Follow Page 2

  “Correction: he stopped being a thief in the night when we left. And he’d paid his dues.”

  “Oh yeah?” His gaze slithers down my thighs, but I refuse to flinch. “What do you know about your father’s time with me, little girl?”

  Smoothly as possible, I cover my misstep. “Only that we were all unhappy. And that he came to you and worked something out. A way that allowed us to leave in peace.” I take a long pull of oxygen. “I’m here to do the same for my brother.”

  “No.”

  That single word is like being backhanded, but I command myself to maintain my poker face. I’m immediately resentful that he stole the upper hand I earned by shaking my tits, though. His smile tells me he loved doing it, too. “He can’t be that valuable to you after four weeks.” A thought occurs. “Or are you still salty about my father leaving?”

  “Your brother is indispensable, just like the rest of these baby birds that want to be gangsters.”

  “So it is about my father?” I take a couple experimental steps into the restaurant, orbiting this man I’m hating more by the minute. “And my brother isn’t a baby bird.”

  “Oh no? He’s some hidden gem, but he needs his five-foot-nothing sister to come wipe his ass?” He winks at me. “Not that I mind the scenery.”

  I flutter my eyelashes. “As far as you’re concerned, this scenery is government land. And I’m the president.”

  His laugh catches him off guard. After a few seconds, he lets the gun drop, and my insides unclench. “Let’s go sit down. I like to drink my espresso hot.”

  I make a sweeping gesture toward the dining room. “Age before beauty.”

  My feet sink into the plush, outdated, ruby-red carpet as I follow Silas toward a two-seater table. He heaves a breath—and his belly—to get into the booth side of the table. Then he sets about rearranging himself. Straightening his collar, his coat. Twisting his ring. Organizing his spoon and espresso within reach. Those sharp movements remind me he’s not some harmless grandfather. Didn’t he almost blow my head off when I walked in here?

  “All right. Let’s continue.” Staten Island is packed into his voice like sardines. “Is this about your father?” He pinches his fingers together in front of his face. “Poco.” A little. “These kids…they think working for me is like a job at fucking Starbucks. They get bored and decide they want out. I can’t allow that. Not without a penalty. You let one out, they all start itching to fly the coop.”

  My first thought is: this isn’t as bad as I was expecting. My second one is: don’t be naïve. There’s a shoe waiting to drop somewhere and it’s not as cute as the wedge heel ankle boots I’m wearing. “So what’s the penalty? Money?”

  A smile stretches across his face. “I got money, sweetheart.”

  “A job, then.”

  He leans back and sips his espresso. Seconds tick by as he studies me, thoughts cranking behind eyes that have probably seen more than their fair share of gruesome sights. “You should already be dead,” he says, finally.

  The hair on my arm stands up, bile rising in my throat. “My brother didn’t tell me anything. Only that he can’t come home to Los Angeles. I filled in the blanks.”

  No answer as he absorbs that.

  “Look, this isn’t going to mean anything to you, but…” Heat burns behind my eyelids. “My parents are gone now. Died within four days of one another. Dad first. Then Mom. He’s the only blood I have left.”

  “Why wouldn’t that mean anything to me?”

  “I-I don’t know.” I’m humiliated when moisture obscures my vision, so I toss my hair back in order to look up at the ceiling. “If the penalty is a job…I’ll do it. Once it’s over, we’re both off the hook.”

  He inclines his head. “Do you have the Instagram?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The Instagram.” I watch from way out in left field as Silas tugs eyeglasses out of his pocket and peers down at the screen of his cell phone. “One of these squares opens it…”

  Whoa. What is with the topic change?

  Recognizing the pink icon across the table, I reach across the table and punch the app with my index finger. “Uh.” Ducking my head, I check his pupils for dilation. “Should I call a nurse?”

  “Here it is.”

  “Here what is?”

  “My son. Will.” Silas faces the screen in my direction. “Looks like he’s in Texas now. Last week it was Louisiana.” The lines around his mouth tighten. “He’s driving across the country with his dog.”

