Page 111 of Remy

“Yeah. The little shit lives with me.” A hint of pride gleams in his eyes before he turns to stare back out the windshield, making it obvious the little shit reference was made with affection. “He sent a photo. Then proceeded to tell me how you were out of my league and that he planned to set you up with the wealthiest bachelor in the club.”

I sit straighter, my heart fluttering for unknown reasons. “But that’s not why you showed up…” I hedge so damn hard and for such stupid reasons that I hate myself.

“You bet it is.” He scowls. “The wealthiest bachelor tonight was Salvatore. I didn’t want you two anywhere near each other.”

Oh, shit.

“Yeah.” He nods as if reading my mind. “It was another stupid call, Ollie. You need to stop making those.”

The weight of regret crushes me.

I hate this—being wrong, feeling inadequate—even though that inadequacy revolves around my knowledge of criminal activity. I just hate everything about this entire situation… except maybe the man who has thrust me into it.

I don’t know what it is about Remy. Why I hold his good deeds at the forefront of my mind and push the horror to the back. How his kind gestures hold so much more weight than his terror.

I struggle to see him as a killer even though I’ve come face-to-face with his handiwork. I can’t align the criminal with the man who has run rings around my head from the first night we met.

It’s all just senseless stupidity.

“I appreciate you agreeing to text me.” I tug at the door handle. “And thank you for saving me again.” I make to push from the Bentley.

He grabs my wrist, the jolt of contact threatening to shake his jacket from my shoulders. “We’re not done.”

I fall back into place to stare down at where he holds me, the rings on his fingers glinting against the car’s soft interior light.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

My insides wage another war, fighting against the memories of what just happened and the idiotic lack of revulsion I feel toward his concern.

“Yes.” My pulse thuds a heavier beat.

His patiently scrutinizing gaze folds me like a pretzel. So intense. So genuine.

I don’t want to feel anything other than loathing for him. But I do.

I shouldn’t welcome the contact. Shouldn’t crave his care.

“I don’t want you here alone.” He keeps hold of me, the contact more than just a touch. “You should stay with a friend tonight.”

I’m not going to tell him the only friends I have are currently back at his club, probably worrying about my whereabouts if the short, sharp vibrations from my cell are any indication.

Instead, I nod. “Maybe I will.”

His fingers loosen, lingering on my arm like low-voltage live wires. “Want me to call them for you? Given the circumstances I should call your dad but?—”

“No.” I climb out of the car, the thought of my father hearing about this making my crummy dinner of stale crackers and sliced cheese threaten to evacuate my stomach. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

The slight hike of his brow is a glowing red flag that he doesn’t believe the lie.

“You should return to the beautiful woman you were with.” I strive for a distraction. “I’m sorry I ruined your date.”

He stares at me, his expression unflinching. “You didn’t.”

Great. It’s good to know my attack isn’t going to sideline his sex life. It should be no surprise that he’s confident the flawless woman is patiently waiting for him back in his den of criminality.

“Well, goodnight.” I finger-wave like a loser. “Thanks for the memories.”

His nostrils flare. “We’re still not done.” He reaches for his right hand and wiggles the ring from his index finger. “Do you have a chain?”

---