“He’s hanging in there…holding his own. The antidote’s working. I can’t believe the Mick had a hand in this.” Nino shakes his head. “After that first meeting, and then the laundromat… I thought I’d be killing him before the end of the month.”
I pick a piece of lint off Nino’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it either. I knew Connor would come through for us.”
With narrowed eyes, my brother retreats a step.
Shit. I fucked up.
“What’s with the familiarity?” Nino crosses his arms. “Did you make a new best friend since Monday?”
Cover your ass, Cat.
“Of course not.” I roll my eyes, striving for nonchalance despite the way my insides just curled in on themselves. “We’re about to join forces. We can’t just call them Micks to their faces. We need to get used to using real names.” I take his tumbler from one of his inked hands. “I really love your tats with your tux, by the way.”
He scoffs. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”
“I’m not.” I did mean the compliment. Ink covers his entire body, sprouting from under his collar to curve behind his right ear. On the left side of his head, the shaved part of his hair shows off the family crest above his other ear. Black ink bejewels the back of his hands and all his knuckles, and on one of his wrists—just like mine—rests a delicate honeysuckle in honor of our late mother.
Most of the time, his tattoos give him an ominous presence. He looks like he’s fresh out of prison, or maybe on his way in.
If you put the man in a three-piece designer suit, though, he could pass for a famous musician. Handsome and stylish.
“Come on.” I hook my arm in his. “Follow me. I’ll fill you up with the good stuff.”
After about ten minutes of mostly awkward small talk, Nino goes to check on our father and see if the executor is still around. We’re low on red wine, and the waitstaff isn’t allowed in the cellar, so I head down myself.
Leaving the party for the basement has nothing to do with Connor’s string of sexy texts suggesting that we meet. Nothing at all.
Well, maybe a little.
I’m only human.
Chapter 20
Connor
I started recommending the wine as if I’d mashed the grapes with my own two feet. I figured that was the only way to get Cat alone.
Sure enough, my angel in green chiffon floats down the stairs in a flurry, and I follow her into the wine cellar.
“I thought maybe you could use an extra set of hands.” I close the thick wooden door behind me.
Two walls of bottles flank the corridor-style space. It’s chilly, probably fifty-eight degrees on the nose for all this red. The stone floor and soft lighting are perfect for a quiet tryst. This cellar has Eduardo Ricci written all over it, and I only just met the man. Even in his unwell state, he possesses a certain elegance.
I’m about to wax poetic about this state-of-the-art room when Cat sets the three bottles of Chianti in her arms down on a barrel top converted into a table for two.
She beckons me over, clutching my lapels as soon as I get close enough and dragging me down.
“You, sir, are in trouble.” She barely manages a break between kisses. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night.”
“Mission accomplished, then.” I dodge her sweet lips, my hands sliding across the slick fabric covering her back. “For a minute there, I thought you were immune to me.”
She unfastens my jacket and untucks my gray button-down with deft fingers. “Just trying to manage two hundred guests floating among fifty million dollars’ worth of art.”
Cat unbuttons my shirt, kisses my chest, and travels north until she finds my lips again.
I could get used to this.
In small doses, her take-charge attitude is oddly refreshing.
