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She’s inside, making full use of the king-size bed she has all to herself, sprawled out and fast asleep. My hand hesitates on the knob. Maybe I should stay here . . .
I shake my head and close the door, but not before stealing one last glance.
I check all the locks on the doors to the outside once more then head out. We’re probably safer on this remote, private island than anywhere in June Harbor.
Compared to the rest of the tropical resort, Libidine is the night to the day. Angels are left on the sun-soaked beach while in here, demons come out to play.
Sex, lust, power. It all hangs in the air like a cloud of sin, filling your lungs and muddling your mind. The proof is all around me. One patron is passionately kissing a woman in a leather bodysuit while a man in a matching leather mask is on his knees, sucking the patron’s cock. A few stools down from me at the bar, a man has his hand up a woman’s skirt as she gasps into her drink, her eyes rolling back. There’s no room for inhibitions, only fantasies turned into reality.
I use the mirror behind the bar to keep tabs on the brothers, lounging in a black leather booth, smoking cigars. Jeffery seems relaxed, shamelessly ogling every woman who passes their table, while Clark keeps a straight back and seems to scan the room as if on alert. When Jeffery whispers something to him, he settles into the deep seat and finally lets his shoulders loosen.
It takes sipping half an old fashioned until something of note happens. A slender blonde woman approaches the table with forced confidence. Her chin juts unnaturally high, and she tries to discreetly wipe her palms on her slick fuchsia dress. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that real confidence can’t be faked.
To my surprise, she walks right past them, not even sparing them a cold glance. I don’t know how she’s involved in this, but despite her blatant disregard, my gut tells me she must be at the center of it.
The seat next to me at the bar is pulled out and a tall, stocky man sits, blocking my view of the woman. His face rings a bell, but it’s not until he speaks that I’m able to place him.
His accent is thick, Eastern European, and gravelly, like he’s smoked a pack a day for decades. “Keep your eyes on your own woman, huh?”
Ilya Jakšic, along with his brothers and cousins, run the Serbian mafia. Our organization doesn’t interact much with them, but we always make a point to keep tabs on the global power players—which he certainly is. That must make the blonde his new wife, Marcella. Word is she’s an oil heiress, less than half his age, and was basically sold off by her father for drilling rights in Jakšic territory.
“I’m Aiden Fox’s son, Lochlan,” I hold out my hand. The Jakšics are known for being ridiculously overprotective of their women, and I figured a change of topics as soon as possible would be the best route. He must be pushing sixty years old, but he still looks tough as nails and mean as hell. His nose is crooked, and his ears are like cauliflower from his youth as a pro fighter.
Acknowledgment flashes in his eyes, and his harsh scowl partially softens. “Good man, your father.” He flags the bartender who immediately pours two vodka shots. Ilya pushes one to me and raises the other. “Pocivaj u miru.”
The liquor is smooth and cold, an icy burn as it slides down my throat. The man gives me a parting nod before standing and following his woman. I watch him leave, feeling even more uneasy about this potential situation than before. The Jakšics are brutal, volatile, and absolutely ruthless.
If there is bad blood between them and the Mauldins, I need to find out before this whole island is painted red and it becomes our problem.
Sweat drips down my back as I walk back from the gym the next morning. When I left Stella earlier, she was on the villa patio doing work. Though she said she only had one small thing to complete, I’m not surprised to find her two hours later on a call. I instantly recognize my brother’s voice on the other end.
“Stella is out of the office,” I holler so he can hear me.
She turns her phone around so we can see each other. “Well, someone has to return my calls if you won’t.” I can tell by the bags under his eyes and impatience in his tone that Niamh must still be going through sleep regression. Cash gave me an earful about it before we left, all but made a PowerPoint.
I use the hem of my tee to wipe my brow. “We’ve been here for twenty-four hours, Cash. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“My panties are perfectly fine—god, I need to sleep.” He groans at the words that just left his mouth.
“Yeah, sounds like you should go.” I wave and pull off my sweaty shirt, heading to the bathroom.
I hear them exchange words as I walk away, and then Cash says, “Stop eye fucking my brother, Stella.”
I smile to myself, internally preening because when she denies it in an octave too high, I know for certain she was.1
I step into the shower while the water is still cold. The jolting temperature against my hot skin makes chills ripple down my arms. But it’s not enough of a shock to clear my head of the urge—the desperate fucking need—to turn Cash’s observation to the real thing again. My fists knot in my hair as I stand under the frigid water, my chest an inferno threatening to burn me to ashes.
My thoughts ping back and forth between last night’s reconnaissance and the ever-present thoughts of Stella.
I want more than just one searing night. I’m trying my damnedest to not push too fast. If I do, she’ll only dig in her heels. Stella never does anything without calculating the risk, reward, and analyzing all possible outcomes. It’s why Cash has been trying to get her to move up from the Den for years. Summerland wasn’t the first promotion he offered her.
Maybe she’s just not that into me . . . The thought is caustic and bitter.
I have to believe she’s fighting the same repressed feelings I am because the alternative hurts like a bitch.
But if I’m right, I can’t throw myself at her before she’s ready to dive in headfirst too. If I do, all bets are off. She’ll put her foot down. I don’t mind her stepping on me but . . . fuck. My dick rises at the thought of her above me.
A vivid picture takes shape in my mind: her digging the sharp heel of her shoe into my leg as I sit on the foot of a bed. Her foot drags up my thigh until she pushes me onto my back with a heel to my chest.
