This man in head-to-toe black looks like a runway model who moonlights as an assassin, the smug fucker.
And oh, sweet Jesus have mercy on my soul, I am not noticing how tight the suit is around his crotch area.
I do not see that substantial bulge.
I do not.
I say stiffly, “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
His heated gaze takes a leisurely trip over my body, head to toe and back again. He licks his lips.
“I was in town. I wanted to see Lili.”
I exhale hard and set the bottle of wine on the counter with such force, my mother jumps in her chair.
“If you’d like to see Liliana, Mr. Quinn, you’ll have to make arrangements prior to showing up at our home unannounced. Regardless of how things are done in the Mob, this family has certain standards of conduct.”
“Oh, come now, lass,” he chides, enjoying my agitation at his sudden, unwelcome appearance. “A man should be able to see his fiancée without penciling it in on a calendar.”
Knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop him from showing up any damn time he likes, he smiles.
He’s so lucky I don’t already have the wine opener in my hand. He’d have a corkscrew shoved up his ass before he could speak another word.
Into the ensuing silence, my mother says, “Hey. Irish.”
Quinn looks at her. Judging by his expression, he’s surprised to see someone else in the room. She points to a cabinet behind him.
“The vases are in there. When you’re done arranging the flowers, you can open the wine.” She smiles. “If you can pry it out of Reyna’s hand, that is.”
“Pardon my manners,” Quinn says. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”
“I know. You were too busy annoying my daughter.”
“Mrs. Caruso?”
“The one and only.” She chuckles. “Well, now. The rest of them are worm food.”
God, my mother has a dark sense of humor.
Quinn crosses the kitchen and extends his hand to her. He says respectfully, “It’s my honor to meet you, ma’am. I’m Homer.”
I nearly fall face-first onto the kitchen floor.
First, because Quinn is acting like a human for once—not the ape I know him to be—and second, because…Homer?
Mamma accepts his outstretched hand. He clasps it gently for a moment, inclining his head, then releases it and straightens. She gazes up at him through her glasses with narrowed eyes.
She says bluntly, “What kind of name is that for an Irishman?”
He doesn’t take offense. He only chuckles. “My mother was an art student. Winslow Homer was her favorite artist.”
Mamma cackles. “Good thing it wasn’t Edvard Munch.”
“If I tell you the name everyone else knows me by, you’ll laugh even harder.”
“What is it?”
“Spider.”
She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she looks over at me. “You didn’t tell me he was a comedian.”
“He’s not,” I say through gritted teeth. “But he is leaving.”
“Not before he pours me my wine!”
Quinn’s smug smile reappears. “And puts the flowers in water.”
I mentally telegraph a murder threat to him, which he ignores, turning instead to the cabinet behind him to select a vase from the collection of crystal.
As my mother and I watch him, he brings the vase and the flowers to the sink, tears the plastic and tissue paper wrap from the bouquet, fills the vase from the tap, then says calmly, “Your pot’s boiling.”
I look over at the stove. The pot of water is at a full rolling boil, about to spill over the edges.
Cursing, I abandon the bottle of wine and jump over to the stove. I switch off the heat, turn back to Quinn, and demand, “How did you get in here?”
“Through the front door.”
Cocky bastard. “I mean who let you in?”
“The housekeeper. Nice lass. Bettina, I believe? Couldn’t have been sweeter.”
I bet she couldn’t. One look at Mr. Supermodel Assassin here and she most likely fainted.
“Why didn’t she announce you?”
“I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.” He sends me a smoldering glance. “Surprise.”
I feel that look all the way down to my toes.
Flustered, my cheeks hot, I snap, “I hate surprises.”
Mamma mutters, “Somebody around here is about to get a surprise in the form of a smack if I don’t get my wine soon.”
Quinn drops the flowers into the vase of water, fusses with them for a moment until he’s satisfied they’re just so, then crosses to the counter and picks up the bottle of pinot noir.
He examines the label. “Hmm.”
Mamma says, “I’m sorry we don’t have any beer to offer you.”
His smile is faintly amused. “I don’t drink beer.”
“Then why are you looking at the wine like that?”
He glances up at her. After a pause, he says, “I don’t want to insult you by telling you the truth.”
“It’s never stopped you before,” I say, furious that I can’t get him out of my kitchen.
He smiles at me, his hazel eyes burning. “Corkscrew?”
He managed to make that sound lewd, the pig.
I point to the drawer next to the dishwasher, then say, “Liliana is at the movies with her girlfriends tonight, so unfortunately, you won’t be able to see her. And my brother is in the city for business. If you call tomorrow morning, we can set up a time for later in the week.”
“The movies?” Quinn repeats.
“Yes,” I lie, nodding. “You’ve heard of feature films, I presume? Perhaps they don’t have them in Ireland. Too many other important things to do, I imagine, what with the sheep shearing and the river dancing and all the dart throwing championships down at the local pub. But she goes every Thursday. She won’t be home until late. So you should leave. Now.”
He gazes at me in silence for a while, then says, “Sea Smoke.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He turns his gaze to my mother. “If you like pinot noir, you should try Sea Smoke.” He holds up the bottle in his hand. “It’s better than this cheap bloody shite.”
My mother says, “My YouTube boyfriend drinks that. It’s too pricey for me, though.”
“I’ll buy you a bottle.”
She brightens, clapping her hands. “Ah, grazie mille. I can’t wait!”
Am I having a stroke? What the hell is happening?
“Mr. Quinn—”
“Spider.” He smirks at me. “I’d let you call me by my real name, but you haven’t earned the privilege yet.”
I gather all the raging anger in my body and concentrate it into my glare, which I direct to a superheated laser focus on his handsome, hideous face.
He smiles wider and opens the wine.
6
Rey
Mamma and I sit with my archenemy at the kitchen table, watching in silence as he devours his pasta.
I’ve never seen a man eat like this. He fell on his plate and started inhaling the tagliatelle with meat sauce like he’d been adrift at sea in a raft for six months.
I’m equal parts fascinated and disturbed.