Craving Carlo (The Adamos Book 3)

by Mia Madison

  “Gonna need it, babe, because my guys are gonna want hazard pay.”

  13

  Where We Heading?

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “They can’t handle a few hours of ogling? Women put up with it their whole lives.”

  His eyes narrow. “Someone ogling you?”

  Uh-oh. I’ve triggered alpha possessiveness mode. “Besides you?” I wave goodbye to Victor — Mickey’s already gone — and head to the office, Carlo on my heels, to get my purse. “Not lately.”

  “I don’t ogle.”

  “No, you lour.”

  I’m picking up my purse with its slashed straps, thinking how much I liked it and how it sucks that I’ll have to replace it, when it’s plucked from my hand and dropped on the desk. Whirling me around, Carlo slams me against him.

  The kiss steals my breath, then my soul, and gives them back as pure flame. I go up on my toes, my inhibitions burned to cinders, arms locked around his neck, sucking on his tongue, devouring him with my mouth.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Vic says, and we jerk apart. “Gotta check some records.”

  My breathing is ragged. Carlo’s eyes are hot. All I want to do is kick Victor out of his own office and fuck his cousin right here on the desk. Instead, I snatch up my purse and practically run past Vic and down the hall to the back door.

  I don’t look to see if Carlo’s following; I can feel him behind me. Before I can get the back door open, he has a hand on it, holding it closed. Pulling me around to face him, he says, “Let’s get something straight, babe. I don’t ogle, and I don’t lour.”

  “You’re big. You’re dark. And right now, you’re looming over me. That’s pretty much the definition of louring.” I turn back to the door, and this time he lets me open it.

  When I get to my car, I have my keys ready and jam them into the lock, but before I can get the door open Carlo yanks the keys back out. “Give me those!”

  “This car’s not safe, babe.”

  I scowl at him. “What do you mean, not safe? I know it’s old but I keep it in good shape.” Rico won’t let me do otherwise; all the Revved girls have a strict schedule of routine maintenance on their cars that he enforces. If not for that, my ancient compact probably would have given up the ghost long ago.

  “It’s been sitting here for the better part of a day and I can’t guarantee no one got to it. Shoulda had it towed last night. Wasn’t thinking.”

  The blood has drained from my face. I know this not only because I feel faintly dizzy, but because Carlo says, “You need to sit down?” and his hand comes out like he’s ready to catch me.

  “No.” I shake my head sharply, not willing to give the Russian mob space in my head. It’s already crowded enough in there. “Can your guys check it out? Safely?” I don’t want anyone getting blown up on my behalf.

  “Yeah, babe. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and follow him to his SUV, trying to decide whether I can ask Cait or Erin if they have a car I could borrow for a few days. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, but the idea sticks in my craw. It’s been so long since I relied on anyone but myself that it seems wrong somehow.

  Lost in thought, I don’t notice at first that Carlo hasn’t started the car. When I look over at him, he’s got one of those looks on his face, the kind I can’t quite read, like he’s … measuring me or something. Taking stock. But all he says is, “Where we heading?”

  “Huh?”

  “Need your address, babe.”

  14

  Courage

  I stare at him with growing horror. “Why?”

  “I could get it without asking you, but I figured you’d rather tell me.”

  “But why do you need my address?”

  Now he’s looking at me like I’m the one who’s plumb loco. Finally, he rakes a hand through his hair and says, “You live in a fortress?”

  “What? No. Of course not.” He’s reduced me to monosyllables again.

  “Someplace that can be locked down like one?”

  “Locked down—” It hits me then, how completely unsafe I am, even with a bunch of hot guys on the case, not to mention the police. And I’m torn between the need to curl up and cry, and a rage that wants to hunt down all the bastards making me feel that way.

  “Address, babe,” Carlo says softly. So I give it to him. Ignoring the look on his face, I turn away and stare out the window while he drives there.

  For almost a day, I’ve let myself, in the very back of my mind, have the fantasy that there could be something between us. Now I try to memorize everything he’s made me feel, so I can lock it away deep inside and pull it out to look at when I’m alone, and the loneliness is too much, and I need to pretend for a little while.

  When he gets to the street — the rutted, dirty street — all I say is, “Alley.” He goes around the corner without a word and pulls into a dark, narrow canyon between two rows of ancient factory buildings, crawling along past rubbish and refuse until we reach the right spot. “Stop.”

  We get out and he follows me to a corrugated metal door with a padlock on it. I feel the emotion vibrating from him, but I can’t focus on that. The padlock and chain are old and rusty — deliberately so — and I have to work the key carefully until the lock springs open and I can pull the chain away and lift the door.

  There’s no light inside, so I reach for the camping lamp sitting in a corner by the door and turn it on to illuminate what used to be a small loading bay. Two thirds of it is empty, just damp concrete for the floor, walls and ceiling. The other third, about five feet wide, has room for the egg crate, heavy-duty sleeping bag, and pillow that are piled neatly on top of a slatted packing crate against the far wall.

