Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

34. Caelon

Chapter Thirty-Four

CAELON

‘What the fuck is that on my couch?’ I zoom in on the camera in the sitting room. My eyes must be deceiving me because it looks as if there’s a sixty-kilogram, ginger, furry, drooling beast on my custom-made Italian couch.

‘I wondered how long it would take for you to check up on me,’ Ivy sing-songs.

I watch on my laptop as she flicks her head towards the camera above the eighty-inch TV screen and waves casually, like she isn’t curled up with a slobbering dog on sixty-grand’s worth of Italian leather.

‘Answer the question, Ivy.’ A vein throbs in my temple. ‘What the fuck is that thing doing on my couch?’

‘She’s not a thing! This is Roxy, our new fur baby.’

‘Is this some sort of fucking joke?’

‘You told the kids they could buy something cool, and this is what they wanted. I’ll take care of her, I promise. She’s already house-trained. And she’s great with the kids. They adore her. Boxers are great family dogs, you know. They also have longer life expectancies than goldfish, so there’s that, too. ’

‘Send it back. Get rid of it. It can’t stay.’ I rake my fingers through my hair in despair.

‘Fine, but are you going to tell the kids?’ Ivy beams at the camera and winks.

Orla and Owen race into the sitting room. ‘Is that Daddy on the phone?’ A worried look pinches Orla’s face.

Ivy hands the phone over and my daughter’s voice floods my ear.

‘Please, Daddy, don’t make us get rid of her. She’s my best friend. I love her so much.’

I blow out a breath, rock back in my office chair, and plant my feet on the desk. ‘Put Ivy back on the phone, please.’

‘Love you, Daddy,’ Orla says. She’s good. She might be small, but she already knows how to pull my levers. Beckett genetics run strong. I’m torn between happiness and horror.

‘Love you too, princess.’

By the time Ivy comes back on the line, I’ve come to a decision.

‘Get that thing off my couch. Buy it a kennel, put it in the garden and make sure Jared cleans up its shit. Whatever you do, do not let it back in the house.’

‘Does that mean we can keep it?’ I watch the screen as Ivy pets the dog and kisses its head. For fuck’s sake.

‘Do I have a choice?’ I growl. ‘How can I get rid of it when Owen has finally stopped wetting the bed and Orla has finished mourning the last damn goldfish?’

‘Having a dog will be good for them. Every child should have one.’ Ivy beams at the camera. She’s wearing a pair of tight skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that reveals the strap of her ivory lace bra. ‘Anyway, how are things going over there? Are you getting everything sorted?’

‘Sadly, not. I’ll be here another few days at least.’ A sharp stabbing lances my chest. I miss her so much .

Ivy pouts and whispers, ‘I miss you. But at least I have someone to curl up with later.’ She snorts as she slides off the couch and leads the dog towards the French doors.

I should be hopping mad at her for letting a four-legged beast wreck my couch. But the truth is, I’m mad about her.

And if she wants ten dogs, I’d suck it up if it made her happy. Especially if it makes her and my kids happy.

She’s going to have to change my nickname from Tortured to Thwarted.

I spend the next two days checking the cameras between meetings. The damn dog remains outside for most of the day, but despite a new kennel appearing at the back of the house, the spoiled mutt somehow ends up sleeping upstairs each night.

I don’t know what annoys me more–that Ivy continues to defy me, or that the dog gets to sleep upstairs while I’m stuck here. I’ve taken residence in one of the smaller Beckett Boutiques in Carvoeiro. The hotel is one of our most luxurious, bolted onto the cliff overlooking Vale Covo, a small, stunning sandy beach. Every time I glimpse the golden stretch below, I’m reminded of the day I spent at the beach with Ivy. The day I began to unravel. Although, arguably, that happened the night I met her. She’s in my head every damn second of every damn day and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

I need to get home. The week is dragging. The days are endlessly long and the nights are even worse. Nothing beats my own bed. Well, Ivy’s bed. She’s yet to sleep in mine. I’ve always been protective of that space – up until now. The more joy Ivy brings to our lives, the more I’m coming around to the thought that if she makes me happy, it’s what Isabella would want.

