by Tami Lund
“How about your name?”
This time, she arched her brows. “How is my name going to help?”
He lifted one shoulder, let it drop. She stared at the muscles that rippled with the action.
“I might recognize it. Therefore, a clue.”
Uh-oh, here they went. She sucked in a breath, let it out slowly. “Pennington.”
“That’s your first name?”
She smirked.
He chuckled.
“Lola.”
“Now that I like.” He sipped at his wine. “This isn’t bad either. I admit, even though I’m Italian, I’m not a big wine guy. But I could get behind this.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“So Pennington, huh? Not ringing any bells, unless you count that ambulance-chasing lawyer who died not too long ago.”
She tried really hard to school her features, but she could tell that he saw the wince anyway.
“I know for a fact you weren’t married to that guy because he was married to a senator’s daughter. Who isn’t you. So what’s your connection?”
Why was she even talking about this? “He was my brother.”
“Oh.” This time, Samuele winced. “That sucks.”
She shrugged. “He was a sleazeball, so other than leaving me to clean up all his messes, I’m doing okay.”
“What sort of messes?”
Good Lord, where did she start? “Nothing I want to talk about. So, how’s the ankle?”
He reached forward, the muscles in his arm rippling as he did so, to lift the ice pack and rotate his ankle. “I probably need a little more wine before I’m able to limp home. Vodka would be better.”
“Maybe a ride would be the best option?”
He arched his brows. “You’re offering to drive me someplace? The two of us, alone in a car?”
She waved at her yard. “You already know where I live.”
“Fair point.” He chuckled. “If it helps, I’m not a serial killer. At least, not by the strict definition of the term.”
“Funny.” She tossed him another smirk. “Let me know when you’re ready to go and I’ll take you home.”
“I could just call an Uber.”
“Fine. Do that then.”
“But I don’t want to.”
Their gazes collided, and she held her breath. It was a simple statement, yet for some reason, there was a heaviness to the words. Like he was saying a whole lot without saying much at all.
He leaned back in his chair, appearing entirely relaxed, as if they were old friends sitting around on a Sunday afternoon, having a casual get-together.
“So your brother was a sleazeball ambulance-chasing lawyer. What do you do, Lola Pennington?”
At the moment? Repair God-awful, rundown houses in a fancy neighborhood on a ridiculously thin budget so I can try to get out from under all the debt my brother left me in.
“I’m between jobs.”
His brows shot into his hairline. She sighed.
“I took some time off when my brother died. I had to settle his estate”—try, at least—“and I need to fix up this house so I can sell it.”
This house was, hopefully, her saving grace. If she could get it into saleable shape fast enough, she might have enough capital to truly get on with her life.
Brant had purchased it shortly before he died—clearly another in a long line of poor business decisions. As if that weren’t bad enough, his intention wasn’t to move his new bride into this house but to use it as a place to hook up with the post-wedding dalliances he had already planned to have behind his new wife’s back, because that’s the kind of guy her brother was.
“You need to fix it up? As in, you’re doing it by yourself?”
“Well, I have to hire out the electrical and plumbing, but most of the rest…yes, I’m remodeling this house all by my poor, girly lonesome.”
Samuele lifted his hands, palms facing out. “Hey, I wasn’t being sexist.”
“Oh? What were you implying with that question?”
He paused and then let his shoulders drop. “Okay, I was totally being sexist. My apologies. I’m sure you’re very capable of fixing up this house.”
Shows what he knew. “Thank you.”
They fell silent for a few moments, each sipping at their wine, until Lola groaned and said, “Okay, I’m not at all capable. I mean, I know some stuff, like laying tile and painting, but there is so much more to updating a house, and I have no freaking clue what I’m doing.”
To his huge credit, he did not laugh at her admission. Instead, he leaned forward and said, “Would you like some help?”
She stared at him. “Are you serious?” She glanced over her shoulder at the bane of her existence, aka the shitty house her brother had purchased for an even shittier reason. “Are you a contractor or something?”
Something flashed in his eyes, something she didn’t understand, before he said, “Not that kind of contractor, although I am handy. And I enjoy remodeling. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”
She laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
He didn’t laugh. “I am.” He drank his wine and leaned back in his chair again. “But if you don’t want my help, that’s fine.”
“What’s the catch?” There was always a catch, especially with Italian men. There she went with the stereotype again, but damn it, her history proved it true.
“Well, the catch is, you’d have to put up with my company. Oh, and I probably can’t be here every day since I have to work once in a while. And if you want to keep a steady supply of this wine on hand, I wouldn’t complain.”
“This can’t be real.”
“I guess you won’t know unless you accept my offer.”
She waited for a couple of beats and then said, “Okay, fine. I accept. When can you start?”
He waved at his leg. “Obviously not today. I’m pretty sure I just twisted it, so if I stay off it until then, I should be able to start on Tuesday, I’m guessing. What time do you want me here?”
“Tuesday?” Was this really happening? “Don’t you have to work?”
