Ah, yes, Antonio Merisi—aka Zeus. A name that had evaded him for years—as if trying to connect the god-like sacrosanct prominence of Zeus with a flesh and blood human capable of being destroyed was impossible. But Nic had friends in places both high and low, and anything was procurable for a price.
It had been a torturous exercise in patience to discover any other Merisi business interests apart from Q Virtus. Not an easy feat, considering they’d been buried in aliases, but he’d struck gold within weeks and found one or two to set the wheels in motion. Make dents in the man’s bank balance. Contaminate his reputation. See how he liked his empire destroyed. As long as Nic got to watch it crumble. To see the very man responsible for his parents’ death languish in hell.
Standing behind the desk, he hauled himself up from his pit of rage and resentment and fingered the portfolio at the top of towering pile.
Merpia Inc.
Merpia? The largest commodities trading house in the world.
Eros International.
That one he’d guessed, from the abundance of Greek mythological connotations surrounding the club and a brief mention of the Merisi name in the company portfolio. Consequently he’d plagued the stockmarket with rumours two weeks earlier.
Score one Carvalho.
Ophion—Greek shipping.
Rockman Oil.
Dios...
Multi-billion-pound ventures. Every single one of them. This man wasn’t wealthy— he was likely one of the richest men in the world, with millions scattered across a vast financial plain.
The dents Nic had made would be a drop in the ocean.
He battled with an insurgence of disheartenment until another file snagged his eye.
Carvalho?
His hand shot out...then froze when a sharp voice splintered his rage.
‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Hands up, back away from the table, then do not move a muscle or I’ll blow your brains out.’
Busted. Just when things were getting interesting. Still, his lips twisted ruefully at the sound of a husky, sultry feminine voice.
Nic flicked his hands in the air with a high school level of flippancy to lighten the mood and twisted his torso to spin around.
‘Now, now, querida, let’s not fight—’
The practised snick of the safety catch on a revolver made him rethink. Fast. It was a sound that resonated through his brain and threw him back thirteen years. Even his back stiffened, as if he were waiting for the echo of a bullet to penetrate his spine. Rob him of the dreams of his youth. End life as he knew it.
‘Stay right where you are. I did not give you permission to move.’
A shiver glanced over his flesh at the cool, dominant tone, as if he’d been physically frisked not just verbally spanked.
‘As you wish,’ he said, taking his voice down an octave or three and coating it in sin. ‘Though I’d much rather conduct this meeting face to face. More so if you are as beautiful as your voice.’
Maybe it was her barely audible huff or maybe it was the impatient tap of a stiletto heel on wood but Nic would swear she’d just rolled her eyes.
‘Who are you and how did you get into my suite?’
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. Was he actually being controlled by a woman?
Shifting on his feet, he made to swivel. ‘I’m turning around so we can have this conversation like two adul—’
A sharp sound like a whip cracking rent the air and Nic’s jaw dropped as he married the sound of a silenced bullet with the precise hole in the oil painting of a wolf about three feet from his head.
How ironic. Lobisomem. Portuguese for werewolf. His Q Virtus moniker.
Omen? He damned well hoped not.
The smell of the gunpowder residue curled through his sinuses and the past seemed to collide with the present, making his stomach clench on a nauseating pang. Sweat trickled down his spine and he had to surreptitiously clear the thickness from his throat just to speak.
‘Crack shot, querida.’ Question was, why wouldn’t she let him turn, look at her?
‘The best, I assure you. Now, tell me I have your undivided attention and that you will behave.’
Nic had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to win this argument. And that voice... Dios, she could read him passages from the most profoundly boring literature in the world and he’d still get sweaty and hard at the sound of her licking those consonants and vowels past her lips.
‘I will be on my best behaviour. Scout’s honour.’
Not that he’d ever been one. At the suggestion his mother had arched one perfectly plucked, disgusted brow, told him the idea was simply not to be endured and that she’d rather take him to the country club to play poker.
How he’d loved that woman.
Ignoring the misery dragging at his heart, he strived for joviality. ‘Though if it’s co-operation you’re looking for, I’ll be far more amenable without a gun trained on my head by an expert marksman.’
‘Trouble must follow you if you’re familiar with the sounds of a loaded gun. Why does that not surprise me?’
‘Guess I’m just that kind of guy.’
‘A thief? A criminal? Insane?’
Dios! Why was everyone calling him insane today?
‘Misjudged was more the word I was thinking of. Or maybe I’m simply enigmatic, like your lover. Or is he your boss?’
‘My...boss?’ she replied, with a haughty edge that said no man would ever lord it over her.
He almost rolled his eyes then. ‘Okay, then, your lover.’
That earned him a disgruntled snicker.
‘Think again. And while you’re at it who are you talking about? Who is my boss supposed to be? Who are you looking for?’
‘Zeus, of course—who else?’
The room hushed into a cacophony of silence; the lack of sound so loud his ears rang. No doubt a pin dropping would have detonated in an explosion of sound.
Nic pounced on the lull—he’d always liked creating a big bang. ‘I have a meeting with him here. Tonight. So if you’d like to run along and get him I’d be greatly appreciative.’
A stunned pause gave way to a burst of incredulous laughter. The kind that was infectious. It was rusty—as if she didn’t get much practice—but it was out there, all smoky and sultry, and it filled him with a scorching hot kind of pleasure.
Who the devil was she?
‘A meeting, you say? I think not. And I believe you are toying with the wrong woman, stranger. So forgive me if I just run along and leave you with some friends of mine.’
From nowhere three hulks had three guns trained on various parts of his anatomy and he fought the violent urge to cup his crotch. Because 1) despite evidence to the contrary he was of high intellect, and 2) despite their tailored Savile Row attire their eyes were dull from a hard life and the inevitable slide into madness.
Splendid.
For pity’s sake, why guns? Why not knives? He hated guns!
‘Ah, come now, querida, this is hardly fair.