  More crates are stacked along the adjacent wall and hold a few books, some clothes, and batteries for the lamp and a small cd player/radio. The rest of the storage is sketchpads, chalk, pencils, pens. And art.

  A pallet leans against the wall with a tie-dyed piece of fabric over it, and finished pieces are pinned to it. More of them are propped up inside the crates: abstracts, landscapes, portraits. Thank god I haven’t been here since I met Carlo or there’d be one of him.

  When I finally dare to look at him, his stillness is so absolute it frightens me. “You park your car in here,” he says quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bathroom?”

  “I use the one at the café.” It’s why I like opening, or closing; I can be there alone and have a little time to clean up.

  “And you don’t eat except for what you get there.”

  “I eat,” I say, pointing to a can of mixed nuts. “I just don’t cook.”

  I’m expecting rage again, or pity, maybe even disgust. What I don’t expect is for Carlo to say, in that same too-quiet voice, “Knew you tasted like courage.”

  15

  Waiting For A Purpose

  “I what?” I say, startled.

  “First time I kissed you.”

  “How could I taste like courage?” I want to know the answer, but I’m afraid to let this moment pass and get to the part where he walks away.

  His eyes lock on mine. “Because you kiss with your heart in your mouth.”

  Oh my god. Only with you, I want to blurt out, but I don’t.

  He looks around the space, ignoring the sudden moisture in my eyes. “Life handed you shit and you made yourself a home.”

  “Stop it.” I will not cry.

  “Proud of you, angel.”

  “Shut up!” The tears are coming and I can’t stop them, especially when he wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to the top of my head. So I hold on tight and get makeup on his t-shirt, which fortunately is black so the mess doesn’t show that much.

  “Good thing this place is out of the way,” he says, and then I’m coughing out laughter through my tears. “They won’t have found it yet.” That sobers me up. “What do you use for a mailing address? PO box?”

  “I use Revved,” I confess. “No
ne of the guys has ever said anything, and I hardly ever get mail.”

  “Good. Makes it simpler.” He draws back just enough to look down at me. “We need to pack all this up.”

  I give him a watery smile. “It’s already packed. Just flip the crates up.”

  “Right,” he says, and touches his lips to mine. I feel them tingling while we rearrange things in the crates a little and then stack them in the back of his SUV. Five minutes later, I lock up the door again and we’re on the way to Carlo’s place.

  Approaching the house in the daylight, I realize there’s more than one level and I haven’t seen most of it. Maybe he’ll give me a tour later, or let me wander around. “Looks like a lot of house,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “Bought it for the location and the size of the lot. More house than I needed, but I liked it. Don’t know why, but it felt right.”

  “I like wood,” I say softly, and he smiles. Not a twitch or a quirk, not a huge smile, but a real one. It warms a dark, cold place somewhere deep inside me.

  He pulls up outside the front door and we start carrying the crates in. “Where do you want me to put stuff?” I say when we’re finished. “Do you have a spare room?”

  “C’mon.” He takes my hand and leads me down the hall where the bedrooms are. His is the last one on the left, just a standard bedroom. “Master’s there,” he says, nodding to the door across the hall. “I keep it for guests. Easier for them if they don’t have to wander around in the night looking for a bathroom.”

  That seems strange to me, but I don’t say anything. Then again, there are so many Adamos that maybe he has visitors all the time. “Spare bedroom,” he says, waving a hand at another door as we move back down the hall, but he doesn’t stop to let me see it.

  At the end of the hall, we can go to the left for the living room, or right to reach the kitchen and dining area. He goes left and we pass my crates, the recliner we sat in last night along with other comfortable furniture, and a huge flat-screen tv on the wall, and go through another doorway at the other end. It leads to a laundry room, with a door to the back yard, and in the corner are stairs going up.

  We climb up to find a hallway that runs the entire length of the house, but has only three doors, one at either end and one on the long wall. “Washroom,” Carlo says, pointing to the near door. “My office is down there at the other end.” He opens the third door and leads me in.

  It must have been the attic, once upon a time, but now it’s one huge, empty space. The far wall, facing the front yard and the street, is lined with windows, and the roof has skylights too. The floors are gorgeous old hardwood and the walls are painted a matte eggshell.

  “Oh my god,” I breathe.

  “I don’t use this room,” Carlo says. “Obviously. Was thinkin’ it might make a good studio.”

  I gasp, but I can’t speak. His hand curls gently around the back of my neck. “And I don’t wanna hear any shit from you about you can’t, or it’s too much. This room’s been waiting for a purpose, and right now it’s you.”

  16

  Finish What We Started

  That’s when I lose it, totally and completely. He pulls me in and I dampen his shirt again, this time with ugly, wracking sobs that leave my throat and my head aching.

  It takes a while to cry myself out. When I finally do, I give myself a minute to cuddle against his chest, trying to figure out how to say no. Because of course I can’t turn his attic into my studio.

  No matter how generous he’s feeling at the moment, it won’t last. And if I let myself work in this room I’ll fall in love with it, and then be heartbroken when I have to give it up. Avoiding attachments is so much better.