I need to tell Dermot I’m dating his sister, because I’m ready to shout it from the rooftops. When I do, she’ll need twenty-four-seven security. I can’t risk anything happening to her. The O’Connors may be behind bars, but the war between us is far from over, especially when I’ve yet to avenge Isabella. But that day is coming, and soon, if Killian’s reports are anything to go by. A team of the best doctors in the country is working on Danny’s recovery, and by all accounts, it’s only a matter of days before he wakes. It’s a day that can’t come soon enough.

Which is why I need to deal with the mountain of shit accumulating here. Portuguese regulatory hurdles. The painfully slow pace of obtaining permits. And complications caused by unexpected structural issues. I’ve been round and round in circles and I’m no closer to coming up with a solution.

I’m sitting with my lead designer, head architect, and three members of the Portuguese council around a vast boardroom table, hashing out potential solutions. They keep slipping from English to Portuguese and my mind keeps slipping to Ivy.

For the hundredth time this week, I pull up my house cameras on my laptop. I’ve watched Ivy walk around in that fucking nightie, swaying her hips through the hallway as she goes to get her coffee every damn morning. She always pauses at the exact spot on the wall where I took her. Sometimes the little brat even looks up at the camera and winks like she knows I’m watching.

The men around the table debate the best way to resolve the permit issues while I perve on Ivy’s bikini-clad body. She’s in the pool with the kids. The sky looks overcast, the spell of good weather finally broken. We don’t have that problem here. I’m sweating like a nun in a sex shop.

I note the damn mutt is at least in its kennel.

Two more clicks of my mouse and I have a close-up of Ivy adjusting Orla’s armbands while Owen rests on her hip. Something twists in my chest.

Lust and something stronger. It takes me a minute to pinpoint the sensation.

It’s longing.

Ivy’s bikini leaves little to the imagination. Her nipples are like bullets beneath the red Lycra, her skin peppered with goosebumps. She’s visibly shivering, yet she’s still smiling at my kids. The woman was made to be a mother. For a second, an image of Ivy, heavily pregnant with my baby, bursts through my brain and, surprisingly, it doesn’t terrify me.

It’s clear she’s trying to convince the kids it’s time to get out of the water. Both Orla and Owen are shaking their heads in protest. Ivy’s hands gesticulate wildly. She seems to be trying to make a deal with them. Good luck with that.

I watch as she lifts Owen to the edge of the pool and settles him on the ledge. Then she takes Orla’s hand and pulls her to the edge too, before hoisting herself up, filling my screen with an image of her full, round ass for a hot minute. My dick strains in my pants.

‘What do you think, Mr Beckett?’ the architect says, clasping his hands on the table.

I think I need to sink myself inside my woman again, and the quicker the better.

‘I pay you to deal with these complications, so deal with them,’ I snap, refocusing on my laptop. Ivy takes Orla’s and Owen’s hands, and the three of them stand in a row. I read Ivy’s lips as she counts down. Three. Two. One. Then they jump into the pool together. I hold my breath as they disappear under the water, panic clawing at my chest. It feels like minutes, but after a couple of seconds they burst up from beneath the turquoise surface.

I sigh with relief and feel my lips stretch into a grin as my children’s beaming faces fill the screen. They’re laughing and spluttering in a way which, until Ivy arrived, I hadn’t seen since before Isabella’s death.

Jared saunters over. The slippery fucker. Red rage clouds my vision. Is he seriously stupid enough to make a move on my woman while I’m away on business?

I pluck my phone from the table, push my chair back and stalk across the room towards the door.

‘Mr Beckett,’ someone calls. Every eye in the room is on me. I ignore them and motion for them to keep talking. I can’t leave Portugal until every one of these issues is resolved, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit here through every painful second of this debate.

I don’t bother looking back. ‘Don’t waste my time until you’ve come up with viable solutions.’

In the air-conditioned corridor, I dial Samuel, who I left in charge of security at the house while Damon travelled with me.

‘Mr Beckett?’ Samuel answers on the first ring.

‘Tell Jared if he takes one more step towards Ivy, he’s fired. Tell her if he so much as looks at her, he’s fired.’ I stride towards the lift, heading for the penthouse suite.

Stunned silence greets me on the other end of the line.

‘Samuel?’ I bark.

‘Yes, sir, absolutely. Is that all?’

‘No, that’s not all.’ I step into the glass lift and stare at the beach below. ‘Looks like I’m going to be stuck here for another few days. Ask Liz to pack a bag for the kids. Book the jet. I want them here tonight.’

‘And Ivy, sir?’

‘I want her too.’