“Not at the moment. I admit, that could change on a dime, so we should probably exchange numbers in case I do end up having to, er, go into the office at the last minute.”
She stared at him. Her mouth was probably hanging open.
“Is your phone out here?”
She glanced around, not sure where she’d left it, and spotted it lying on the only section of porch railing that was left around this crumbling patio. Probably shouldn’t leave it there. The whole thing could collapse at any time. Hell, this entire house could do that at any given moment.
Samuele motioned, so she handed him her phone, and he typed something onto the screen.
“Got it,” he said, pulling his phone out of the holster and presumably adding her as a contact. “If something comes up, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be here on Tuesday. How early do you start?”
“I’m kind of an early riser.”
“I’m not. But I can be here by nine if that works?”
“Sure. That works.”
“Okay, now how about that ride home?”
Samuele stood on the front porch of his condo and watched her back out of the driveway and head down the street.
Lola Pennington. A woman who obviously had issues with Italian men in her past. But she wasn’t married and she hadn’t kicked him out and she hadn’t turned down his offer to help her fix up that gigantic, in desperate need of repair house she was living in.
Why the hell had he done it? He didn’t owe this woman anything, and honestly, he wasn’t interested in a one-night stand. Not with Lola Pennington. No, if she allowed him in, he had a feeling it would be the real deal. He’d never want back out again.
And considering their intermingled past she knew nothing about, that was never going to happen.
Because Samuele had almost taken the contract to kill her brother.
3
>
Are You Hitting On Me?
As promised, Samuele showed up at nine on Tuesday morning. He even brought gifts: two cups of coffee, a couple of breakfast sandwiches, and dog biscuits for Tippy the dangerous puppy.
“Thanks,” she said, taking an appreciative sip of the dark brew he handed her. “I blew a circuit this morning, so I couldn’t make any coffee. This is a lifesaver.”
Mental note, bring coffee every day.
She offered to show him around the place, and the first thing he did was scoop the dog into his arms because, seriously, this little guy liked to be underfoot and Samuele did not need to tweak his ankle again.
As she walked him through the house, explaining what she planned to do to get it into shape so she could sell it, he focused more on watching her than the details she was listing out.
Her hair was in a bun this time, wrapped and twisted and held in place with a clip that allowed a few tendrils to escape and curl onto her shoulder. He was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing makeup, although her skin was so smooth and clear, she didn’t need it anyway.
She wore a pair of running shorts—did she like to jog or did she buy them for the comfort factor?—and a ribbed tank that showed off every curve from her breasts to her waist to the flair of her hips.
Maybe a one-night stand wasn’t off the table. Because hot damn, he really wanted to fuck this girl.
He wasn’t an emotional guy. He’d never fallen for any of the other women he’d messed around with, and he’d hooked up with some smokin’ hot ladies in his time. The ones who hung out at the same clubs Samuele did had a thing for bad boys, and he definitely qualified. Unfortunately, Lola didn’t even need to throw off I hate bad boys vibes; she’d come right out and said it.
Which meant that idea of a one-night stand was nothing but a pipe dream.
They’d ended up in the back of the house, in a room off the kitchen. It looked like it was supposed to be a master suite, although some of the walls had been stripped down to the studs and there was no door on the bathroom. A blowup mattress covered by what looked like a homemade quilt was parked in the middle of the room.
“Is this where you sleep?” He looked around. “I’ve been in barns that are more inhabitable than this. Look at those frayed wires hanging from the ceiling.” He waved at the offending wiring and then nodded at the door. “Not to mention that French door. It leads straight out to the backyard and doesn’t even have a lock.”
“It’s safer than upstairs. I’m afraid I’ll fall through the floor in my sleep if I stay up there.”
“This place should be condemned.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have that luxury. This is all I have to my name right now, and without it I have to start over from nothing at thirty years old, and I really don’t want to do that.”
He lifted his hands, palms out. “Claws in, kitten. I was just making an observation.”
She blew out a breath. “Sorry. I’m just really frustrated. Every stupid little thing I try to do costs way more than I can afford, and the electrician who left right before you got here said exactly the same thing.”
He was really curious as to why she was so down on her luck. He didn’t know much about her brother, but the sort of lawyer he was, they generally made pretty decent coin. And if she was his benefactor—“Oh, his wife got everything.”
She shook her head, clearly understanding his line of thinking. “There was nothing to get. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. As it turned out, he was really good at spending far more than he made. I mean, really good. I think he thought Ronda—that’s the woman he married right before he died—was going to be his sugar momma. Except he had a problem with monogamy, in that he didn’t know how to do it. I watched him hit on the wedding planner at his own reception. And then when she told the parents of the bride, she ended up getting fired. And three months later, he was dead.”
Holy shit, did she suspect that his death wasn’t an accident? Vito, the guy who ultimately took that contract, was usually really good about covering his tracks.
“Okay,” he said, waving his coffee cup, “we start in here. I’m not going to be able to sleep at night knowing you’re living in this pit.” It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to let her move in with him—he even had a spare room if she didn’t want to share his bed—but he was reasonably certain she’d decline his offer. As she should. They barely knew each other, after all.
