Page 26 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-One

“I am looking for the one I can’t fool.”

― Kamand Kojouri

Scarlett

“No kiss? Gosh, Scar! Who turned off your hoe setting?”

I groaned as I grabbed the cigarette from Victoria’s lips and brought it to mine, inhaling while little Georgino, Angelo’s devilish Pomeranian, tore through the garden like a furry missile. He chased squirrels up trees, whining every time they escaped.

A few early spring leaves shivered in the breeze, blooming pale green across the branches.

Angelo had left in a rush two nights ago for Boston with Jade, something about Lake Kendrick, or maybe Patrick. I didn’t catch it. I was half asleep when he’d called to say he was dropping his baby off for the weekend.

His driver had let him into my apartment early this morning, and he’d come straight to my bed, licking my face until I gave in.

Honestly, there were worse ways to wake up.

Feeling bad that he didn’t have any green space to tear through, I’d packed a bag and headed to Alexsei and Caia’s house, tucked deep in the suburbs of New York. They’d flown back to Moscow for their anniversary and weren’t returning for two weeks.

The place was empty, quiet, perfect.

I sighed. “I know, Vic. I think I caught?…?morals.”

She’d left for Christmas break to visit family in Korea, stayed longer to work with Prada in Seoul, and had finally come back last night. I basically begged her to come with me for the weekend.

Naturally, she’d said yes. All it took was bribing her with my new Dior bag, and suddenly I was her favorite person again.

She pouted. “I was expecting filth, not some G-rated tale of you chickening out. Tragic, really. Honestly, I might have to take one for the team and ride him myself. That man is way too hot to be wasted.”

I saw red at the thought of her touching him.

Or any woman, for that matter.

Honestly, if a nun so much as brushed his arm, I might set something on fire.

Her eyes slid toward the back of the garden near the guest house, where Mister Asshole himself was doing pushups on the stone path. Not shirtless this time, thank God, but he wore a tight black long-sleeved top and matching black cargo pants that still made me clench like a virgin in Vegas.

I swear, this man was the reason I had emotional blue balls.

“Stop. He said no once and my libido’s been crying ever since.”

My condo wasn’t even mine anymore. Not with six feet and five inches of silent temptation stalking the halls like he owned them. An ex–Navy ghost with a voice like gravel and eyes so dark they made me forget how to lie.

My mind drifted to the night after our second pool incident, when I’d woken up with my head pounding and my mouth bone dry.

Strong arms. Grey eyes. His lips inches from mine.

I’d gotten out of bed ready to face him, to stop pretending. I needed to know if he’d felt it too—that heat, that ache, that slow-burn pull that made me want to ruin every inch of him with my hands.

I changed quickly into a hoodie and black pants, then made my way into the dining room, where my parents were already halfway through breakfast. Kiara sat at the table with her phone in one hand and an apple in the other, chewing.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. I looked toward the doorway. Any second now , I thought. He’ll walk in .

“ Buongiorno, dolcezza. Mangia la colazione, la cuoca ha preparato il tuo piatto preferito: uova alla Benedettina con salmone selvaggio affumicato ,” my mother said with a soft smile, sipping from her porcelain teacup.

My mother had always spoken to us in Italian growing up. Even after marrying an American, she still clung to her roots.

So, we’d had Italian lessons, spent half our summers bouncing between the Hamptons and Positano, sat through Sunday brunches with the Lazzios, and spent every Wednesday in the kitchen with her—chopping, stirring, tasting.

It was her way of keeping the bloodline intact, I guess. The Lazzio in her never really left. She still frowned every time I answered her in English. Like it physically offended her.

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry,” I said. My eyes drifted toward my father, who was tucked behind his copy of The New York Times , which he partially owned, because of course he did. “Has anyone seen?—”

Kiara took another loud bite of her apple, then shoved her phone in my face. “Oh my god, Scar! You have to give me this guy’s number. Please tell me you have it.”

She zoomed in on the screen, nearly blinding me with the brightness. A guy with dark eyebrows, darker eyes, and a silver lip ring stared back at me.

“He’s an actor! He played in Three Winters With You !”

“Kia—”

She tapped the screen. “He presented your Grammy last year, remember? For, what was it, your breakup album or whatever?”

“ Dolcezza, per favore mangia qualcosa, sei diventata troppo magra ormai ? — ”

“Mom—”

Kiara sighed, fanning her face like she was about to faint. “If you get me his number, I swear I’ll come clean your condo for a whole month.”

