FATE BOOK
~ two ~
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Mimi Boutique Imprint
His dark eyes narrowed, and I could tell he was pissed.
And yes, it made him look even hotter.
“Fine,” he said. “You’ve never acted your age—I give you that. And yes, you’re strong and resilient, and it’s what I’ve always found incredibly sexy about you. But that mouth of yours…” Suddenly, his eyes were locked onto my lips, and I found myself looking at his. They were full and sinfully sexy and the sort of lips a girl dreamed of on a man. Especially when he’d moved those lips so sweetly over the most intimate parts of my body.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Step away from the hot Italian man, Dakota. Step. Away.
I moved back, but he quickly reached for my waist and pulled me into him, stealing my breath in that same moment.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
His mouth formed into a slow, sensual grin. “Just because I can’t keep you doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
OTHER WORKS BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF:
FATE BOOK (a New Adult Suspense)
HAPPY PANTS CAFÉ (a Contemporary Romance Series)
THE KING TRILOGY
King’s (Book 1, The King Trilogy)
King for a Day (Book 2, The King Trilogy)
King of Me (Book 3, The King Trilogy)
THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES
Accidentally in Love with…a God?
Accidentally Married to…a Vampire?
Sun God Seeks…Surrogate?
Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella)
Vampires Need Not…Apply?
Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella)
Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale)
COMING 2015
MERMEN (Book 1, The Mermen Series)
IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC. (Book 1)
MERMADMEN (Book 2, The Mermen Series)
Just remember, mean people suck and ebook piracy is NOT a victimless crime. Just ask us working-writer moms! Please buy our books, don’t steal them or share illegally (or be a sucky mean person). This author does not authorize ANY of those shady “free-ebook-download” sites or share sites to distribute her books. Ever. And for those who legally purchased/borrowed/obtained the ebook from a reputable retailer, muchas thank yous! You rock.
Copyright © 2014 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN-10:0-9903048-3-3
ISBN-13:978-0-9903048-3-8
Cover Design by EarthlyCharms.com
Editing: Latoya Smith, Dina Rubin, and Pauline Nolet
Formatting by WriteIntoPrint.com
CONTENTS
FATE BOOK two
PROLOGUE
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
Part Two
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Part Three
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Part Four
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
Dedicated to my Fate Book fans.
I swore the first book would be a standalone, but you persisted, and I’m glad you did.
FATE BOOK
two
PROLOGUE
“Today is your wedding day, Dakota. Yours. And nothing will go wrong. Today is your wedding day, Dakota. Yours. And nothing will go wrong. Today is your…” I repeat my cheesy affirmation in the mirror, knowing in my heart that this is going to be the best day of my life.
Sure, I realize that a lot of people might think nineteen years old is way too young to marry. But what if, and this is purely hypothetical, of course, your father was once the most powerful man in the world? Not a king or president, but the sort of man who makes or breaks a government by providing “helpful” information to the “good guys.”
And what if the only thing keeping you alive from terrorists, the mafia, and every enemy of the state in the world was the fact you didn’t exist?
Only, now you do. Now they know.
Not just about you, but your mom, too.
They’ve got your photo, birth certificate, and medical records. They know where you went to school, whom you hung out with, what you like to eat, and where you go shopping—or used to, anyway. And given the chance, they’d either chop you up into tiny bits and videotape it for the world to see or—my personal nightmare—remove your head and ship it off to your parents. If they could find them. But, of course, they can’t. I hope. Because they’re in hiding, too.
Of course, this is all just hypothetical. As is the fact that I’m now living under the name of Julie in a remote beach town in Costa Rica with my smokin’-hot, twenty-three-year-old bodyguard, Paolo—oops, I mean, Santiago—the love of my life.
Again, I know what you’re thinking: typical girl meets hot, dangerous Italian bodyguard with thick, dark hair, dark-as-midnight eyes, and the sort of body that could easily be classified as a deadly weapon. (Yeah, he’s that frigging sexy.)
But this is not that type of story. This is the story of two people who met under very precarious circumstances and saved each other from a life of ghosts. By that, I mean our pasts were completely shitty, and somehow being together made us whole again. Does that mean I don’t wish things were different? No. I wish for that every single day. Hiding out in a foreign country, constantly looking over your shoulder is no fun.
Anyway, back to the question at hand: Why would a young woman choose to marry at the age of nineteen?
Because he’s the one.
Also, it doesn’t hurt that he’s smart as hell and equally deadly. Yep, downright ruthless when it comes to keeping me safe.
Think you could pass that up?