  “That sounds slobbery.” Leaning in, I get a good look at Will, and okay. Hell. My ovaries sit up and pant against my will. He’s what the ladies at my job refer to as foine. Yummy in a dangerous kind of way. A harsh, unshaven jaw that looks like it would leave rug burns on the insides of a woman’s thighs. His eyes are hidden by dark sunglasses, but the creases between his heavy, black brows tell me they’re hard. Discerning. In the picture, Will is leaning back against an old, orange convertible, with a giant—I mean, freaking enormous—dog sitting on the hood, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Will’s arms are crossed and I can’t help but zero in on those corded forearms, the breadth of his chest. God. Damn.

  He’s a beast in the sack. I don’t even need a test drive to make that judgment.

  I don’t test drive at all anymore. Men are fun to look at on Instagram. They can lift heavy things. The human race needs their man juice to procreate. But this vibrator-packing girl is just window shopping, thank you very much. That dog might be looking at Will with hero worship in its eyes, but within a month, that burly and apparently loaded male human would be making demands on my time and patience without giving anything in return. Except, maybe, an occasional half-hearted lay. Just like the rest of his brethren.

  I might only be twenty-three, but I’ve been burned by enough men to know they share a common gene. They can’t see past their own needs and if those needs—physical, emotional and food-ical—aren’t being satisfied non-stop, they check out and start looking for the next girl who can provide instant gratification. Or an ego boost. I have zero time for it. Why am I thinking about this at all?

  Sitting back in my chair, I start to ask why we’ve gone off the topic, when a thought occurs. “Wait a minute. I don’t remember you having a son.”

  “My wife could never conceive.” He inclines his head. “My girlfriend did, though.”

  “There it is. Lovely.” Impatience cranks in my middle. “What does your son have to do with my brother?”

  “Will is the job I’m giving you.”

  Without permission, my abdomen knits up tight, as if in anticipation of coming into real-life contact with Will. Silly, neglected hormones. “I don’t follow.”

  Silas Case laces his fingers together, placing them carefully on the table. He seems to be choosing his words. “Will manages Caruso Capital Management—a revered hedge fund—and he’s only thirty-two.” That takes me off guard. After looking at Will’s picture, I didn’t expect him to work behind a desk. More like beneath a vintage car or in a football uniform. My musings are interrupted when Silas Case continues. “He’s throwing away everything he’s worked for in order to drive around the country with his fucking dog.”

  “Why?”

  He snorts. “There is no acceptable reason. I don’t care if the dog is dying.”

  My heart lurches. “The dog is…dying?”

  Silas tilts his head. “Don’t go soft on me now. I’m handing you a chance for your brother to walk away free and clear. And I’m giving you the chance because you don’t flinch and I like that. It’s rare these days.”

  “Touching,” I say, trying to sound bored. Truth is, though, I’m still stuck on that massive pooch meeting his maker. Despite its size, the dog looks young. “So what’s the actual mission, captain, so I can decide if I choose to accept?”

  “This has gone on long enough.” Silas’s fist comes down hard on the table, splashing espresso on the white tablecloth. Another remi
nder that the man sitting across from me is a cold-blooded mafia boss. A tyrant who has ruled this neighborhood since before I was born. “I take responsibility for what I did. But it’s no excuse to let his business fail.”

  “What did you do?”

  His black eyes turn glacial. “None of your business.” Battling a fierce urge to look away, I nod once and he continues. “Let’s see what it takes to make you flinch, shall we?”

  Trepidation sneaks into my gut, but I shrug. “Have at it.”

  Silas’s attention falls to my breasts, lingering there long enough to make my arms tingle with the need to cross. “There are only three things in life that drive a man. Power, money. And women. Will has those first two bases covered, but even unlimited cash and clout couldn’t keep him from this ridiculous escapade.” He refocuses on my face. “That leaves women.”

  What the hell is he getting at? “Seems to me if he’s rich and powerful, women come as part of the deal.”

