Page 23 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 21

GAbrIEL

I don’t hear from Nero Andretti for the rest of the day, nor into the evening. We do need to discuss a new location for the wedding ceremony, but I’m not about to go over to his place again at night. There’s something about the night that seems to bring out the wild side in him—and me, too, if I’m being honest.

So instead, I send a message the next day via one of the house guards to meet me on the great lawn. Nero is not exactly on time, but he’s not late, either, leaving a comfortable four-minute gap between my arrival and his.

“I have been instructed not to bother you unnecessarily,” Nero says mildly as he reaches me. “So I hope this meeting is necessary.”

“Who said that to you? No—don’t worry, I can guess. I’ve noticed Julian Castellani can be a little possessive sometimes.”

“Both the Castellani brothers have a predilection for making people into their playthings,” he agrees darkly. I’m not quite sure what he means about Sandro, not having had much to do with the man myself, but I’m also not interested in gossiping about my employer.

And Nero is hardly one to speak. He’s spent a lot of time toying with me .

“Roxanne Rochford,” I say firmly. “She’s halved the guest list, you say?”

“Much more than that. She has purged all of her Hollywood friends and indeed her own family from the list, aside from the flower girl. Most of the guests—and there are not many of them now—will be from her husband’s side of the Family, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do, but I don’t think you should be speaking quite so plainly,” I tell him, glancing around. I don’t have anything to do with the business side of things, after all. I’m just here to make the estate look good.

He scoffs. “And yet you seem more anxious for my sake than yours, little gardener.”

“I told you already, I’m used to men like you. Families like this. I don’t want to know any more than I absolutely have to, though—and you must have made certain…promises? To Sandro? To keep your mouth shut.”

“I have sworn no allegiances.” His eyes narrow. “Are you testing me too, little gardener? Are you a wolf wrapped up in dirty clothes and work boots?”

“I’m a landscape architect,” I tell him blithely. “As you reminded Ms. Rochford yourself. Why did you do that, by the way? Stand up for me?”

He gives a small smile, but it’s so melancholy I catch my breath. “Nothing I do will impress you, will it? Come on, then, little landscape architect. Let’s take a walk. I want you to show me some alternative locations for this godforsaken wedding.”

And that’s what we do for the morning: walk around the estate while I point out potential places to hold a much smaller wedding—only fifty people, Nero tells me—and he points out all the security issues with my suggestions. Too many places for assassins to hide. Too many blind spots. Not enough natural beauty for Roxy’s tastes.

“Perhaps she’d prefer to hold this wedding elsewhere,” I snap at last, fed up with him nixing all my ideas.

“That would be ideal, but unlikely,” he tells me.

We’re near the greenhouse now, and the clouds have been gathering overhead, too black to pass over without instance. “I thought you were her best friend here at Redwood.” I shouldn’t ask. It doesn’t make any difference what Nero’s real thoughts about Roxy are.

But he seems to enjoy my reluctant curiosity. “Well, she is a very beautiful woman.”

“On first impression,” I agree. “And then one gets to know her.”

He laughs, which I’m thankful for. I’m far overstepping the bounds of any employee here at Redwood. The house staff like to bitch about Roxy, but they’re careful to do it behind her back and out of hearing of Darian, too, who always reprimands anyone he hears speaking negatively about guests.

“And then one gets to know her,” he echoes. “If only she could have been content to let that face of hers fill screens around the world. But she has a curse: ambition.”

“Do you have the same curse?” I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. Maybe it’s the wild wind making me bold, whipping up around us now as we get closer to the greenhouse.

“Oh, yes,” he says, almost to himself. “I have my ambitions, Gabriel. As do you, I think.”

I shake my head. “My only ambition is to keep doing what I’m doing, and make sure the community garden stays safe.”

He sends a sharp look my way. “About this garden—” he begins, but he’s cut off by an ominous roll of thunder.

“We’d better get in there,” I say quickly, pointing at the greenhouse. But the rain catches us before we make it, one of those utterly Californian showers that drench you to the skin in seconds, even though I know the sunny skies will return in fifteen minutes.

But for now, it’s dangerous to be outside. The high winds and the lightning are both problems, and Nero looks warily around the greenhouse even as he jogs after me into it. “This doesn’t seem like the safest place to be in a storm,” he says wryly. “I don’t want to die in a shower of glass shards.”

I grin. “Then you’re pretty safe here. This place has been standing almost as long as those trees on the rise that you hate so much, and it’s solid. Julian even replaced all the paneling with bulletproof glass, or so he told me. Plus it’s grounded, so if there’s a lightning strike, we’re good.”

