by the way. Do you know a guy named Beckett Sinclair?" I ask.
She scrunches up her nose. Tonight she's wearing a dramatic black ball gown and a fascinator hat. I think she's channeling a 1920s Art Deco vibe, but I'm not entirely certain because I don't know my historical time periods.
"No, I don't think so. What does he look like? Is he hot?" She takes a sip of her drink.
"Yeah, I guess." I describe his face, and where he said he works.
"Doesn't ring a bell, but I put flyers everywhere on this block for the party. C'mon, I'll introduce you around."
With her arm threaded through mine, we strut around the room. It seems like she's made a lot of acquaintances in her short amount of time back in the city. She introduces me as "the best features writer the city of Tampa's ever seen," which makes me scoff and blush. But her words are so kind and sincere that I'm appreciative, and several people give me their business cards, telling me to call them for story ideas.
For a solid hour, we work the room together, laughing, joking, and chatting about art and nothing too heavy. Oddly, that Beckett Sinclair guy is nowhere to be found, but I guess he could've come and gone. It's just as well, because I've chatted up so many interesting people. Gone are my worries about the mafia, murders, and my kidney — although I know I need to cut my night short.
My body's feeling exhausted. It's telling me that I need to rest. After all, I was just released from the hospital earlier today. I hope this doesn't deplete me or set me back, and I'm hoping that the mental boost from the interesting conversation and laughter will help more than hurt.
Eventually, I pull Catherine aside. "I need to go."
Her face crumples. "Nooo," she wails. "We're having so much fun. I really like you. Is it because of Gabriel? I'll deal with him."
I shake my head. "No, I'm feeling tired all of a sudden. I need to rest."
"Oh, you poor thing. I'll come over tomorrow or Sunday and we can have lunch, okay? I'll text you."
I nod and fold her into a big hug. "And I forgot your sunglasses."
She tips her head back and laughs. "Don't worry about it."
'Thank you for getting me out of the house tonight."
She steps back and makes a funny grin. "Thank you for being my only true friend in the city. We'll have more adventures soon."
After another hug, I make my way to the car, carefully checking to see if anyone's following me on the street. For some reason, the piercing eyes of Beckett Sinclair are still burned into my brain, and when I don't see anyone, I sprint across the road and into my car, speeding off.
Now comes the real challenge: dealing with Gabriel.