Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
And that was the greatest mistake of his life.
I slide the pen with nimble fingers until it’s fisted in my palm. As if it were a knife, I jam the golden pen into my father’s neck. I settle back into my seat while semi-automatics point in my face. One particularly confident bloke taps the tip of my nose with the sight of his AK-47. Though tension hemorrhages through the expansive room, the only sound is my father coughing and correcting the passage of blood. As Silas stuffs his palm over the abrasion at his neck, I smile at Al Rafi.
“Don’t mind me. That’s how my father and I come to an agreement. In certain societies, people shake hands or sign treaties.” I gesture to the gilded pen, wetting the paper in my father’s life source. “My father and I are a bit aggressive. The puncture was two inches shy of his jugular, so he’ll be just fine. He actually deserves that. True story. He touched my woman a while back. Nothing like you’ve done, Al Rafi. Ha-ha. Just a minor infraction.”
“Si-si-sign,” the sheikh stops to clear his throat, “sign the fucking contract.” The sheikh tucks an index finger at the collar of his suit. “Sign it this instant!”
Your sins are graver, my gander warns as I affably state, “Oh, but I am. Relinquishing my dignity to save the life of my love.”
While my jet glides into the air, the only words Luxury utters are her desire to return to New York. My indispensable butler, temporarily confined to a wheelchair, acquired a home in the Greenwich area and would already be there awaiting us.
The second we arrive in New York, a doctor attends to Luxury’s well-being and bandages my wound. The woman gave Luxury a clean bill of health. Well . . . almost. We will soon know if she is free of any diseases.
As the Phantom roams through the west side of Lower Manhattan, Lux seems to return to the present.
She glares out the window at Washington Square Park. “Where are we?”
“Greenwich Village.”
“Yes, yes.” Her agitated voice is so very unfamiliar. “I asked you to take me home.”
A tightness spreads over my chest. I clear my throat, ignoring the peculiar apprehension, and reply, “Your home is my home, which further suggests that all I own belongs to you, Luxury. Because I've burned bridges with your father, and regardless of the dire circumstances, I wouldn't dream of sleeping in your father’s loft, so we are here. Your new home.”
Silence pursues us for a long moment.
Seconds before I presume the argument is over, Luxury murmurs, “My home is mine, okay?”
“Rubbish.”
Her chest rises in anguish. “Victor, you came to a foreign country, fought to save me . . .” While appreciation melds into her tone, something else is there too. Something sinister. Luxury clears her throat and groans, “But I need time alone.”
“Again, I bloody say rubbish. I’ll not allow you to draw into yourself, Lux. You’ve done this before. Well, not to this extent. But after your mother—”
“We aren’t discussing my momma right now.”
“Alright. You have my word. I won’t touch you or do anything that you consider detestable . . .” What did that arsehole do to my woman? “I’ll give you space, love. But I forbid you from isolating yourself.”
“How’s this for size? I-I cannot recall the girl who was friggen snarky, who said you hadn’t saved her from a bike courier on day one . . .” Pain weaves into Luxury’s cracked voice, her eyes shift away. “I can’t remember her.”
I slide across the leather, desperate to draw my Little One into my arms, love her. Intuition blares that touching her is too soon.
Tenderness washes over my usual tenor as I take her hand. “You've been through a horrific ordeal, Little One.”
A silky palm swats my touch. “I don’t wanna remember that girl, Vic. Because she wasn’t just snarky. She was obsessed with a man she knew couldn’t be hers.”
“Lux—”
“Just listen.” Her slender shoulder settles against the closed door of the vehicle. Every endeavor of hers is to maneuver far, far away from . . . me.
“Your job was to assassinate my father—you and I never should’ve been. I won't even mention Somerhaven or . . .” She stops, shaking her head. “Or Mad—” Luxury pulls tighter into herself. “This is the end for us, Vic. A whirlwind romance. Get on the fucking rollercoaster. Everything is fast, fast, fast until it crashes. We’ve officially smashed to smithereens.”
She can’t even bloody look me in the eye. A jaded gaze perches on my shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me to New York. Right now, the farther I get away from you, the longer I’ll probably survive.” With that, she turns to look out the window.
The chauffeur glances through the rearview mirror, unsure where to proceed. I nod my head for him to continue.