Club Alpha (22 page)

Paco

The wind whistles between the downtown high-rises in the heart of Seattle, twisting transluscent blond strands of Greta's unbraided hair, tossing them around her face. I tuck a clump behind her ear, and she looks up at me.

We're standing outside Club Alpha.

Neither of us knows what to say. It's been a month since the ordeal in Norway and our subsequent return to the States. Our fantasy contract is over.

Zaire always closes everything.

And he's never been more smug. I had to admit that there was a woman out there who was meant for me. I'm not sure that Greta is aware in the way I am.

Tallinn is hanging around at the hotel we have been living in temporarily. I have just returned from Columbia to oversee a new plant, and every second I was away from Greta was unbearable.

“I missed you,” she says, and my eyes widen. Greta laughs. “What? Is that such a surprise?”

“I was thinking the same thoughts.” I shrug, and she laughs again, pressing her finger in the deep dimple in my chin.

I snap my teeth at her and growl.

Greta bursts out laughing, and I pull her against me.

Slowly her natural humor and personality are reasserting themselves, and I'm grateful.

“Ms. Dahlem!” someone shouts, and I sigh.

The paparazzi. Again.
They won't leave us alone, specifically, Greta. Her story of beautiful, almost-murdered Norwegian heiress is simply too tantalizing for the media to ignore.

Her fingers tighten on the lapels of my jacket as my substitute bodyguard throws up his hands. “Stand back, guys.”

I pull Greta against the side of my body as she slips on large sunglasses. Celebrities don't wear glasses to look fetching. They wear them against the blinding flashbulbs.

Greta trembles as the cameras flash and click.

Gia Township said anything sudden might trigger Greta for many months later. I loathe the insensitivity of the press as well as the greater masses of humanity who are more curious than compassionate.

“Have you considered my invitation?” I ask quietly beside her ear.

The new bodyguard swings open the door to the limo.

A photographer sticks the nose of his long lens into Greta's face, and I bash it aside before anyone can react.

Greta gasps.

I growl.

No one gets near her.

“Hey! You fucker! I'll sue you!” he screams at me.

Typical American.
They can't think of an outcome that doesn't involve suing. In this way, the Mexicans are smarter. If you're enough of an imbecile to get yourself in a corner of your own making, there will be no recourse from our government, only accountability through cause and effect. That keeps things simpler.

“See that you do,” I say with a nonchalance I feel to my marrow.

Greta smiles as she slides in first.

When we're seated and the comments and bulbs are swarming outside the blackened glass of the limo, I face her.

“I've thought about it a ton, Paco.”

My heart races, and I can't catch it. Only she can. “I will.”

I pull her onto my lap, kissing the tears that fall.

Tears taste different when they are shed for happiness.

*

Greta

He doesn't push. It's not Paco's way.

I silently approach from behind. The view off the balcony of his home is beautiful.

The sun rides low in the sky, and people line the malecón to watch it sink past the horizon like a ball of scarlet perfection.

Paco wears only low-slung linen drawstring pants and slip-on sandals. His arms bunch and flex with the muscle that Tallinn keeps insisting he put on.

I can't say I mind.

I have news, and even though I figure it won't change his mind, I have to tell him.

I wear a similar outfit, but manage a bikini top for modesty's sake.

Paco has great instincts and must sense me.

He turns, elbow perching on the concrete balustrade that winds the perimeter of his travertine patio, which stretches to the very edge of the cliff, right above the devil's cave.

But we're not even close to hell.

I'm in heaven. Right here. On earth.

He opens his arms, and I step into them. His bare skin feels like muscled silk against my healed face. The steady beat of his strong heart pushes against my cheek in a rhythm of comfort.

Paco turns us toward the sea, and I watch tangerine touch the waves, impregnating them with a rainbow of scarlet, peach, and finally, violet.

I trace a finger over the intricately scrolled lettering of his tattoo
. La vida loca
.

Crazy life.

He captures my finger, pulling me against him.

“You know…” I break the perfect moment, sounding more coy than I feel. “I'm only after you for your money.”

Paco nods slowly, a hint of a smile warming his full lips. “Yes, I am aware.”

I pull away, and he tips my chin up. I search his bright-green eyes, made emerald by the encroaching twilight. “Do you already know?” I ask somberly.

He nods. “I knew.”

I duck my head.
He's going to kick me out now.
I've been in Mazatlan for nearly three months, and he's never gone past a gentle kiss, an inference of heat.

I can't be what he wants. And I don't want to be anything other than I am.

We were in Club Alpha together. Technically, I'm supposed to be of equal wealth, so that factor in a forever relationship is not part of the equation.

But I have nearly six years until my inheritance.

I suppress a shiver. Lisbeth and Tor muddied the waters. The investigation into their deaths has conclusively proven my non-involvement except in self-defense. But Club Alpha is now being upended for its part in everything. Everyone is under intense scrutiny.

I was—I am—Zaire Sebastian's first choice for Paco. Our temperaments were supposedly perfectly compatible; a deep psych evaluation said so. But I'm not rich. Not even close.

Charlie gave me a hiatus from Roffe Enterprises. But for how long?

Can a computer spit out what makes two people work? Will my lack of wealth kill perfection before it can be realized?

Paco's thumb smooths my furrowed brow. “I, too, have a confession.”

I sigh at his tender touch, waiting.

“I have met you once before.”

