I feel his attention sharpen. “But what?”
“Never mind. It’ll sound weird.”
“If you think I’ll let this go now, you don’t know me at all.”
Sighing, I say, “Fine. What I’d like you to do instead of another charitable donation is, um…not something bad.”
“What is it?”
“No, that’s it. I want you to not do something bad.”
He considers that in silence for a while, running his fingers through my hair. “Like what kind of something, for instance?”
“Pick one. You’re a mob boss. I’m sure there are a dozen bad things you do in your daily schedule that you could name right off the top of your head.”
He pretends to think. “So, like…don’t run over a grandmother with my car? Because I’ve got that scheduled for Tuesdays.”
“Ha ha.”
“Wednesdays I usually shoot up a barrel full of puppies. Thursdays are for helping blind people cross the street but leaving them in the middle of the crosswalk when the light changes, and Fridays I like to commit a little light fraud. Identity theft, telemarketing scams, that sort of thing.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Oh—you’ll like this—on the weekends I usually buy a few dozen powdered donuts and take them down to the local homeless shelter.”
He waits until I relent, rolling my eyes. “Okay, I’ll play your silly game. Why is that bad?”
He stifles a laugh. “Because the powdered donuts are actually plain ones that I rolled in glue and baby powder.”
I sigh.
He pushes me onto my back, throws one heavy leg over both of mine, props himself up on his elbow, and smiles down at me. “Wait til I tell you what I’ve got scheduled for Mondays, lass.”
I say tartly, “Let me guess. Bombing a hospital? Poisoning a municipal water supply? Killing off an entire comedy club audience with your awful stand-up routine?”
His smile turns to a grin, stunning in its beauty. Even in the shadows, lit with only a dim blue glow, the man is breathtaking.
“Better. Deflowering virgins.”
I snort. “And making the poor things fall in love with you, no doubt.”
His smile fades. He presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Hopefully.”
I turn my head, hiding my face in his neck. He runs his hand up my arm and over my shoulder, then cradles my head. He whispers, “‘And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.’”
My voice comes out choked. “If you quote Romeo and Juliet to me one more time, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
“That wasn’t from Romeo and Juliet, lass. That was The Taming of the Shrew.”
“Oh. So I’m a shrew now?”
“Considering my naked testicles are within easy reach of your angry fists, I decline to answer.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t say testicles.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a gross word. Almost as gross as ‘moist.’”
He chuckles. “I’ll make a note of it. Any other forbidden words I should be aware of?”
I scowl into his neck. “If it’s in the dictionary, it’s forbidden.”
“Ah. So what I’m hearing you say is shut up.”
“Yes. Now. Or my angry fists will get to work.”
Gathering me closer in his arms, his chest shakes with silent laughter. When I push against his stomach, irritated, he peppers soft, tender kisses all along my neck.
I mutter, “You’re killing me, devil man.”
“Right back atcha, little thief.” He palms my ass, squeezing it, flexing his hips into mine so I feel his erection. His voice turns husky. “I need to be inside you now.”
“If it’ll get you to stop talking, I’m on board.”
“Are you sure you want me to be quiet? Because from what I remember, you liked it an awful lot when I talked like this.”
The Australian accent has made a reappearance. He’s Chris Hemsworth again, the evil bastard.
But I’m not stupid. I spread my legs and draw him inside me, closing my eyes to pretend it’s the actor I’d rather have make love to me, rather than my dangerous gangster with the heart of a poet and a thousand unspoken secrets swimming in the darkness behind his eyes.
22
Jules
When I wake the next morning, he’s gone again. It hurts even more this time than it did the last.
I spend the day wandering aimlessly through town. I think it will become my new routine. When the sun is setting over the ocean, I head back to the same restaurant I’ve visited for the past two nights, knowing I’ll find him there.
Or he’ll find me. Magnets have a funny way of attracting each other like that.
This time when he arrives, he’s in a gorgeous navy blue pinstripe suit with a white silk pocket square and black leather loafers polished to a mirror shine.
His hair is perfect. His beard is trimmed. He’s not wearing a tie, so the strong column of his throat is exposed, tattoo and all. The combination of sleek sophistication with raw masculinity is devastating.
As is the British accent.
Instead of Chris Hemsworth, tonight he’s James Bond.
Leaning an elbow on the bar, he says to Harley, “Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
Harley stares at him, nonplussed. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
I lift my wine glass to him in a mock salute. “Amen.”
Killian smiles blandly at the bartender. “And don’t shake too vigorously. The ice will bruise the vodka.” He turns to me, sending me a hot, half-lidded look. “Hello there.”
“Hello yourself, Mr. Craig.”
He lifts his brows. “Who’s Mr. Craig?”
I look him up and down. “Daniel Craig. As in, the actor? As in, James Bond?”
Killian laughs a husky, sexy-as-hell, ovulation inducing laugh. “No. Sean Connery is the best and only Bond. All those other blokes are just window dressing.”
“I’ll give you the macho, devil-may-care thing. You’ve got that one pinned down. But Sean Connery had a super thick Scottish accent.”
Killian leans closer to me, smirking. “A super thick Scottish accent like this?”
Yes, exactly like that. I could strangle him with my bare hands.
“Were you an actor before you turned to a life of crime?”
He switches back to the posh British Bond accent. “No. I was a farm boy. Acting didn’t come until after I turned to a life of crime.”
He holds my gaze. His own is unflinching. He’s just told me the truth, strange as it is.
“A farm boy,” I muse, warming to the idea. “In Ireland?”
He nods.
“Did your parents make you do chores?”
He nods again.
Fascinated, I try to picture it. Killian as a young boy, on the farm, completing his daily chores. Mucking out horse stalls. Feeding the chickens. Milking the cows.
Impossible.
“Do you have siblings?”
His pause is infinitesimal. “One.”
I search his face, knowing he left something unsaid. “One…?”