“Nothing is bulletproof,” Nero says, with the air of a man who has discovered this fact for himself in the past. “But I suppose if it has stood so long, it will continue to stand.”

“I guess the Romans thought the same thing about their empire.” I have to raise my voice now to be heard over the wind. “And yet…”

He grins. “And yet.”

“This way.” I beckon him deeper into the greenhouse, toward the shed where we keep the spades and trowels and other tools necessary for the work in here. It’s large enough that we can both squeeze into it, and the smell of damp earth is stronger in here.

So is Nero’s cologne.

He’s very close to me. We’re standing only inches apart, and I swear I can feel his heat, as though his body is tugging invisibly at mine, a sun around which I’m held in helpless thrall, a flower seeking his warmth.

Whatever I’m feeling, he seems to be feeling it too. He sways toward me before he blinks and tries to move back—but the space is too small. I look up into his face…and deliberately lean in closer.

“I found out who you are,” he tells me softly. “About the Donovans. About your father. I was sorry to hear it.” It’s an unexpected blade to the heart, sharp as a stiletto, and I have to look away. But he slides a finger under my chin and lifts my face again. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “It must have been very difficult.”

I swallow hard. “Thanks, I guess. If you really mean it.”

“You don’t believe me when I lie. You don’t believe me when I’m sincere.” He gazes down at me. “What would make you believe me, Gabriel?”

The finger under my chin runs down my jawline until he’s cupping my face. I’m transfixed. “Tell me something true. Here and now. Something true about yourself.” I want to look into his eyes from this close and see what he looks like when he’s telling the truth.

He doesn’t even need to consider, his answer coming immediately. “When I see you working in the gardens, creating something beautiful, I hate it, because it makes me realize I’ve never built anything in my life. I’ve only learned how to destroy.” He pauses, watching me watching him, and then he tilts his head down so that his lips are by my ear, his breath warm on my damp neck. “Well? Is it true? Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you like me, little gardener?” he murmurs, his lips close enough to brush over my skin as he speaks.

“You’ve gone out of your way to make sure I don’t.” I put a hand on his chest, but not to push him away. He’s warm—hot, even, as though all those hours spent soaking in the sun have filled up his internal solar batteries.

“What if I was nice to you, instead? Would it change things between us?”

For a moment I think he’s trembling—but it’s me. My hand on his chest is shaking as I feel his heart beating fast beneath my palm. “Nero…”

“Yes. Say my name.” He trails his nose down the side of my neck, breathing me in slowly. “I love hearing it on your lips.”

“Nero,” I whisper again, and then my eyes fall on the trees along the rise, shaking wildly in the high winds outside.

I need to remember who this man is.

“Nero,” I say firmly. “I want to ask you a question.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to be honest.”

“Of course.”

I push him back. “No. I mean it. I don’t think I can tell when you’re lying, and I need you to be honest with me.”

He tilts his head to one side slightly. “There are things that I am not at liberty?—”

“It’s not about Family business. I want to know why you set up that donation to Elise’s sister.”

He blinks slowly. “You’re thinking about some chambermaid while you’re here with me? I must be losing my touch.” But I stay silent, recognizing his deflection for what it is. After a moment, he sighs. “Perhaps I am simply a generous man.”

“You’re not.” It sounds cold and decisive, but Nero only grins.

“No, I am not. I’m a selfish being, living only for myself.”

“That’s not entirely true,” I point out. “You want to join the Castellanis. That means putting them—the Don—before yourself.”

He takes a step back and the cool air rushes in between us. His expression is icy. “I’ve spent my whole life putting Alessandro Castellani before myself. I have simply grown used to it. As for the maid and her wretched sister—” He gives an expressive shrug. “I was tired of hearing about it. Tired of everyone pitying her and wringing their hands; tired of seeing her red eyes every day when I was trying to enjoy my lunch.”

I suck in a breath. “So that’s the truth?”

“What else did you expect?” His smile is sharp and he takes another step back. “The rain has stopped, and I have places to be. Not all of us can sketch flowers and call it a good day’s work, little gardener.”

With that, he turns and leaves. I steady myself against the wooden counter, my heart thumping as loudly in my ears as the thunder was a few minutes ago. When it slows a little, I set out after Nero, not entirely certain what I plan to say.

But he’s disappeared along with the storm. The skies are sunny and blue, and the only evidence of the storm are the puddles left behind. They’ll evaporate soon enough, too.

Just like all my feelings toward Nero Andretti.