Page 46 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Thirty-Five

“In a world of fame, followers, likes, and paparazzi,we need to aspire to be something other than popular.”

― Koki Oyuke

Scarlett

“I’m coming with you.”

Nicholas snorted as he folded his Gucci sweater into his suitcase.

Tia, his outrageously expensive British Shorthair, leapt onto the bed and stretched out like a diva. I grabbed her before she could hiss and dropped her into my lap, running my fingers through her fur just to give my hands something to do.

Anything to keep from ripping my nails down to the quick.

It had been three days since the strip club. Three excruciating, soul-sucking days where I’d done nothing but rot in bed and cry into my overpriced Egyptian cotton sheets like a tragic teen whose parents had canceled her sweet sixteen because she’d crashed the Bentley.

I’d called Angelo the second we got home. Théo hadn’t said a word, just stormed into his room. The shower had kicked on seconds later.

It was nearly two in the morning when someone finally picked up. Jadie.

Apparently, Angelo was passed out cold, snoring on her chest like a lumberjack in love. She sounded half asleep, half amused, and fully nosy.

And yes, she’d confirmed it. Théo had worked at the rehab center. The one I was locked in. For a whole year.

Said it was part of his job. Something about contract obligations and professional discretion. But if it was just professional, why had he done it in secret? Why hadn’t he ever let me know he was there?

Why had he stayed in the shadows, watching me fall apart, when all I ever wanted was someone to see me?

And why the fuck had Angelo kept it from me too?

Then, because she was Jade, she’d asked, “So?…?is there anything going on between you two?”

I’d choked out a very dignified no, mid-snot.

She’d sighed. “Shame. He’s hot. You’re hot. That’s basic math, babe. Two hots equal fire. Explosions. Potential soul-bond sex. You’re literally wasting the universe’s symmetry.”

I had hung up before she could start doing astrological compatibility charts. Then I’d cried harder.

Nicholas didn’t even look up. “To set? Why?”

“I need out of New York. Spain sounds good. Sun, tapas, mojitos, fewer cameras trying to shove themselves down my throat. I’ll fake sanity in a bikini while you act your heart out. It’s perfect.”

He zipped his suitcase shut and disappeared into the bathroom.

Tia bit me before jumping off with a hiss, and right on cue, her twin Tamera strutted in like she paid the rent. I scooped her up and cradled her against my chest, heels ticking against the hardwood as I paced the room like I was waiting on a verdict.

Nicholas called out from the sink. “Change of plans, by the way. Director ditched Málaga. Said it was too expensive.”

I paused mid-step. “Where, then?”

“Nice.”

I froze. “Nice, France ?”

My voice hit an octave that even startled me. Tamera dug her claws into my arm and launched herself onto the bed like I’d offended her personally.

Spoiled, violent heiresses in fur coats.

Nicholas reappeared, drying his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah. Apparently, the director’s got some buddy with a villa and a private beach. We’re there for four weeks, then back in time for the Oscars.”

What’s your favorite city?

Nice. I grew up near there. The water’s quieter. The sky burns in purples and pinks over the sea every night.

“Four weeks,” I whispered.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my calendar.

My schedule was clear. Three months of so-called “creative writing time” for the next album. Rehab had done its job. My father’s PR circus had been enough to keep the public fed and the media off my throat for a while.

“Okay. I’m coming.”

“On one condition, sunshine.”

I stepped into the hallway, heels clicking. Nicholas followed close behind, waving at Matthew, who was deep in conversation with his mother—something about twins, Brazil, and a sister I’d never met.

I grabbed my Dior bag off the counter and dug through it until I found my lip gloss. I twisted it open, eyes on their pink heart-shaped mirror. “What is it?”

“We’re taking your jet. My agent thinks business class builds character. I think we kill two spoiled bastards with one stone: you get amazing company, I get champagne and legroom.”

I chuckled and put my lip gloss back where it belonged and grabbed my bag. “Done.”

I waved them off, heels clicking as I stepped outside. LeRoy was right where I’d left him, pressed against the doorframe, phone to his ear, speaking in that low, gravely French that always made something twist in my stomach.

He had said he didn’t want to come in. Said he needed to make a call.

Right.

It had been days, and we still hadn’t spoken. Not properly. Not after the strip club. And the silence was chewing holes in my brain.

“Let’s go home,” I muttered, walking past him without looking. “We’ve got bags to pack.”

He ended the call without a word and followed.

In the elevator, he hit the button while I backed into the wall. He didn’t face me. Just stood there, towering, too close, his shoulder nearly brushing mine.

Black jeans. The usual boots. A plain black hoodie that did absolutely nothing to hide how massive he was. The whole elevator shrank around him. Around us.

“Where?” he asked.

My eyes flicked up, locked on the way his hair curled at the base of his neck. God, I wanted to dig my fingers into it. Pull. Bite. Scream.

I swallowed hard.

“Back to the country that raised you, soldier.”

The stewardess shuffled toward us with apologetic eyes and lips pressed so tightly they could’ve cut glass. Her hands fidgeted like she was scared to interrupt something sacred or explosive. We’d landed ten minutes ago, but for whatever reason, they weren’t letting us off.

Which meant I was still trapped. Still stuck facing LeRoy. Still suffering through the slow, deliberate torment of his thigh brushing mine every time the plane jolted.

If I’d thought living with him was torture, I clearly hadn’t considered what eight and a half hours of silent staring did to a person.

He’d sat there in silence, stroking his jaw, watching me like he was stripping me with his eyes, already thinking about how I’d taste, how I’d beg, how long I’d last once he finally had me again.

