Page 621 of One More Kiss

Chapter2

“Sit,”my father commands. After the noise of the ballroom, the quietness of his office is welcome. “I have a job for you.”

My objective is to annoy him, so I take my time settling into the seat, instead of answering him. It works like a charm.

“Junior,” he barks his pet name for me like an obscenity, “I said you have a job.”

Leaning back, I observe him with a blank expression, until I slowly arch my right eyebrow and drawl, “And?”

The sound his fist makes when he pounds it on the desk bounces off the oak paneled walls. It mercifully swallows the chuckle that escapes my lips.

“You forget your place,” he thunders. “Your insolence is unbecoming, considering your position. I won’t have my bastard son mocking me in my own home.”

Over the years, his hatred has become static to me, so I sit back and examine him instead. With his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists and a vein pulsing visibly in his forehead, it’s clear that the job he wants me to do has him enraged and on edge. Since experience has taught me that pushing him when he’s like this will only backfire, I wordlessly wait for him to get a grip on his emotions.

“Your brother is getting married,” my father announces in a clipped tone. “And I want you to make sure nothing prevents that from happening.”

Tension takes hold of the office when I ask, “Okay, but why?”

“Because his intended is not in agreement.”

I shrug. “I thought keeping women in line was more Ludovit’s speciality than mine.”

Clearing his throat, Joaquin makes his presence known for the first time since he trailed us from the ballroom into the office. He clamps his hands down on my shoulders, holding me in place.

“How well do you know her?” My father tosses a document at me.

Every ounce of control I possess is tested when I unfold the paper and realize that it’s a photograph of Ophelia. She’s floating on her back in a pool, her tight curves displayed in the red bikini she wears, with her light hair gathered messily on the top of her head. Her eyes are obscured by large sunglasses. Her posture is languid. She seems oblivious to her audience.

I snatch the photo off the table while I battle the need to beat the photographer to death with the closest blunt object. Grinding my teeth, I tamp down on my rage. I can’t allow myself to react because it would only work in their favor.

“She’s Elisenda’s best friend,” I reply.

My nonchalant tone belies my true feelings for Ophelia.

Cold calculation enters my father’s expression. He looks me over, starting at the top of my head then dropping his gaze to the photo I’ve clenched in my hand. With a conscious effort, I let it drop back on the desk and try to keep my anger hidden.

Ten long seconds later, Joaquin plops down in the second chair. My father leans back in his seat and contemplatively steeples his hands in front of him.

He suspects something.

But what?

“Why are you questioning me like this?”

My question hangs in the air. Eventually, my father replies, “Her diaries are filled with love hearts, poems, and pages with Mrs. A. Vitale Noguera-Tomás scrawled all over them.”

The laughter that breaks free of my mouth is genuine.

Does he seriously think I’m romancing Ophelia on the sly?

How would I have the time? I’m too busy killing anyone who displeases him, so he’ll keep me around. And, despite Ophelia’s blatant interest and the tightening in my trousers every time we lock eyes, she and I are barely acquaintances, let alone romantically involved.

“So? I’ve barely said three words to her. She’s a kid.” I force scorn into my voice when I remark, “I’m flattered and all, but I like a little seasoning on my meat. Lamb is tasty on my plate… not in my bed.”

Both men burst into leering laughter. Father slaps the table and wipes at his eyes. Joaquin throws his head back and chortles deviously. My skin crawls at their misogynistic display, although I keep my revulsion to myself.

Guilt squeezes my heart when Elisenda’s plea for help enters my head. I push it down, until it becomes a hollow feeling in my gut that I can almost ignore. I don’t have time for sentimentality—my father’s men beat that urge out of me before I turned twenty.

---