I couldn’t. And in two minutes, I’ll be walking down the aisle of that old Spanish church nestled on a quiet rocky hill overlooking the Caribbean, saying “I do” to a man whose lips alone send my head into an unwholesome tailspin too graphic to be shown at a XXX film festival. Not that I’ve ever been to one. But you get the picture. He takes my breath away.
A firm knock on the hand-carved, wooden door of the little room I’m using to make the finishing bride touches lets me know it’s time.
This is your day, Dakota. Yours. And nothing will ruin it.
I smile in the mirror and poke my eye with the mascara brush.
Part One
Happy Ever…
Oh, Look!
A Rabbit Hole
CHAPTER ONE
Cahuita, Costa Rica
“Come in, Dad!
” I called out, trying to remove the enormous smudge of black mascara from under my eye while wiping away the tears. Not tears of joy, but tears of “ouch!”
I looked into the portable mirror I’d propped up on the little wooden reading desk in the corner, blinking away the pain from jabbing myself in the eye. Luckily, I hadn’t ruined my two hours of primping and still looked presentable, only now with one red eye.
No time for fixing that.
Wedding day checklist commence:
Makeup: Not too slutty with just the right amount of smoky eye shadow to bring out my baby blues? Check.
Hair: Smooth and silky? Check! (Flat ironed the hell out of you today, you red fiery demon from hell, didn’t I?)
Dress: Awesome frigging curve-hugger with beaded bodice, flown in from New York City, handmade by my BFF slash fashion major at Parsons, Mandy. Extreme lengths taken to ensure the dress doesn’t tie back to me to maintain her safety? Check. Check.
Witnesses: Mom and Dad. Five false identities with five different passports and five different airlines used to ensure no trace left? Check. Check. Check. Check. And…check!
My father, a tall man with an athletic build and cropped silver hair, popped his head inside the slightly dusty book room situated near the church’s entrance. “It’s time, honey.”
I nodded nervously and stood, making sure my train fell behind me. It wasn’t unlike me to trip on stuff from time to time.
“Don’t worry, Dakota. You look…” His face was flushed and his brow slightly sweaty. It was the first time in my entire life I’d ever seen him remotely emotional aside from the handful of occasions he’d chewed me out. Normally, he only looked intimidating and icy cold. “You look beautiful.”
I sighed contentedly. It was really, really nice seeing this softer side of my father. Who knew it would take a wedding to bring it out in him?
“Thanks, Dad. You don’t look so bad yourself.” The tux he wore suited him well; he was definitely more of the clean-cut type of guy. “I’m just happy you and Mom could be here.” Otherwise, Paolo and I would’ve had to pay some random person to be a witness because none of our family or friends could come anywhere near us. The “eyes” could be anywhere, waiting and watching for a chance to snag my mom or me because that would be the only way to get to a careful man like my father, whose brain alone held more secrets than the underground vault at the Pentagon. Not that there is a vault. That I could discuss, anyway.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” My father smiled and extended his elbow.
“I’m shocked, Dad.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I know you can’t stand Paolo.”
His smile softened a bit. “Perhaps he’s not the ideal choice, but I know he’ll put his life on the line to keep you safe. Not sure I can ask for more.”
My father’s dislike of my bodyguard stemmed from the fact that Paolo’s family was the sort Hollywood liked to make movies about. Only, “la famiglia” was ten times more violent and organized. It was the reason Paolo fled the first chance he got and ended up working for my father at the age of twenty after graduating early from Georgetown with honors. But three years later, Paolo would trade in his Spy Kids card for a life with me—another reason my father was peeved, no doubt. He’d invested a lot of time and energy into training Paolo. My other guess was that he’d had Paolo in mind to take his place running the organization when he retired.
I heard the sound of our three Spanish guitar players strumming Villa-Lobos, Prelude No. 3, signaling my cue.
My heart, knowing that I would be spending the rest of my life with Paolo, glowed warmly in my chest as I took my father’s arm and marched down the windowless corridor toward the chapel. Before entering the arched doorway, my father stopped and looked at me one last time. “I’m proud of you, Dakota. You’re a strong person. Much stronger than I was at your age.”
That was a strange compliment, but whatever. My father was all about being tough.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said quietly. I didn’t attempt any additional words, knowing I might burst into tears.
My father and I journeyed the last few steps and stopped in the wide entryway, permitting us a full view of the chapel. Soft afternoon sunlight poured in from the stained-glass windows above, casting cheery red, blue, and yellow lights over the room, where white rose petals peppered the red runner leading to the altar and white roses overflowed from every corner of the small historic church, giving the rustic charm an elegant upgrade.
My mom had done a magnificent job. I wanted to take in every inch, every second, and every breath. A girl only gets to live this moment once. Hopefully.