  “Sure. But I’m talking about a specific woman. The kind the makes a man change his plans. Rearrange everything.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You strutted in here looking like a centerfold and stared straight down the barrel of my gun. There’s something about you. I don’t change my plans for nobody, but my son isn’t like me.”

  My pulse picks up. “What are you asking?”

  “I won’t be the reason he throws it all away. I need him to succeed.” He smoothes a wrinkle in the tablecloth, very, very carefully. “Find Will. Convince him to give up this ridiculous escapade and go home. Back to his company.” His gaze ticks to mine. “I think we both know what I mean by convince him.”

  I’m not so sure I hide my true feelings this time around. How can I when my skin is crawling with spiky-legged ants? Silas wants me to sleep with Will. Wants me to feign interest and give my body to a stranger, with the hope he grows attached to me—enough to bring him home. There’s no question about that.

  My system feels jolted, top to bottom. I’ve used my body as a shiny object and form of distraction since I started filling out a C-cup. But I’ve chosen to use it as a weapon—a harmless one that I’ve never deployed for the wrong reasons. Having this man call out my secret and ask me to put my money where my mouth is? I might as well be sitting here with no clothes on. No artful makeup or pricey shoes. Nothing.

  Just Teresa. A girl who works a dead-end job and has no chance at film school.

  So I do what comes naturally and default to indifference. No way is he going to know he stripped off a layer of my skin. Especially when my brother’s freedom is my goal. I’ll agree to anything he wants and adjust later. “Convince him. Right.” I swallow. “So, I’m just supposed to believe this is all about you wanting the best for him?”

  “Yeah,” he snaps, daring me to question him. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  His motives don’t matter. He’s giving me an out. I can’t give him a chance to change his mind. “So, let’s recap. I…encourage Will to go back to his fancy-pants life in New York City. You let my brother off scot-free?”

  “You’ve got a week.”

  I reach deep for some bravado. “If I can get it done sooner, how about you throw in airfare?” He’s clearly not impressed with the suggestion or my charming eyebrow waggle, so I push back my chair and stand, ready to split before he takes back the offer. Now that I’ve had time to recover from Silas’s request, I’m mostly back in control. Convince a man to do something? I’ve had a harder time opening a jar of pickles.

  After all, Silas didn’t specify that I had to sleep with Will. He only implied it. There’s a way to meet the crime boss’s demands without selling my soul.

  Isn’t there?

  I’ll be conning Will no matter what happens.

  Remembering the dog’s expression of rapture, guilt climbs my neck like a ladder, but I shake it off. I can handle any amount of guilt to help my brother. “If I’m doing this, it’s going to be done right. I need a few days to plan and make my cover story credible. The week starts when I get to Texas.”

  His mouth is flat, but he agrees. “Sure.”

  “Any further instructions?”

  “Under no circumstances can Will know I sent you. Other than that? No.” His gaze travels downward, lingering on my thighs. Between them. “You seem like an adventurous girl. I’ll leave the dirty details to you.”

  Acid climbs my throat. Unable to get out of there fast enough, I swagger toward the exit, but Silas’s voice brings me up short. “Oh, and Teresa, don’t be alarmed if I send someone to keep an eye on you.” He winks at me. “Just to keep you honest.”

  Smiling through my alarm, I finally make it out the door.

  Texas, here I come.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Will

  My definition of a bad day has changed.

  Drastically.

  In a different lifetime, a bad day used to mean a trip to the emergency room with a busted eye, so I could get stitched up. Or watching the Giants get spanked.

  In this lifetime, a bad day means losing forty million dollars on a bad trade.

  To be fair, the latter doesn’t happen too often, but when it does…it’s almost like it’s happening to someone else. Another man. Same when it comes to triumphs or hell, even uneventful days in the office. I’m always looking back on that other lifetime, wondering where that asshole with the busted lip went.

  I draw a long breath in through my nose and let it out, staring out over the field. Neither one of those men seem to be here now.

  Which one will I eventually return to?

  A slimy snout presses into the palm of my hand, distracting me.

  The tightness in my chest eases when I look down at my dog. His body vibrates with the leftover excitement of running in the field we pulled over to inspect, just outside of Dallas.