His eyes didn’t look away once. And if they weren’t so good at setting me on fire from the inside out, I might’ve slapped him for it.

Nicholas’s idea of “amazing company” turned out to be him spending the entire eight-hour flight dead asleep in the private suite, snoring like some overworked royal, because his precious twins had apparently spent the night purring in his ear for snacks.

So much for champagne and legroom.

And when I’d grabbed his shirt and begged him to stay, because God forbid I be left alone with my thoughts for five seconds and LeRoy’s eyes heating every inch of me, he’d just yawned, said he was too tired to gossip, handed me a bag of Reese’s Cups like that somehow counted as emotional support, and vanished.

Bastard.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” the stewardess said, voice brittle. “There’s?…?an issue. Some paparazzi broke through the outer perimeter. They’re surrounding the aircraft.”

LeRoy stood slowly and leaned toward the window.

His voice dropped, flat and cold. “You’re telling me four bald parasites with discount cameras are holding this fucking plane hostage?”

She flinched. “The airline has strict policies regarding?—”

“Fuck your policies. Come on,” he said, gesturing for me to follow.

I threw on my hoodie, tugging the fabric low to hide my hair, half my face swallowed in shadow. I grabbed my bag and slipped on my sunglasses.

Nicholas cracked open the private suite door, rubbing the sleep from his face. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Paparazzi breached the perimeter,” the stewardess muttered as two staff members wrestled the door open and locked the metal stairs into place with a hiss. “They’re surrounding the plane.”

Nicholas grabbed his bag, tugged his hood up, and fell into step beside me as we started down the aisle.

“We should hold hands when we step out,” he murmured, just loudly enough for me to hear. “Or I could wrap my arm around your waist. Really sell the narrative—young couple in love, escaping to the South of France for a sun-drenched, scandal-free weekend.”

My gaze slid up to LeRoy. His black shirt pulled tightly across the muscles of his broad back, his hands clenched like he was one second from snapping someone’s neck. His whole body was strung tight, like control cost him blood.

He’d heard every word. Of course he had. The man heard everything . Even the darkest secrets I’d buried in my heart.

“Let’s loop arms instead,” I muttered, flicking a glance at Nicholas.

The door was already open, wind slicing through the cabin in sharp, hungry gusts. Two staff members stood stiffly beside it, tight smiles plastered on like apologies they weren’t brave enough to say aloud. Their eyes avoided ours.

LeRoy stopped just past them, the light from outside kissing the edge of his jaw. One foot on the threshold, body still.

He turned slightly, his grey eyes locking on me. “I’m going down first. When I hit the tarmac, you both come. Walk straight to the car. Don’t stop.”

His eyes dropped to where Nicholas’s arm was looped through mine. His tongue swept slowly across his teeth as his jaw flexed. That thick, gorgeous vein in his neck ticked. Then he turned and stepped out into the frenzy.

The second his boots hit the tarmac, the chaos cracked open.

“Miss Scarlett, are you happy to be in France?”

“Scarlett! Scarlett! Putain, connasse! Ici! ”

“Nicholas, any Oscar buzz yet?”

“Are you two engaged?”

“Scarlett! Scarlett! T’es magnifique! ”

The flashes came fast and hot, searing through the daylight. My grip latched to the stair rail, knuckles tight, the glare turning everything white. Nicholas unlinked our arms and slid an arm tighter around my waist, holding steady as we descended.

Cameras screamed from every angle. Questions pelted the air.

I pulled my hood lower, head down, pace locked. We hit the tarmac, our shoes thudding on wet concrete.

The paparazzi then jumped closer.

LeRoy moved fast. He tore through the crowd with brutal precision, shoving bodies aside like they were nothing but clutter in his path.

The door of the car swung open. But before we reached it, one of them lunged.

A man in a red shirt with my face stretched across his chest broke from the line, arm raised, camera way too close.

LeRoy was twice his size, so the idiot had to jump to even try for the shot.

He tripped, lost control, and the lens slammed into my shoulder with a sick, blunt crack that sent heat tearing up my spine.

Nicholas caught me and helped me into the car as Leroy closed the door behind us.

“Fucking vultures. I hate them,” Nicholas muttered, rubbing my shoulder.

Pain bloomed. My body jolted. I winced and shoved his hand off.

The flashes had stopped.

I leaned forward just as Nicholas pulled out his phone to text Matthew. My breath caught in my throat.

The four paparazzi were on the ground. Blood streaked across their faces. Cameras were broken, lenses smashed beyond repair. One of them was still crawling.

Then the front passenger door was yanked open.

LeRoy slid in, breathing steadily, blood still wet on his knuckles. He said something in French to the driver, and the car lurched forward. His expression was colder than the wind slicing through the car as his eyes found mine.

“You okay, Miss Harper?”

My mouth parted. Something in me buckled. I nodded, though something warm and dizzy fluttered low in my stomach.

He nodded once and said nothing else.

The ride to the villa took thirty minutes. Nicholas showed me his script, talked about the film, his co-stars, all the restaurants he planned to drag me to over the next four weeks.

But all I could focus on was the man in front of me, blood drying on his knuckles.

He had punished them for hurting me.

He had seen pain and erased it at the root.

Whatever line he’d crossed for me out there?…?I knew I’d follow him over it.

And beneath the shock, beneath the bruising heat still spreading through my shoulder, something deeper stirred. Not fear. Not doubt.

But a reckless gratitude.

The kind that blooms in a girl who saw a man drenched in blood and licked it from his knuckles, just to say thank you.