  “I can hear the cogs turning in there,” Carlo says into my hair. “I told you, babe. Anything resembling ‘no’ comes out of your mouth, it’ll just piss me off.”

  “Carlo—”

  “Gina.”

  I get a little shiver then, hearing him say my name. So much of a shiver, in fact, that my nipples are poking into him. His hand wanders down to my ass and gives me a squeeze, and the shiver turns into a full-body tremor.

  Since “no” is not an option, maybe I can distract him. “We can talk about it later,” I say, trying to make my voice sound sultry and winding my arms around his neck. I don’t look up at him, though, because my makeup must be a wreck and raccoon eyes are not sexy.

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  The abrupt shift in mood makes me jerk my head up, forgetting how awful I look. “Why?”

  “Because I need to know what I’m dealing with here.”

  Hurt stabs through me and I try to jerk away, but he yanks me back against him. “You need to know if I’m damaged goods?” I say, and it comes out even nastier than it sounded in my head. “Well, I am. So save yourself the trouble.”

  A muscle flexes in his jaw. “Everybody’s damaged goods, babe. The only people without scars are the ones who’ve never lived.”

  I shake my head and his fingers flex against my hips. “We’re havin’ this conversation, babe. You might as well get it over with.”

  “Not here,” I say in a near whisper. I don’t want to taint this beautiful space with it.

  “Here? You mean this room?” I nod and his voice softens. “Right.” The next moment I’m over his shoulder and he’s carrying me out.

  “Carlo! What are you doing?”

  “Faster this way,” he mutters, and pats my ass in a way that sends quivers right to my core. He doesn’t set me down when we’re downstairs, but goes straight to the recliner we were in last night. Even then, he doesn’t let me go, just holds me while he sits down and kicks the chair back. He winds up almost horizontal, with me sprawled on top of him.

  I try to wriggle off him, but his hands close over my ass and hold me against him. “Nope.” So much for keeping my distance.

  “Carlo.” Propping myself up on my elbows, I glare down at him. “I can’t talk with your hands on my butt.” What I mean is I can’t concentrate because his touch makes me horny, but I’m not telling him that.

  “Bet you can,” he says, implacable.

  I drop my head into my hands. “Strangled,” I say without looking up. “In your sleep.”

  He gives me a squeeze. “Talk, babe.”

  “Can you please take your hands off my butt?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat, looking up incredulously. “Do I need a reason?”

  There’s a gleam his eye that sets my alarms ringing. “I want you to tell me the reason.”

  I get it now. He wants another confession. “God, you’re annoying.”

  “We’re gonna finish what we started this morning, babe.” The words arrow straight to my clit. “But not before we talk.”

  17

  I Knew What It Meant

  “I thought women were supposed to be the ones wanting to talk all the time,” I complain.

  “Quit stalling.”

  Jeez. There really is no diverting the man once he’s locked on a target. In which case he’s right, and I just need to get it over with. I ignore the fear frosted over my heart, lay my head on his chest, and start talking.

  “They’re … they were alcoholics.”

  His hands move then, one curving along my side, up over my ribs, and the other cradling the back of my head. His hold is protective and comforting and soothes me in a way I can’t explain, and I let out a little sigh and relax against him.

  “When I was younger, they had jobs and only got drunk in the evenings and on weekends. I figured out how to take care of myself by the time I was in kindergarten. If they were hungover in the morning, I’d get up, get myself ready for school, walk myself to the bus stop.

  “They forgot to do things like buy food, so I’d take cash out of their wallets before they spent it all on booze and go to the store. I had an old wagon and I’d take it with me and put things in the wagon for the clerk to ring up. Milk, cereal, bread, peanut butter and je
lly, cheese. All stuff I could make myself.

  “We lived in a house that my mom had gotten from her grandmother, so they didn’t have to pay rent. It was the eyesore of the neighborhood, with the yard all overgrown and the paint peeling. One of the neighbors — I don’t know which one — sometimes came over when no one was home and cut our grass. If my parents had known who it was, they would have told him off.”

  “They take shit out on you?” he says quietly.

  “Physically?” I shake my head against his chest. “No. I don’t think I would have survived that. When they were sober, or not too drunk yet, they were bright and funny, telling stories and jokes and singing songs. My dad played piano, and when I was little he’d play and we’d all sing. They sold the piano somewhere along the way, spent it on more booze.

  “The only people they ever hurt were each other. Screaming matches for hours, and sometimes they’d slap each other around. And then they’d have really loud sex wherever they happened to be in the house.

  “They didn’t target me. Most of the time, they forgot I was there.”

  His hand strokes along my hair. “They left you before you left them,” he says quietly. “There but not there.”

  “Yeah.” It soothes some of the ragged edges inside, that he gets it. That he isn’t freaking out.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  I take a deep breath. “It was my job to take care of them.” His hand tightens a fraction on the back of my neck, but he doesn’t speak. “I’d been covering for them for years, feeding them, doing the laundry, cleaning the house, making excuses for why they never showed up for parent-teacher meetings or anything like that. People must have known, or suspected, but nobody ever said anything. Since I never had bruises or injuries, there was no proof, I guess.