  “Back already, huh?” I rub the top of Southpaw’s head with my knuckles. “Shit. Why are you wet? Again.”

  My Great Dane responds by yawning, showing off the ridges on the roof of his mouth. He flops onto his side and rolls over, his four legs looking like highway mile markers pointed straight up at the blue sky. The mud splashed all over his white belly will be transferred to my leather car seat when we hit the road again. That’s fine by me, though. Leather can be replaced, but Southpaw can’t.

  This is his vacation. I’m just the chauffeur.

  See, bad days were always surmountable before. I could fix them. Or enough time would pass that I gradually forgot they existed. There’s no moving on from a day when you find out your entire damn life is a lie—and your dog is dying—within the space of twenty-four hours. There’s no way to change those things.

  So I changed my priorities instead.

  Southpaw makes a snarf sound and writhes on his back in the grass.

  “What’s that mean? You hungry?” His tongue unfolds and dangles out the corner of his mouth in response. “Yeah. When are you not hungry, you big-ass beast? Let’s go. Hop in.”

  Southpaw animates in a flurry of fur, trotting toward my Chevelle when just a month ago, he would have streaked at a hundred miles an hour. I clear my throat hard to keep a lump from forming and school my features. Call me crazy if you want, but that dog picks up on everything. And he’s truly my dog, because he’s not a fan of pity. Or cats.

  We’ve been on this road trip for one month as of today. Started in New York and made our way down to Florida, before cutting west. We don’t have rules or plans. When we find somewhere we like, we stay until we get sick of it. In other words, until Southpaw drags my suitcase out from beneath the bed and sits on it until I get the hint and start packing.

  Dallas has been keeping us entertained for a few days, but as we pull into the parking lot of the Drifter Motel and Southpaw gives a sigh, I’m pretty sure we’ll be gone by tomorrow. Dogs have no attention span these days.

  “Come on,” I say, throwing the car into park. “Better clean you up or no respectable eating establishment will let us through the door.”
>
  Speaking of respectable establishments, this motel doesn’t really fall into that category. The stucco is peeling, half the vacancy sign needs replacement bulbs, and guests consist of broke musicians and men of questionable morals. It’s not that I can’t afford something nicer—I can write a check and buy a damn hotel if I so choose—but even if a five-star hotel was willing to let a horse-sized dog sleep in their fancy sheets, they’re not happy about it. My overly sensitive dog loves people, so I’d rather have him surrounded by people who’ll love him back.

  Case in point, someone puts their hand out for a sniff every two steps on our way to the room. Out front, a couple is getting romantic in between sips from a brown paper bag. Music blares out from two different rooms. One plays metal, Spanish opera belts through a fuzzy speaker in the other. Cigarette smoke, old and new, lingers in the air, along with the smell of lemon cleaning product and sweat.

  “Home sweet home,” I mutter, reaching down to pat Southpaw on the head. He head-butts my thigh in response. Sliding the key from my pocket, I dip it into the metal reader and push the door open. “I know. You love it. They don’t mind you tracking in—”

  Tits.

  There are tits in my room.

  Really fucking nice ones.

  I’m so distracted by their unexpected appearance—any red-blooded man with working testicles would be—that I don’t take in their owner right away. And all the other equally amazing shit that’s going on. The sexy brunette has one foot propped on my bed, her hands paused on her calf where she’s been applying lotion, before I so rudely interrupted her by walking into my own room.

  A gruff bark from Southpaw prompts me to double check the door. But I do it fast—we’re in the right place—because as I mentioned, there’s a really fucking nice pair of tits in my room. Sue me for wanting to memorize the shape and color of her tight, rosy nipples before she screams and covers herself.

  Which she doesn’t exactly seem inclined to do.

  “Can we help you?”

  Up until now, a big waterfall of dark hair has been hiding the woman’s face from me. But at my greeting, she tosses that thick mane back…and reveals features that accomplish the impossible. It nudges her tits into second place for most incredible body part in the room.