I raised a brow. “You do remember how messy my place is, right?”

She didn’t even blink. “Worth it.”

“Scarlett Stella Harper Lazzio! Ascolta tua mamma quando ti dice di mangiare ?—”

A shiver rolled down my spine. The hairs on my neck rose, and I didn’t even have to turn around to know Théo had entered the room.

Théo.

Fuck.

A sigh caught in my throat as I realized I’d called him by his name in my head. It had always been Mister Asshole. LeRoy. Soldier.

I’d only said his name out loud once, a few days ago on the rooftop of my condo. And now? I almost wanted to whisper it again. There was something filthy about how it felt rolling off my tongue.

I loved it.

“Good morning, Mister LeRoy,” my mother said sweetly. Her tone had gone from dagger to honey in the span of five seconds, all because he had walked in. “Please, join us. We haven’t had the chance to really get to know you these past few months.”

His steps closed the space between us until he stopped behind me. Close enough to make the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I imagined him standing there with his arms crossed, spine straight, head held high.

Heat bled down my neck. Not from embarrassment. No , this was different. This was heat that made my thighs press together under the table.

I reached for a piece of toast, my fingers trembling against the crust. I swore I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“Or don’t,” my mother added with a nervous laugh, scratching the side of her neck like she could feel the tension crawling over her skin too. “Tell us, Mister LeRoy, where in France are you from? I spent three years there during university, an exchange program. I’m quite familiar with the country.”

“Nice, ma’am.” His voice roughly caressed my spine.

“Ah, the Queen of the Riviera,” she said with a practiced little smile. “Such a beautiful city. So, you grew up in the south, then. By the sea. The lavender fields.”

I bit into my toast. Dry. Dull. Completely useless. But better than letting my brain spiral over the image of a young Théo running barefoot on the sand, probably brooding by age six and breaking hearts before he could spell the word.

Her eyes flicked to me. “That’s Scarlett’s favorite flower, you know. When she was younger, she?—”

“Mom, please.”

“Alright. Mon francais n’est pas parfait, mais je me débrouille ,” she said with a smile, then glanced at Théo. “ Si jamais Scarlett fait des? …” She frowned. “What’s the word again? Ah, des bêtises! Vous me le direz, capisce? ”

Her French was broken, her American accent thicker than mine, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh.

So much for three years in Paris.

“ Compris, madame .” His French came out low and clean.

I think we all breathed out a little when he said it, me most of all.

He almost never spoke French. I’d only heard it in passing—a muttered curse, something low when he thought no one was listening.

And thank God for that, because if he spoke it daily, I’d have no defense. My clothes would be gone in under five minutes. One word at a time. One “viens ici” and I’d be on my knees, no hesitation. I’d let him whisper it against my neck, into my mouth, maybe right when he?—

“Scarlett.”

I blinked. Everyone at the table was staring. My father looked annoyed. My mother was confused. Kiara was smiling like she knew every thought I’d just had.

“Still drunk from last night?” she said, not even trying to whisper.

I elbowed her and grabbed my glass of water, gulping like hydration could erase the mental image of Théo whispering in French while ruining me slowly.

“Sorry,” I said, not looking at anyone. “You were saying?”

“ I was saying,” my father repeated, looking back at Théo, “that you owe Mister LeRoy an apology. He spent his holiday keeping you in line instead of being with his family.”

“I don’t have family in France, sir.”

My brow lifted. I could’ve sworn he said he was flying back to see them.

“I had business there,” he added. “It can wait.”

“Aw,” my mother said, one hand on her heart like someone had just told her the family dog died.“Poor you. You must feel so alone.”

Kiara and I looked at each other. Same thought. Same eye roll.

“I don’t.”

Verbal minimalism at its finest.

The silence that followed said enough.

“Anyway, I saw you flirting with Governor Carter’s son last night, dolcezza ,” my mother said with a wink. “He’s quite the catch.”

I frowned. “James Carter?”

Kiara rolled her eyes and bit into a strawberry. “She only says that because she’s still delusional enough to think the White House is in her future.”

I felt Théo’s hot stare crawl up the back of my neck.

Flirting? Hardly .

The guy had told me I looked beautiful and said he loved my songs, though I’m pretty sure the only one he’d ever heard was what I’d played last night.

He used to be my type. Tall, delicate, forgettable. But lately, my taste had shifted.

Drastically .

All because of the man behind me.