Luck of the DevilBy: Meghan March
“My wife is gone.”
“What can I do to help?” he asks, pulling out his phone as he glances out to the balcony where his wife sits in safety. “Between us, we could buy this fucking island. She couldn’t have gone far.”
I’m already at the door of the suite with my hand on the knob by the time he finishes speaking. “If I need you, I’ll let you know.”
I miss whatever he says in reply because I’m already headed to the roof.
De Vere is going to die for this.
My head thumps like it’s pressed against a speaker with a relentless beat at a club. Someone flicks water on my face, and I squint one eye open.
“What the hell?” I groan as I roll over on something soft.
“Shit, Indy. I thought your head was harder than that.” Bastien’s voice grates like nails on a chalkboard.
“What the hell did you do to me?” I reach up to feel for the source of the pain and find a lump beneath my hair, near my temple.
The edge of the mattress depresses as Bastien sits down. “What I had to do—which was get you the fuck away from Forge and his goons.”
He touches my hair and I jerk back, not wanting his hands on me. The quick movement sets off another round of explosions in my head.
At my groan, Bastien stands. “Mickey, get her something for her head, and hurry the fuck up.”
I blink twice, trying to push through the pain, and open my eyes. The lights are dim and multicolored. I don’t recognize the black, white, and red modern decor. The spread beneath me is the color of blood, and I can’t help but wonder if mine is on it.
I try to sit up, but the room spins as I rise. Bastien’s hands land on my shoulders, as if to steady me, but I slap them away, blinking my eyes open.
“Don’t touch me, you piece of shit.”
His hands disappear, and through the pounding in my head, I try to remember what the hell happened. Bastien pulled me onto his boat . . . after he told me Forge lied to me about everything. And I’m not who I think I am.
The memory slams into my brain, setting off another wave of agony. I dip my head and scrunch the bedcover in my hands as I take long, deep breaths.
“You should’ve just gotten in the boat, Indy. It didn’t have to be this way.”
“Fuck you, Bastien.” I open my eyes again, if only to glare at his still-blurry form. “Where the hell am I?”
A man in white shorts and a neon-yellow muscle tank, who I assume is Mickey, enters the room. His deeply tanned skin is covered in tattoos. “Here you go, man.” He holds out a bottle labeled with a familiar pain reliever logo. “This should do the trick.”
Bastien grabs it from him and waits for Mickey to leave before facing me.
“Answer my damn question. Where the hell am I?”
He rolls the bottle between his hands. “You’re in a safe place. Forge won’t find you here, at least not right away.”
I look around the room. There must be a dozen silver suitcases lined up along one wall below a ledge that is covered with liquor bottles. A turntable sits on top of a white desk in the corner, like it’s just waiting for a DJ to come in and go to work. Dark shades cover what I assume are large windows, and red LED strip lights lend an eerie glow to the place. Or maybe it’s supposed to be a sexy glow. Ew. Gross.
“You brought me to your fuck pad? Jesus Christ. Now I need a damn shower.” I release my grip on the bedspread.
“Calm down. You’re fine.”
My wavering vision finally clears and I meet Bastien’s gaze, thankful I only see one of him. I haven’t seen him since Monte Carlo when his parents cut him off after his sister tattled that I was with him.
“Shouldn’t you be back in the UK begging Mummy and Daddy to reinstate your credit cards, and saving your inheritance?”
With a bored expression, Bastien flicks open the lid to the bottle and hands it to me. “I’ll get you some water.” He walks away without answering a single one of my questions.
Even though I don’t want to accept a damn thing from him, when he returns to the side of the bed and offers me water, I snatch it because my head is killing me. I tap three pills into my hand and pop them into my mouth before unscrewing the cap to wash them down.