I say, “I got your note.” That’s all I can get out before my throat closes.
Eyes burning, he watches me swallow. Watches as I struggle to pull myself together, turning away to blow out a hard breath.
My heart pounds so hard it could be fatal. Having him this close to me after everything that happened last night is causing nerves I didn’t even know I owned to bolt upright and start screaming.
He reaches out, slides his big hand under my hair, and gently squeezes the back of my neck. Then he leans over and presses a soft kiss against my temple. Into my ear, he murmurs, “I know, lass. Me too.”
How can he see me so clearly? How does he always know what I’m feeling without me speaking a word?
I whisper, “This can’t happen.”
“It already has.”
Anger forms a hot, sour ball in my stomach, but only because I know he’s right.
“Look at me.”
It takes me a moment to gather the courage to do as he commanded. When I do, I find him staring back at me with searing intensity.
His voice low, he says, “But what happens next is up to you. I won’t pressure you. I’ll disappear if that’s what you really want. I only ask that you’re honest with me. Let’s not play any games.”
His expression is dead serious. His eyes search mine. His thumb gently strokes the nape of my neck, raising goosebumps all along my spine.
Fighting the emotion clawing its way up my throat, I say, “I forgot to thank you for the necklace.”
“You’re welcome. Tell me when I can kiss you. I need your mouth.”
I break eye contact, trying not to hyperventilate but failing. Looking at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind the bar, I stammer, “And—and the roses. Thank you for those, too.”
“I can’t stop thinking about how you taste. How you sound. How you claw my back when you come. I want more of all of it. I want more of you.”
Closing my eyes, I whisper, “Killian. Please.”
He drags me off my barstool, onto his lap, and into his arms.
Squeezing me tight, he inhales deeply against my throat. His voice comes out husky. “Let me in. Let me take care of you. Give me your trust, and I’ll give you the world. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”
“This is insane.”
“Aye. Who cares? It’s real, and that’s what matters.”
The sweetness of his words, the gentleness of his voice, the tender way he’s holding me…the man is breaking my heart.
My face hidden in his neck, I whisper, “Can you understand how hard this is for me? How this seems like it could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done?”
“I’m not your father, Juliet.”
When I groan and try to pull away, he takes my jaw in his hand and forces me to look at him.
“I’m not your fucking father.”
His tone is rough. His eyes blaze with anger. He’s upset, and insulted, and some small, pathetic part of me clasps her hands to her chest and sighs.
I choke that dumb bitch unconscious.
“I know you’re not him,” I say, staring him in the eye as my heart throbs wildly. “But what I don’t know is who—or what—you really are. Because from where I’m standing, the view is quite confusing.”
“How so?”
“You hack satellites. You run background checks. Your business cards have advanced geo-location technology. You quote Shakespeare and give lavish gifts and live in a skyscraper all alone, with only miles of black marble for company. Everyone in the world knows you by one name, yet you ask me to call you by another. You have a reputation as a brutal killer, yet with me, you’re a complete gentleman.” My cheeks color. “Except in bed.”
He growls, “You don’t need a gentleman in bed, woman.”
“No, I don’t! That you know that is exactly my point! What am I supposed to do with all this contradictory information? You keep your word and make thoughtful gestures and write beautiful love notes and literally sweep me off my feet, but you also kill men in a shootout in the middle of the street!
“How can you seem like the perfect guy—except you’re a gangster? What the hell does it all mean?”
After a moment, he says, “Well, nobody’s perfect.”
I groan in exasperation, trying to pull out of his arms again. And again, he doesn’t allow it, pulling me closer instead.
“It means things aren’t always what they appear on the surface,” he says, his voice urgent now. As urgent as the look in his eyes. “It means you should trust yourself, and you should trust me. If you do—if you can—I swear, I’ll tell you everything. But you have to go first, lass. You have to let go of all that shit in your head and your past and trust your heart.”
I say flatly, “My mother trusted her heart. She ended up blown to pieces.”
He stares at me with a look of such intensity it steals my breath. His voice dropping an octave, he says slowly, “Do you really believe I would ever let anything like that happen to you?”
I open my mouth, but close it again, because the automatic “yes” I was about to blurt isn’t the truth.
The truth—no matter how ridiculous, impossible, or crazy—is that I believe he’d sacrifice his own life without hesitation if it would save mine.
My voice comes out in a faint, shocked whisper. “No. I think you’d always keep me safe.”
“I would,” he insists, his eyes shining with emotion. “I will. I swear it.”
We stare at each other until the woman at the bar stool on his other side says, “If she’s not interested, hot stuff, I sure am.”
We ignore her.
“But I can’t…this lifestyle of yours…it’s…it’s wrong.”
He looks frustrated, like there are things he’s dying to tell me, but can’t.
Or won’t.
Because hello, big secrets. The things on which solid relationships are definitely not built.
This is when my little detour into fantasy land ends with an abrupt screech, like locked tires against asphalt.
I exhale, popping the shiny bubble I’d formed over my head with the visions of me and Killian sharing a happy future together.
God, I’m an idiot. A pretty face and pretty promises and my legs split open like a hot dog bun.
“Oh no,” he says softly, examining my expression. “There you go again.”
With as much dignity as I can muster, I extricate myself from his arms. I stand, smooth a hand over my hair, straighten my shoulders. Then I look at him and say, “I’m here for the rest of the week. I assume you already know that.”
A muscle in his jaw jumping, he nods curtly. Thunderclouds are gathering over his head. He doesn’t like the turn in the conversation.
Too bad. He’s not in charge.
“Okay. So here’s what I propose. This thing we’ve got going—it’s unsustainable. It’s not real life. But for the next five days, it can be…” I search for the right word, but can’t find one. “It can be whatever the hell it is. Here, only. In this town. When I go back home on Sunday, it’s over. For good.”
I stand and wait for his response, pretending I didn’t tell him just last night that it would only be the one time. My mother always said a woman reserves the right to change her mind.