He surprises me. Those words were the last thing I thought to hear. “No,” I automatically reply. Paco is unforgettable.

He removes his hands from his pockets, taking mine. His grip tightens subtly.

I'm scared. What does this mean?

“Almost three years ago, while romancing a Seattle buyer for my beans, I stayed in a five-star accommodation in downtown Seattle. Something I do frequently.”

His eyes shift for a moment, observing the darkening sky.

My heart begins to pound with his impending revelation.

“Tallinn was guarding, of course”—his lips tweak—“and I was heading toward the exit, leaning toward safety, and heading back to my room for the evening.” His eyes suddenly grip mine, not letting go. “Then I saw an angel sitting across the room.” He pauses, giving weight to that last sentence.

Paco means
me
.

Green eyes.
The vaguest memory—maybe the shadow of a memory—rises.

Do I know Paco already?

The memory slides out of the shadows like ink, taking form before my mind's eye: a crowded bar, where rich and suavely outfitted people are mingling.

I am waiting for my celebration with friends.

A handsome, exotic man catches my eye across the room teeming with the beautiful people. Boiling chemistry ignites, and I remember the urge to make a connection, or at least say hello.

Then—nothing. A simmering void of black static exists where no memories live. My next memories are stored on a mental shelf, gathering dust, because I've reflected on them long enough.

The night of my rape, Paco was there—
before
.

“I can't remember—” I manage to gasp out, though I do recall. I remember everything and nothing.

He holds up a hand. “The effects of the drugs that were given to you without your knowledge can sometimes overlap the consumption. Some women remember what immediately preceded the crime; some do not.” He lifts a shoulder as though to say it is not an issue.

His eyes meet mine again, blazing. “But I knew it was
you
when I encountered you in the elevator.” He taps his temple. “Not in the front of my brain”—he gives a small shake of his head—“but somewhere further back. It was only a passing glance so long ago, and then Aros—”

I flinch at the mention of his name, and he soothes me with a finger stroking my knuckles.

“He was leading you away.”

“You…” I struggle forward, “you tried to save me?”
Could he have stopped the assault?
I search his face.

“No,” he says curtly, and I can tell he holds blame he shouldn't. He casts his eyes at our twined fingers, dark lashes fanning out against his dusky skin. He releases my hands, stuffing his own into his pockets. Paco doesn't meet my eyes for a moment. His exhale is painful and harsh. “I merely inquired after you, and he replied that you were… drunk.” His voice holds the same disgust I feel.

“Of course,” I say with devastated bitterness as I continue to gaze up at him. “What does this mean, Paco? Besides—” I give a shaky laugh. “The sheer
coincidence
of us meeting before Club Alpha, before—all of it, and we never even said hello,” I finish in a whisper.

His eyes rise to mine, and he takes my face within his large hands. “It means, Greta, that we were meant for each other. Club Alpha was merely a device of destiny. We were fated to be together. What happened to you…” He pauses and lowers his forehead to touch mine, his fingers working in my hair as my tears soak his hands. “Was
not
sufficient to stop our meeting.”

I swipe my eyes, leaning away as I scan his features for untruths.

Seeing none, I say, “Do you doubt me—us?”

I can't let go and trust anyone, even Paco, unless he says the words—the right ones, especially since he knows the strange twists and turns of the last three years.

He shakes his head, pulling slightly away from me. He reaches inside his loose pants and extracts a black velvet box, which he places on the wide marble handrail. The dark cube sits against the backdrop of the softest black of early night, dangerously close to plunging to the highway and the sea beyond.

“Crazy life,” I say, my eyes moving to his chest.

He lightly touches the tattoo. “Not anymore,” he replies. “You bring sanity where there was none, Greta.” Paco cups my face again, his thumb caressing back and forth against my cheekbone. His hands are warm as he stares deeply into my eyes. “How can I doubt anything when you feel as though you are already a part of me?”

Those
are the right words. Perfect words.

My eyes shift to the box, and his lips tilt. An amused expression overtakes his face, chasing away the somber mood like a fleeting breeze.

“Take it.”

My fingers shake as I lightly snatch the box of crushed velvet against my chest. My heart goes back to dancing. “It could have fallen,” I say with a nervous laugh.

His finger taps the end of my nose. “That treasure can fall, but you—you
are
the precious treasure.”

Tears find their way down my face, sinking into my smile.

Paco inclines his head, putting his hands into his pockets and dragging his pants lower.

I look at what's barely covered, and he chuckles.

My face snaps up. The important box in my hand is forgotten as I catch a stolen glimpse of a real-life white knight.

Mine.

I open the box slowly. It's breathtaking. Simple.

Blue.

I look quickly at him, his face is impassive as he studies every subtlety of the expressions I'm sure are crossing my face. My eyes find the huge sparkling stone again. It's shaped in a heart.

“This”—I put my hand to my chest, clutching the box—“is too much.”

He folds his hand over mine, our eyes locked. “You have it. This is only a tangible reminder.”

I frown slightly. “Have what?”

“My heart,” he says so quietly, I barely hear him.

Oh.
Oh my God.
“Is this?” my voice squeezes out.

I feel his nod against my head as he holds me to him. “Yes. Marry me first. The passion will come.”

He pulls back just enough to gently remove the box from my hands. After plucking out the engagement ring that's nestled inside, he slips it on my ring finger. I can't stop staring. The fading colors of the void left by the sunset caress the gem, turning it into pale water.