My eyes traveled up the aisle to where my mom stood with her blonde hair neatly pulled back, looking as elegant as ever in a white pantsuit. Oddly, though, her wide blue eyes screamed panic. The priest, a short, chunky man who generally smiled, also had an expression of creepy terror.
My father immediately tensed and reached into his coat.
A gun. He’s reaching for a gun. What the hell is happening?
“No! It’s okay!” my mom screamed at my father, holding up her hand.
That’s when I noticed the glaring absence of the groom.
“Um…Um…Where’s Paolo?” Had he gone to the bathroom? Maybe he needed to fix his bow tie?
My mom shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know, baby. He was here a few minutes ago. He said he was going to check on you.”
The guitar players, dressed in blousy red shirts, halted their nuptial serenade and exchanged glances.
“But,” I said, “Dad was the only one who came…” My voice trailed off. Oh shit. Oh shit. Panic hit me hard. Not just for Paolo, but for my parents, too.
I turned to my father, who blinked in that strange sort of way indicating he was extremely agitated or worried.
“Go out the back door,” he commanded. “Head to this motel on the west side of town.” He handed me a key with the name Motel Ranita printed on a little frog-shaped tag. Although my parents were staying with Paolo and I in the guest room at our beach condo, it wasn’t at all unusual for a man like my father to have a contingency plan. Paolo had three ready to go on any given day, including backpacks carrying cash and new identities stashed all over town.
I nodded frantically. “Okay. I’ll take Mom. Just find him, Dad. Please.”
I ran toward the altar and grabbed my mom’s trembling hand. We sprinted to the back exit, and outside were immediately blasted with the muggy, hot mid-June air. We headed straight to the gray sedan, keys waiting in the visor—yes, another contingency—and headed to the motel, taking five turns through town—no more, no less—as Paolo had taught me.
“Dakota, baby.” My mom gripped my arm as I tried to drive calmly to our “safe house.” “Don’t worry. I’m sure Paolo is okay. There’s got to be an explanation.”
Of that I had zero doubt. Paolo had either been taken against his will or had split on me. Neither option would leave me unscathed.
Lord, let it be cold feet. Just be all right, Paolo. Just be all right. Because anyone who might take him wouldn’t be the sort to play nice with his body parts. And if they’d found him, that meant they’d found us, too.
Why is this happening?
Because you’re a magnet for trouble. Just like Paolo said.
~~~
Four Weeks Earlier
“Who would have believed it?” Paolo’s dark eyes focused on the crashing waves as we settled ourselves on the red picnic blanket. Only a few minutes’ walk from our beachfront condo, this was our favorite spot—coastline as far as the eye could see, turquoise water, and the softest sand in the world.
“Believed what?” I asked, trying and failing to dust a bit of sand from my bare arms. This time of year—May—the air was so thick with humidity that my skin felt permanently sticky, which was why I was in shorts-and-tank mode these days. Same for Paolo. Not that I minded the weather, but it did take a little getti
ng used to. Paolo, on the other hand, was a chameleon and had blended right in to our foreign home from day one. Of course, he had olive skin that tanned to perfection, he spoke fluent Spanish, and he loved ocean sports: scuba, spearfishing, sailboating. He especially loved anything with a little danger mixed in (spies—can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em), which was why he’d been trying to convince me to ditch the church wedding and do our vows in one of those skydiving ceremonies. Somehow, plummeting to the earth at one hundred and twenty miles per hour while screaming “Until death do us paaaaart…!” didn’t seem romantic.
“It sounds like a good way to have the shortest marriage in history,” I had said.
“It’s symbolic,” he’d replied, but then saw my expression and dropped it. He knew I’d be heartbroken not to get to wear my dress. Anyway, he never did say what a skydiving wedding symbolized.
Paolo continued staring at the water, his angular, unshaven jaw clenching. “I still find it hard to believe I’m here, living this life, about to marry the woman I love. I think I’m the luckiest man on the planet.” A gust of wind blew his black hair to the side. It was a lot longer than when I met him, the sun-bleached tips reaching his earlobes.
“I never would’ve believed it either, but I think I’m the lucky one.” I reached over and squeezed his hand. It was much larger than mine and rough with calluses from all of the training, exercising, and activities he did. I always found it strange how his hands, so gentle and tender with me, especially in bed, were also deadly weapons. And thank God they were. He’d saved my life with those hands not once, but three times. Paolo was tough as nails. But he looked like a hot underwear model and had a heart of gold.
“Yep. I definitely got the better end of this deal,” I said.
He turned to me and tipped his head slightly to one side. “How can you say that?”