Page 2 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

Nero Andretti is the most infuriating, smug, self-centered man that I have ever encountered, I decide, as I pause just before I turn the corner to the pool area. My temper is only rising as the midday sun beats down on the back of my neck, and I have to consciously calm my breathing, drawing in a slow breath through my nose. The air is thick with the competing scents of chlorine and the jasmine trailing over the pool house.

Max Pedretti said I’d find him here at the pool—and of course I would, I might as well have saved Pedretti the trouble and come to check here first. The pool area is Nero’s favorite spot. He can lounge and tan while the garden staff sweat through their honest work, including me. I’ve spent the last month carefully coaxing that jasmine to frame the pool house, training the delicate vines along the custom-made trellises as Nero yawned and watched. The flowering vines are part of my larger vision to enhance this section of the estate as a Mediterranean-inspired retreat.

I hated working under Nero’s eyes for so long. It made me clumsy and self-conscious. Today I intend to make him feel a little uncomfortable, for once in his life.

But my mind goes blank when I turn the corner and actually see him, laid out under the scorching sun on one of the teak loungers. He sprawls there on his back like a cat, his oiled bronze skin shimmering, tiny black swim briefs slung low on his hips as he displays himself without shame. His hair is so densely dark it seems to swallow the sunlight, his gleaming limbs long and strong, his muscles shifting as he breathes.

And the tattoos. The tattoos peppered all over his body, each one foreboding, each adding to the tale of violence written across his tanned skin. But none seem quite as dangerous as the letters that cross his throat: PER SEMPRE.

Forever. For always. For all time.

I looked up that translation in a moment of weakness, though I tell myself it was just bored curiosity. I can guess what it’s supposed to signify. I grew up—and now work—around enough criminals to understand there is a deeper meaning there.

Nero seems deeply asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic in the heat-soaked air. But I know that’s just an act. He’s fully aware of everything going on around him at all times—a patient, waiting predator.

Well, he’s about to have a rude awakening from his fake nap.

I march forward and deliberately place myself between him and the sun, looming over him as I snap, “Mr. Andretti.”

Lazily, he reaches up to pull his designer sunglasses down, just so I can see he opens only one eye. A bead of sweat rolls down his throat, over his collarbone, down to his pecs, and I refuse to track its path. “You are in my sunshine, Mr. Carstairs, though I think you know it. Still, as always, it is a pleasure to see you.” The rich Italian accent is the first part of his seduction, and the way he looks me up and down, without any attempt to hide his interest, is the second.

This is what he always does, trying to throw me off balance. But I refuse to let anyone make me feel small. I won’t allow anyone else to dictate my worth, especially not some corrupt hedonist like Nero Andretti. I know it makes me seem standoffish sometimes, maybe even prudish, the way I avoid everything that goes on around Redwood—the parties, the fun, even the staff get-togethers—but I prefer my solitude.

And so I don’t reply now, standing rigid despite the fact that I can feel the sun roasting the back of my neck. His eyes—dark and devoid of expression—burn almost as hot. For a moment we stay like that, the rippling pool water the only noise aside from the birds nearby.

“Well?” he yawns, stretching out his limbs. “What is it that I can do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you, Mr. Andretti.” I won’t let him intimidate me with his suggestive grin, though I’m acutely aware of how my shadow falls across his broad, bare chest. “I will, for example, not complain to my employer that you are once again overstepping your bounds and attempting to give orders to staff that do not work for you.”

He sits up abruptly so that I have to shuffle back a few steps on the hot stone or have him bump into me, and then he stretches again, looking me up and down once more as he does. His movement wafts the scent of his expensive body oil toward me—something citrusy and sharp and designed to entice. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m talking about the trees on the rise, and your ridiculous request to have them removed.” A nearby bird takes startled flight at my raised voice.

He stands, all six foot four of him, so that he has a few inches on me, and tips his head back so that he can look down his nose at me. “Those trees interrupt my view of the city skyline,” he tells me, a note of darkness entering his voice now. “I want them removed. They’re an eyesore.”

“Those trees are over a century old and they are perfectly placed to balance the landscape of the estate. Under no circumstances will I allow their removal, and certainly not so that you can see some ugly, stinking city. Do you understand me?”

For Nero Andretti, nature is disposable. Nothing matters to him but his own desires. And that’s why I loathe him so much. He doesn’t want the trees removed for any other reason than that he thinks he can .

He glowers down at me. “Understand this,” he says, still with that warning undercurrent. Another sweat droplet slides down his chest, drawing my eye traitorously down his tattooed torso. “These days I live here—and I work here, too. Do you understand me? ” He leans forward, crowding into my personal space, but I refuse to sway backward, even when he takes off his sunglasses completely and stares into my eyes with his soulless own. The citrus aroma grows stronger, mixing with his own, masculine scent. “You should treat me with more respect, little gardener.”

This is not the first time we have had this conversation, and I deal with it as I always have. “No one who lives or works at Redwood Manor has any right to tell me what to do except for my employer.” The words come out clipped, precise. “If you would prefer me to take the matter to Julian Castellani, I would be delighted to do so. But I think you’ll find that he will take my side. And for the record, Mr. Andretti? I am a landscape architect, not a gardener.”

Now I step back, but only to turn on my heel and walk off. The sound of his chuckle follows me across the water of the pool.

I’d felt satisfied with the encounter until I heard that laugh. But he sounds…

Pleased.

It only makes me angrier. But that’s not me. I’m not an angry person, and I don’t understand why he gets under my skin the way he does. I suppose it’s because I moved to the West Coast precisely to get away from all the excess he represents. And yet…I work for Julian Castellani, a man for whom excess is a starting point.

Julian is not like Nero, though. Julian understands there is a natural order that should be respected. Nero prefers to bend the world to his will.

And bend me to his will, too.

I won’t give in, though. If he thinks I’m some pushover just because I’m a staff member instead of a killer, he’ll soon find out how wrong he is.