“So’s the bird. I swear that thing is smarter than most of the guys Sloane’s dated.”
Nat deadpans, “Wouldn’t be hard.”
“Very funny, assholes,” says Sloane breezily. “I’ll have you know I once dated a Rhodes scholar.”
“Once being the important word in that sentence,” says Nat, laughing.
“Besides, nobody’s smarter than I am, so why bother dating a smart guy?”
“I’m sure Declan would have something to say about you thinking you’re smarter than he is.”
“Oh, he knows. I tell him so all the time.”
Nat rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”
Inside her cute little blingy handbag, Sloane’s phone rings. She unzips the bag, takes out the phone, and sighs when she sees the number on the readout. “Oh, Stavi. Give it up already.”
“Stavi?”
Sloane smiles at me. “My ex, Stavros. He wants me to text him a pic of my shoes.”
I lift my brows. “He’s into women’s footwear?”
Her chuckle is dry. “Sis, like you wouldn’t believe.”
I haven’t said a thing to her about the section regarding her ex Stavros in the contract Declan and I negotiated, and I never will. It’s enough that he agreed to take it out. And as long as Stavros stays alive, I’ll keep my promise to Declan that the whole incident will remain between the two of us.
Politics is tricky, but like I once told her, I’m an excellent politician.
Sloane looks up from her phone at me. “Hey, do you know any single Mafia girls? I promised him I’d set him up with someone. He’s super sweet. Cute, too. And very rich.”
“And he has a thing for women’s shoes.”
She scrunches up her nose. “I mean, nobody’s perfect.”
Riley says to me, “I’ve been meaning to ask you how Kieran’s doing.”
“He’s doing great!”
Sloane says, “Madly in love with Aria, from what Declan tells me.”
That makes me laugh. “Yes, our Irishmen fall fast and hard, don’t they?”
Nat says, “Probably not as fast or hard as our Russians do, right, Riley?”
Riley looks pointedly at her sister. “Which isn’t as fast or hard as the Keller sisters do.”
Sloane nods, sipping more champagne. “But Stockholm Syndrome runs in the family, so we really couldn’t help ourselves.”
I’ve already gotten the full backstory about how kidnapping was the inciting event that had both Sloane and Riley falling in love with their captors, Declan and Mal. And honestly, after all I’ve been through in my life, it makes as much sense as anything else does.
Except for Nat’s story about how she fell in love with Kage.
I don’t think I’d ever be able to love a man who was sent to kill me, no matter how handsome he was.
I guess that’s the funny thing about love, though.
Its fire can forge soul mates from even the most bitter of enemies.
My own cell phone buzzes in my handbag. When I look to see who it is, I’ve got a text from Mamma.
How do you open the minibar in this place? The bastardo is locked!
I send her the code, hoping she’s not hosting a party in her suite. When I invited her to come with us to Paris, she said she’d only go on the condition she have her own room. With a view of the Eiffel Tower. And a butler. Who was over six feet and under thirty-five.
She was granted all her demands, naturally. I’m not the only Caruso female Quinn can’t say no to.
“Girls, I’ve got to visit the ladies’ room. Anybody else?”
I get a round of head shakes for an answer.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a sec. And keep an eye on the boys. If things look like they’re about to go sideways, I’m counting on you to get control of the situation, Sloane.”
She smiles as if she’s hoping gunfire will break out at any moment. “No problem, babe. They won’t know what hit ’em.”
I wind my way slowly through the elegant crowd toward an archway marked “Mesdames.” The restroom is down a corridor lined with potted palms lighted purple. I go inside, use the toilet, then wash my hands in the sink.
When I come out, the corridor is empty.
Except for my four bodyguards lying facedown and unmoving on the floor and the man leaning casually against the wall.
Wearing faded jeans, a tight white T-shirt, cowboy boots, and mirrored sunglasses, he has a foot propped up on the wall and his tattooed arms folded over his massive chest. His dark wavy hair brushes his shoulders. His angular jaw is covered in scruff.
He’s big, masculine, and exudes an air of danger so palpable, I can almost touch it.
He looks like a mashup of Wolverine, Dirty Harry, and James Bond. On steroids.
I say, “At least take off the sunglasses. It would add insult to injury to be murdered by a man wearing sunglasses. Indoors. At night.”
“Not gonna harm you, lass. Just want a word.”
His Irish accent is lilting and his tone is gentle, but I don’t trust him.
I know a killer when I see one. And this guy’s a killer with a capital K.
He pushes off the wall, pulls a huge semiautomatic handgun out of the back of his waistband, and holds it out to me. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
“What would make me feel better is if I knew why an Irishman who thinks he’s Dirty Harry assaulted four of my bodyguards.”
He smiles. My reflection in his glasses looks very small.
“This conversation needs to be private.”
“Are they dead?”
“Do you see any blood?”
“There are so many ways to kill a man that don’t involve spilling his blood.”
His smile grows wider. Tucking the gun back in its place, he drawls, “Aye, there are. Which you know all about, don’t you?”
Someone is coming down the hallway. Two women, chattering, their heads together and their high heels clicking off the marble floor. They see us and the four men lying unconscious and pull up short. They look at each other. Then they turn around and run off without a word.
Dirty Harry strolls away and turns left around a corner, disappearing from sight. From around the corner he says, “C’mon, Reyna. If I wanted to kill you, I already would have.”
Whoever he is, this guy is very irritating.
“Who are you?”
A husky chuckle is my only answer.
“I really don’t appreciate the cloak-and-dagger routine.”
“Two minutes of your time. That’s all I need. Why don’t you pull that blade out of the sheath on your thigh and wave it around at me? Might make you feel better.”
I glance down at the front of my dress. The waist is cinched and the skirt is full, concealing any tell-tale lumps or bumps. There’s no way he could’ve known I’m carrying a knife.
“Don’t think too hard on it, lass. Clock’s ticking.”
Curiosity gets the best of me. I walk around the corner, stop a few feet away from him, and prop my hands on my hips. He’s leaning against the wall again, as if he thinks it’s his job to hold up the entire building.
“You’re a rival of Declan and Quinn’s, is that it? Am I about to be kidnapped and held for ransom?”