“So tell me about it. Maybe I can help.” I hesitated. “Or at the very least not kill you, myself.”
When it didn’t look like she was going to answer, I sat down several feet away in the great room and picked up the remote.Patience. Can’t blame her for not trusting you immediately, especially after you tossed her in the boot.
I clicked through the channels aimlessly, the sporadic bursts of commercial-sporting event-talk show the only sound in the small cabin. Then her throat cleared, and she seated herself at the table.
“What would...if I...” She shook her head as though to clear it. “You’re mob.”
“Aye.” It wasn’t a question; I’d already told her as much, but I answered it anyway. She drew in a deep breath.
“I know I’m ignorant of all that criminal underworld shit, except forThe Godfather. But I can’t see your...capo? Or is it different for the Irish?”
My shoulders were shaking helplessly by now. “He’s my boss, girl. We call him King.”
“You don’t need to laugh at me. It’s not like I have any experience with organized crime.”
“My sincerest apologies.”
“Anyway.” God, she was so prim as she sat there on the edge of her chair and tried to vocalize whatever was on her mind. I just wanted to muss her up a little. The temptation she was presenting was messing with me. It was too much. I’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman before, especially when I knew she really didn’t want my hands on her. She was still speaking, and with difficulty I forced myself to attend to her. “I can’t imagine your boss would be happy if he knew you weren’t doing the job you were hired to do. Let alone hiding me.”
I sobered. “Aye, you have the right of that.”
“Why, then?” Beneath a sweep of pale hair, her forehead was creased. “Why would go out of your way for me...a stranger? I don’t understand.”
When her gaze met mine it was as if a current arced between us, intense. Knocking me off-balance. Because I’d been asking myself the same damn question since I opened her file and made an instant, half-formed decision to fuck this. “I don’t fecking know.” I stood and made for the door to the basement, desperate all at once to move and expel some of this odd energy. “And that’s the truth of it.”
I moved into the kitchen and started moving pots around on the stove. “Soup okay for lunch?”
She nodded. “You mentioned a treadmill? If you’re going to keep me here any length of time, I really need some exercise.”
I grunted and started working the can opener. “There’s a basement. Treadmill, weights, pool table down there. I just need to pull the treadmill out and set it up.”
Her breath whooshed out in a sigh of relief. “Good.”
“Like running, do you?”
For a while it was quiet. The sizzle of butter hitting a pan and the scrape of a spoon against the pot were the only sounds. She finally nodded. “Running is…I need it. It’s like breathing sometimes.”
There was something in the statement that made me look at her sidelong. Maybe the treadmill—running—would be the leverage I needed to keep her here. Keep her safe. I put the spoon down and turned to face her full-on.
“The treadmill’s yours for as long as we’re here. I’ll get you some proper shoes.” I paused, making sure she understood it was a boon. A privilege. “As long as you behave. If you give me reason again…do something stupid like trying to run…I’ll have to bind you.”
Her answering expression was faintly mutinous and she struggled visibly with herself before dipping her chin in concession. “Fine. I’ll be good.”
I had the clear impression her statement was incomplete and sighed as I guessed what she wasn’t saying. The words not spoken hung between us, a gauntlet tossed.Until I decide to be bad.
