Aimee clicked upon one of the first messages exchanged between the two men. It was entitled “Your Opinion?” and had been sent by Enrico himself. Her eyes danced over the words, and her breath caught in her throat with immediate excitement.
Thomas,
It was a real pleasure to meet you the other evening at the Delacroix. I do feel regretful that you’re ending your association with Max Delacroix, as he is a good man, but his addiction is indeed a concern to many of us in the community.
As discussed, in the upcoming months, I will be making a bid upon the new plot which is soon to be opening up. I wish to make a secret bid, one that doesn’t reach the ears of my competitors, if my plan to build another casino is ever to succeed.
I’d like your opinion about the amount I should put down, based on current market trends. I’ve attached several sheets for your review.
Please, let me remind you that this is top-secret information. Your discretion is appreciated.
Regards,
Enrico Fonti
Aimee clicked straight through to Thomas’ response, which spoke of his dissatisfaction with her father—which wasn’t unexpected—and his thoughts on Enrico’s funds and potential bid.
As the email chain stretched on, Aimee found a final message, from the week before, highlighting the precise amount that Enrico wished to clear from his account for a bid on the land.
The amount, just over three billion dollars, caused Aimee to gasp. “Three billion?!”
Her voice echoed around the room, causing her head to spin. She’d forgotten where she was: seated in her underwear, at Enrico’s computer, spying. Her skin crawled with fear.
She bit her lip, reeling in waves of sudden indecision. With this information, she could allow Duchamp to rule Monte Carlo for another 30 years. And yet, after the night she’d had with Enrico—dancing, kissing in the back of his limousine, giggling with him, almost as if they’d known each other for years—gave her pause. She was beginning to fall for him. She felt her stomach ache with desire. She felt that sizzling anticipation that alerted her she was feeling something real, something tangible. It had been far too long since she’d felt like a girl in love. She longed to wrap the moment up, not to let it go.
But the terror of her father’s debts came crashing down on her shortly after. She closed her eyes, imagining Hotel Delacroix coming to a very real end. She imagined movers coming, heaving the antique mirrors she and her mother had picked out into moving vans, to one auction or another. She imagined sitting on the hotel stoop, her head hanging in her hands, aching with nostalgia. She imagined kissing her father on the cheek, explaining that her life existed in Seattle now—that she didn’t have the money to remain. That she had to abandon him, to pick up the pieces of herself and form something else.
She had no choice.
She lifted herself from the laptop, shutting it, allowing darkness to overtake the room. Her feet itched with desire to run, to flee. She needed to take this information to Duchamp as soon as possible.
And yet, her passion stirred, her unquenched desire made her stomach twist. She remembered the feeling of Enrico’s breath upon her neck, and she squeezed her eyes closed, hardly conscious of the time ticking away. She brought her fingers over her skin, feeling her goosebumps.
Could she make love to him, could she gaze into those dark, passionate eyes, and still know that she was going to deceive him?
She stood from the desk, shaking with uncertainty. And, as she stood in the darkness, she heard light footfalls in the hallway. She heard a strong hand press against the door. And she listened, her eyes growing wide, as the door cracked open.
There, standing before her, was Enrico Fonti himself. His eyes were penetrating, angry. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning heavily upon his left foot. His head tilted slightly as he looked her up and down.
Finally, he opened his mouth. Aimee wanted to lift her finger to his lips, to tell him she wouldn’t deceive him, to tell him she’d take it all back. But her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her breath came in shudders.
“I see you’ve found my office,” he said, his voice gruff. He took a step toward her, and the air between them grew hotter. “If you had any interest in my business operations, you should have asked me yourself.”
Aimee bit her lip, her eyes dancing toward the exit. Beyond the door, she saw where her green dress lay, splayed out, an abandoned memory of a different time.
“Now, Aimee,” Enrico said brusquely. He placed his hands upon her bare shoulders, gazing into her eyes with a deadly mix of anger and passion. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
NINE
Aimee felt choked. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move from his grasp. His fingers were gripping her tightly, preventing her from fleeing. “I—”
“All right, then,” he whispered. “Duchamp sent you here, didn’t he? To discover how much I bid for the land. He hijacked you. I should have known,” he breathed. “He has eyes everywhere. I should have known he would get into my home by any means necessary. I should have known he could have eyes in my office. Jesus.”
Enrico shook his head, finally releasing Aimee. She fell back, crumpling to the floor. She kept her eyes on the floor, quaking with anxiety.
She’d failed. She’d failed herself. She’d failed her father. And, perhaps worst of all, she’d failed Enrico. She swiped the back of her hand over her face as tears began to course down her cheeks. She knew she probably looked a mess, her makeup everywhere, her eyes full of guilt and pain.
“Dammit,” Enrico said, his hands balling into fists. “I thought you were different, Aimee. You, with your little act about feeling too nervous to sleep with me. I assumed you were different than the money-grabbing women who inhabit my casino. The women who only care for fancy dinners and luxury. I don’t know about you, Aimee, but I felt something when I met you. You’re an intelligent woman. You have a spark about you. And I thought—I thought that was real.” He shrugged, disappointment bleeding through him.
Aimee bit her lip, hard. She ached, yearning to tell him he was right—that there was something real, something unique between them. She staggered, searching for words.
“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered, her voice like a child’s.
Enrico spun toward her. The moonlight shone on his abs, highlighting the muscles above his waist. His mouth was set, his jawline prominent. He was huffing, brimming with masculinity, and Aimee couldn’t tear her eyes off of him.
“You’ve left me no choice,” he said gruffly. “Two days from now, my bid—the one you’ve just read—will be finalized.”
“Three billion dollars,” Aimee whispered, her eyes wide.