Page 125 of Filthy Little Games

“Very patriotic, right?” Lorenzo asks. “It was a Fourth of July issue.”

Slamming the pages shut, I glare at him. “Where the fuck did you find this?”

“I did a little digging into Zara’s background after you married her,” he replies while shoving his hands into his pants pockets, looking awfully smug for a man about to bleed out. “Emilio had some modeling contacts. He convinced her to do three issues just like that.”

“I wish I could kill him again, this time with my bare fucking hands,” I growl as I get to my feet. “While I’m gone, I want you to find every issue she’s in, anywhere in the world, and buy it, no matter the cost. I’m going home to pack.”

I take about two steps toward the door before I return to my desk and scoop up the magazine. There’s one other urgent thing I need to do before I pack, thanks to that sexy ass photo. Holding the rolled-up magazine in the air, I ask Dre and Tristan, “Did either of you see my wife naked?”

“No, sir,” Tristan answers. “We wouldn’t dare disrespect you in such a way.”

Dre punches his brother in the chest, hard enough to make him double over. “Lorenzo wouldn’t let us. Not that I wanted a peek.”

Shaking my head as I walk out the office door, I call back, “I want everysinglecopy ever published before I get back, Lorenzo!”

39

Zara

“You look even more beautiful, sun-kissed and relaxed.”

Turning toward his voice, I can’t contain my surprise. “Creed?” Wearing a crisp black suit with a breathtaking view of Assisi behind him, he looks like death going on a relaxing vacation. And god, I’ve missed him. “Wh-what are you doing here?” I scramble off the lounge chair and wrap a towel around my wet one-piece bathing suit.

“Last I checked, I own this property, even if this is the first time I’ve stepped foot on it,” he says as he glances around at the view, sunglasses covering his face. He looks pleased with the impulse purchase he made for at least three million, like a normal person grabbing a Snickers in the grocery store checkout line.

“How have you been?” he asks when he faces me again. I can’t see his blue eyes behind the shades, but he must be checking me over, since he says, “You look well, and healing nicely.”

Again, with the compliments while noticing Izaiah’s name is still written in my flesh, it throws me off-guard. I am healing, at least superficially. When I shower and undress, I refrain from looking in the mirror at the angry, red marks that have run together in a jumble.

“I’m good. Fine. How…how have you been?”

“Good? Fine?” he repeats. His jaw ticks in annoyance. “That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s been great spending weeks with Oriana,” I admit. “But only while I look for a job. In fact, we don’t need this place. It’s too much. You could at least sell or rent out the other house, since the girls and I are all fine living in the stables.”

Ripping off his sunglasses, Creed glares down at me with blue eyes I’ve dreamed of every night. A glint of the sun draws my attention to the wedding band he’s still wearing for some reason, even though he signed and mailed me divorce papers. “You’re living in the fucking stables?”

“What? Oh. That’s just what some of the locals told us it used to be before all the renovations.” Shaking my head because we’ve gotten off topic, I tell him, “Look, Creed, what I’m trying to say is that we appreciate your... hospitality, but we’ll be moving out as soon as I convince someone to give me a job. I worked full time as a manager for a discount store for years. I’m more than happy to do anything in town if I could just get a damn interview.” I continue to babble, “Is employment handled differently here or something? Because the people I talk to in Assisi ignore me like they don’t want to acknowledge me. And if they speak English, they won’t say a word to me. Not that I can blame them. I’m a trashy American with no skills other than ringing up or stocking cheap groceries.”

“You think people won’t speak to you or give you a job because you’re a trashy American?”

“Yes.”

“No,micetta mia.They won’t speak to you about a job because I put out the word to all the businesses not to hire you.”

“Why in the world would you do that? And stop calling meyour pussy. It’s incredibly offensive.” The truth is, I can’t bear to hear the Italian phrase because it breaks my heart, knowing I’m no longer his anything.

“Why do you think I did it, Zara?” He ignores my complaint about the term of endearment.

“So I’ll never be free of you? I’ll just be trapped here for you to show up and taunt me? One second, you’ll be right in front of my face, making me want you, and then missing you when you up and leave days later, going weeks or months without a word from you when you’re back in New York!”

“No, Zara. I told them not to hire you because you deserve a break, to get to know your daughter and spend the days and nights with her. I did it because I love you, and I want you to be happy, to have everything you always deserved.”

“You sent me away!” I shout, maybe a little too quickly, since it takes that long for the fact that he said he loved me to register in my mind. He’s said it before, but when he told me I had to leave the country.

“You know why I did that too. It wasn’t because I don’t care about you. I sent you and Oriana away to keep you safe from me, my enemies, and my lifestyle.”

“And I hate you for it, for not asking me what I wanted or listening to me when I told you not to throw us away.”

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