Perhaps Gigi would have pushed him away, or at the very least tried to, if it wasn’t for the underlying sense of desperation that radiated from him. Here was a man drowning, and Gigi was his lifeline. And it didn’t hurt that Nico tasted like sinful dark chocolate and aged whiskey with a hint of butterscotch.
The kiss felt like it lasted eons, but perhaps had only been a minute or two. Breaking apart finally, gazes locked, the two of them breathing hard.
Gigi waited several seconds. Surely Nico would explain. No. His lips clamped together tightly. Still clutching her in as closely as possible. But to be fair, she didn’t feel quite ready to let go of him either just yet.
The kiss made no sense. But then none of the past five minutes had. The early morning crowd of women at the bar, treating Nico like he was some sort of rockstar. Fighting over him. Actingagainst type, like Tamara, for the chance to catch his attention. None of it made any sense.
Unless. Sweet Lady, it was Arthur Conan Doyle who propositioned that once you had eliminated the impossible, what remains, no matter how improbable, was the answer.
Those simmering pools of amber beguilement of his only inches away. Yet there was something more in those inviting depths than just fierce intentness, there was an alien vulnerability that made Gigi’s gut churn in dread. Oh, no. There was no other explanation. She prayed that he would laugh. Mock her. Push her away, call her Cookie and tell her to get back in her cupcake lane. Gigi’s question barely a whisper. “Are you dying?”
Those talented lips of his quirked upwards in a rueful smile as Nico huffed out a short breath, causing wisps of her short hair to bob in the sudden breeze. His voice just as whisper soft as hers. “Maybe, probably.”
***
“You’re dying?”
“Maybe.”
“You said probably. Probably dying is a lot more definite than maybe.”
“Juice?”
“Don’t change the subject. And yes, please.” Her gaze locked on Nico as he moved about the small kitchen, fetching glasses, pouring them both a drink. Seated at the kitchen bench on a barstool, Gigi searched for signs of fatigue or illness. She saw none. He looked annoyingly virile, healthy and hot.
Nico had led the way to the upstairs apartment the moment she released her hold on his shirt following his shocking revelation. All around them the mania or spell appeared to have been broken. A large number of women leaving, looking a little bewildered and confused. Whilst several focused upon finishing drinks or food they’d ordered. Looking a little too embarrassedto make a hasty exit just yet now that Nico’s hold over them had been broken. A few of them, Gigi noted, continued to look at Nico as if he was the last truffle in the box. Except for Riordan, whose icy glare appeared to be focused more upon Gigi.
Before she could work out why her young cousin would be sending her filthy looks so early in the day, Nico was ushering Gigi upstairs, to the private apartment, where he said they could talk.
So here they were, talking. Drinking juice. Nico suddenly prevaricating.
“You don’t look sick.”
“I’m not. I think I’ve been cursed.” Shooting a look Gigi’s way, trying to gauge her reaction. But of course this was the Southern Sanctuary, Gigi didn’t look surprised. “When I killed the guy who broke into the bar ten days ago, I went through his belt bag, and besides the syringe, he had this on him.” Fetching the tiny silver dove ring he’d wrapped in a tissue and tucked away in the cutlery drawer took barely a few seconds. Pulling apart the tissue so Gigi could get a good look. “Don’t touch it.”
“Didn’t plan on it once you mentioned it being cursed and all.” Gigi couldn’t help but respond tartly, she wasn’t an idiot. Leaning forward, bending down to get a good look at the thing Nico claimed was killing him. “It looks…”
“Insignificant? Trust me, it isn’t. That thing is packing the mental wallop of a herd of elephants wearing shitkicker boots.”
“Actually, I was going to say it looks kind of girlie. Made for a young girl I mean. The dove. That’s the symbol of first love, isn’t it?”
“Traditionally, yes, in ancient times.”
“So how does the curse work?”
“I’m guessing some idiot, that would be me, touches it and boom, kicks it off.”
“Kicks off what exactly? Like I said, you don’t look ill.”
“Remember the inconsistencies between the photos of my intruder and the sketch Patricia found of him, versus what he looked like twenty-fours after dying? Warrior General, major bad ass, versus golden curls and kind of soft, wearing a pale blue toga that matched his eyes.”
“So the ring changes the bearer somehow?”
“I think so. Digby asked me if I was using some kind of self-tanner this morning. I twigged then that something might be different about me.”
“The crowd of clamouring women wasn’t your first clue?” Ah, Nico actually blushed for a brief second, it was kind of charming
“Ever since your Great-Great Aunt released her last book with that naked model on the cover who sort of looks like me, I’ve been getting a little more attention than normal.”