For the next two weeks, he spent every day at Lola’s place. He’d replaced the door in her bedroom with a steel one that had a deadbolt lock, and he’d bullied an electrician into getting his ass in there and capping all those fucking live wires hanging from the ceiling.
Together, he and Lola put up drywall and dropped in a sub-floor before laying faux wood parquet. They painted, a basic beige since she was planning to get rid of the place as quickly as possible, and he installed a ceiling fan so she’d have some relief during the hot summer months, since this place didn’t have air-conditioning. Well, there was a unit out in the backyard, but he was afraid to turn it on, given the shoddy wiring everywhere.
He also made sure the electrician fixed the outlets in the kitchen, too, so Lola could have fresh coffee in the morning, even if she decided to blow dry her hair when the coffeepot was on. Which, he pointed out to her, wasn’t necessary, because he loved her hair when she let it go natural and curly.
Gino left him alone the whole time, which was nice. Their last conversation had ended with Samuele saying he needed time to think about Gino’s offer, and Gino either hadn’t had a need for his services since then or he was using one of his other guys.
But Samuele knew his reprieve wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, Gino was going to demand an answer, and really, there was only one to give if he enjoyed his current state, that being alive.
He was going to have to accept Gino’s offer and join his payroll on a full-time basis. Yeah, the money was going to be fantastic, but there were definite downsides. The first being, it was going to be a lot harder to disappear when he was ready to retire. Gino didn’t take well to people retiring from his services. When they did it was usually in a body bag.
The second reason was Lola.
He’d learned a lot about her in the two weeks they’d worked on her house. Once she’d relaxed and started to trust him, she’d let the flood gates open. Yes, she really did believe her brother’s death wasn’t accidental. Nor were her parents’, which had happened only two years prior.
Samuele hadn’t been the one to kill her brother, but he wasn’t sorry the bastard was out of her life.
She also gave him some insight into her dislike of Italian men. Which was the shittiest aspect of this whole thing, truth be told.
Because Lola, sweet, innocent Lola, had once dated some guy named Enzo Lombardi, who, based on what she’d said so far, was a world-class asshole, the kind of guy Samuele had no qualms whatsoever with offing if he were given the contract to do so. Not that he ever did, to be honest, but guys like Enzo, yeah, he might get a little extra satisfaction out of those contracts.
“Tell me more about this Enzo character,” he said through his dust mask as he used a sledgehammer to destroy the mint-green tile attached to the walls in the master bathroom. It was an appropriate task given the subject matter. Because the more she told him, the more he envisioned it was Enzo’s face he was smashing the sledgehammer into.
“I was so stupid,” Lola confessed as she picked up chunks of broken tile and tossed them into the trash bin. “I’ve never been that girl who’s attracted to bad boys, and yet I dated him for months. And he was abusive, too.”
Crunch.
“Hey, calm down, Incredible Hulk. You’re going to put a hole in the wall.”
He rolled his shoulders. “Sorry. It just pisses me off thinking about you with that guy.”
She shrugged. “Lesson learned. And now you know why I have such a strong dislike of Italian men.”
“Yeah.” He wiped his brow and groun
d his teeth. “I get it.”
It sucked, because he really wanted her to take a chance on one particular Italian guy.
Which was stupid to even think about, since, while he’d never abused any of the women he’d dated, he wasn’t any better than Enzo in any other respect. In fact, he was probably worse.
He was a contracted mafia hit man. His job was to intimidate people into doing whatever his boss wanted them to do. Those tactics increased in pain factor if the person being intimidated didn’t get the message. Samuele had done some pretty bad shit in his career.
“Enough about my sordid dating history,” Lola said. “Tell me about yours.”
He laughed. “There isn’t much to tell. I’m one of those bang-’em-and-feed-’em-breakfast-and-kick-’em-out-the-door types.”
“Hey, at least you give them breakfast before kicking them out.”
“You’re a glass half-full girl, aren’t you?”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“That’s good. I hope you never lose that faith.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He tugged down the dust mask and wiped his hands on his shorts, not that it did a whole lot of good, and fished out his phone.
Shit. It was Gino.
“I gotta take this.” He hurried out of the bathroom, through her bedroom, and out the door into the backyard, where Tippy was tied to a lead to keep him out of the way while they demolished the bathroom. The dog greeted him like he hadn’t seen him in weeks.
“Samuele here,” he answered the call while rubbing the dog’s belly.
“Have you had enough time to consider my offer?” Gino rarely bothered with formalities such as greetings or goodbyes.
“Yeah. I mean, no.”
“Well, which is it?”
“I’m, well, I’m helping a friend remodel their house. And it’s on a strict timeline. So I’ve been thinking about your offer, but if I do accept, I can’t really do anything for a while.”
“A while? What’s a while?”
Forever. Wow, it was amazing how desperately he wanted to say that word. And there was only one driving force, and she would never give him the time of day beyond friends, so he really shouldn’t let thoughts of Lola have anything at all to do with his decisions.
