“Ready,” she assures me.
I take her hand, pull in a breath, and start down the stairs to the tarmac.
The humid island breeze ruffles my hair. As I reach up to push it from my forehead with my free hand, I feign delighted surprise to see the men standing by the Jeep.
Thrusting my arm into the air with a wide grin, I shout, “Nostrovia!”
Tony and Thom answer me with matching grins and echo our “let’s get drunk” male-bonding call.
The thugs actually look happy to see me. But then, I do tend to lose enormous sums of money to them in card games whenever we spend enough time together.
Still, their apparent enthusiasm puts my misgivings at ease. At first, it seemed odd to find them waiting for my plane to land, but they don’t seem to suspect a thing.
They’re just happy to see their gambling buddy.
“It’s pronounced Na Zdorovie, and Russians don’t use it for toasts,” Zan says as we wave goodbye to Captain Maddox in the cockpit and start toward the small guardhouse by the airfield gate, dragging our cases behind us. “That’s a Polish thing.”
“Good to know,” I reply through smiling teeth. “But it’s time to take the smarts down a few notches, Sugar Lips.”
“Hard pass on Sugar Lips, Honey Lumps. And why is that? They know you only date bimbos?”
“Because someone who is both fiendishly clever and drop-dead gorgeous attracts the wrong kind of attention. Tends to remind people that genetics are bloody unfair and piss them off in the process.” I open the first gate, nodding as we pass by the sleepy-looking man in the small clapboard structure that serves as security. “And don’t even start with that lump nonsense. I do not have lumps anywhere on my person, honey-flavored or otherwise.”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Your backside is pretty lump-a-licious.”
Hmm…
Well, isn’t that interesting.
Maybe Zan isn’t as impervious to my charms as she’s pretending to be.
I want to stop and press her for more information, to tease her about checking out my ass until I coax that husky laugh from her throat that drives me crazy, but we’re not here for fun or flirting.
I simply make a mental note to wear my tightest pair of pants to dinner and push through the second gate, releasing Zan’s hand and reaching for Tony as he extends thick arms my way.
“Nicky VB, my man!” he shouts in lightly accented English. He’s Italian, but he spends so much time with Thom, a Russian ex-pat, that they both speak English with a hint of a Ruskie accent.
“Brother, good to see you,” I say. We man-hug with vigorous back thumps, and instantly I’m covered in nose-blasting cologne. Infuse it with color and Tony’s stink cloud could probably be spotted from space.
I pull back, giving Thom a similar slap-happy welcome before turning to extend an arm Zan’s way. “Tony, Thom, this is Zee. Zee, meet Tony and Thom, my boys. I can always count on them for a kick-ass poker night.”
I stand back as polite hand-shaking and greetings ensue.
We decided “Zee” was our best bet for Alexandra’s cover name. It’s close enough to “Zan” to explain it away if someone recognizes her as a member of the Rochat royal family, but far enough from Alexandra there’s a chance she’ll sneak by unnoticed. Zan usually doesn’t have trouble sliding by under the radar when she’s undercover, but she isn’t usually paired up with her brother-in-law or fresh off a week of being photographed by the paparazzi, either.
Still, she would prefer not to be pegged as one of the triplet princesses, if possible, and I don’t see any harm in giving it a go.
“If I lose my allowance this week, you’ll find it in their pockets,” I continue once the introductions are over and Tony begins loading our suitcases into the back of the Jeep.
“Well, then I guess I’ll know who to ask to buy me a drink,” Zan says in an excellent bimbo voice—bubbly, fun, and completely nonthreatening.
Tony and Thom laugh and assure her they’ll be happy to buy her a drink. “But everything on the resort is included,” Thom adds, opening the back door on the passenger’s side and extending a hand Zan’s way. “All the champagne you can drink and caviar for breakfast every morning.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing. So fancy,” Zan coos, taking his hand and allowing him to help her into the vehicle.
As she climbs in, Thom’s eyes dip down to check out her ass—which is absolutely lump-a-licious, no doubt about it—and I experience a brief flash of territorial rage.
But I force a grin and push it away.
Party Boy Nick doesn’t notice those sorts of things, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Party Boy Nick is loyal to his three pillars of pleasure—gambling compulsively, drinking too much, and partying with his bros. It’s one of the things that makes him easy to underestimate, and I want these men to keep underestimating me.
Right until the moment I send them to prison, where they won’t be able to check out Zan or any other woman’s ass for a long, long time.
Still, as I circle the vehicle and swing up into the seat beside her, I can’t help putting a possessive hand on her thigh, dragging it closer to mine as the Jeep leaps out onto the dirt road. She bounces in her chair with a giggle and turns to cling to my arm with both hands, her breast pressing against my bicep as she gazes up at me with adoring eyes.
And yes, this is all a performance, but I confess I could get used to Zan looking at me like this, touching me like this.
I could more than get used to it—I could become addicted pretty damned quick.
Chapter Ten
Alexandra
Stefano’s beefy bros show us to our room, insist Nick join them for poker after dinner, and leave us to unpack in one of the most stunning interior spaces I’ve ever seen.
I come from royalty, but we were impoverished royalty. I didn’t see the inside of a hotel room until I was legally an adult, but since then, I’ve spent my fair share of nights in top-tier resorts.
As soon as I started earning a good living from my investments, I made it a point to kidnap Sabrina and Lizzy for fancy-hotel sister time at least twice a year. And Gerg, for all his faults, had excellent taste in vacation destinations.
Considering we were married less than two years, we spent an obscene amount of time at one St. Regis location or another. I’m usually a woman of simple tastes and pleasures—give me a morning on the lake on my stand-up paddleboard or afternoon tea on a pretty patio, and I’m blissfully content—but every once in a while, I enjoy thousand thread count sheets and room service delivered on shiny silver trays.
Gerg and I lived the high life in Italy, France, and Spain, and Sabrina, Lizzy, and I have had pedicures at every fancy hotel in the Alps at least once.
But none of those getaways can compare to the thirty-foot ceilings or the intricate blue-and-yellow tiled walls of this bright, airy room. To the massive bed festooned in golden bedding and surrounded by shimmering mosquito nets that billow around it like a silken cloud. To the thick woven rugs and polished native wood furniture or the expansive balcony with matching lounge chairs facing the shore and a private plunge pool that glitters in the sun.