by Terry Spear
She laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Another long day.
An image of Karl Vance floated into her mind. That cool Northern European gaze. Eyes that would be frightening on the other side of a gun sight. Dangerous. She liked that.
Of course, the prick hadn’t returned any of her messages so far, which made her want to punch him in one of those cool Northern European eyes. Bastard.
Maybe he’d lost his phone. Maybe he was dead. Not likely, given his reputation, and besides, that wasn’t a possibility she really wanted to consider. She had to reserve judgment until she had the facts. If she were ever going to lead, she had to learn to keep her head. Especially when dealing with the egos of dangerous men.
Normally Daddy didn’t let her play with the dangerous toys, but since her brother had been killed, her father had been a little more permissive. John Passerini had accused her of blackmailing her way in, but that was hardly true. Daddy had agreed only when she’d shown him what she could do with money, and right away he’d set her to work on the books—hide the money from the feds, create dummy corporations, incorporate, dissolve, merge, buy, sell, shelter, launder, and always—always—turn a profit.
It was a hell of a thing getting a leg up only because her brother Paul slammed his car into a concrete pylon. Asshole. She still missed him, even after all this time. Now there was no trueborn Ricardi male to head the family after her father.
She was only a girl.
Never mind that she had plans to make Boston rival New York for syndicate incomes. Never-fucking-mind that. She was only a girl. Good for screwing and raising kids. Little else. Except maybe clearing the table and serving Sambuca. Well, fuck them.
Her cell phone rang. “Witch” by Cold for her ring tone this time. A surge of adrenaline shot through her like some endocrine lightning bolt. She snatched the phone up and flipped it open.
“It’s done,” that deep, almost lazy, voice said from the other end. It sent a thrill of desire through her that started at the bottom of her spine and rode its way up.
“Took long enough.” It was a fight to keep the excitement out of her voice.
She let the silence spin out until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Look, I’m glad it’s done. Good work. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“I’m returning them now,” he said. “You sounded as if you wanted updates. There’s no better update than success.”
“Do me a favor and answer next time, so I don’t think you’re dead in a trunk somewhere, okay?” She really just wanted to get up and dance on the edge of the tub. Imagine the look on the capos’ faces when she brought in word of her success. Leverage against John Passerini and anyone else who thought her involvement a worthless eccentricity of her father’s—priceless.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Excellent work, but we can’t stand around slapping each other’s backs all day. There’s a lot more to do, and we’re on a tight schedule.”
“No rest for the wicked.” Now he sounded amused.
“I want you to meet me here.” She found herself speaking before she’d even realized it, as if her body had reached up and wrenched control of her tongue away from her mind. “You know where I live?”
There was another very long pause.
“No,” he said finally. “Tell me.”
She quickly gave him the address. After she hung up, she called the front desk to let the doorman know that someone would be coming by to see her. Then she lay back in her bath to enjoy a few last minutes of peace.
He arrived sooner than she expected—she’d barely dressed herself when his knock sounded at the door. The smell of soap and perfume scented the air. She hoped he liked it.
You’d better know what you’re doing.
Of course she did.
She considered lighting a few strategically placed candles and then decided that was three steps way too overboard. No need to come across as desperate.
When she checked the door’s peephole she found Karl Vance standing outside in a perfectly cut, dark Caraceni suit and pale yellow silk tie, hands in his pockets, and staring right back at her, as though he were aware of her presence behind the door. That rattled her a bit. She couldn’t exactly say why.
She let him in and told him to make himself comfortable on the couches, but instead of sitting, he followed her to the bar area where she poured them each a glass of wine. He moved with the grace of some predatory animal, wolf or panther maybe, and his feet made no whisper on the carpet—a strange thing for her to notice, but notice it she did.
“So what are these ideas you’re so eager to share?” he asked, sipping the wine and then nodding as if he approved of the taste.
“All we ever talk about is business.”
A ghost of a smile graced his lips. “I thought that’s why you asked me here.”
“It was. But now that you’re here, I want to discuss something more interesting.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “So tell me about yourself, Mr. Vance.”
“Is this a belated job interview?”
“Let’s just say it’s professional courtesy.”
That intense blue-eyed gaze fixed on her. She thought about all the people whose last sight had been those eyes and she had to suppress a shudder. And damned if she wasn’t getting turned on.
“What do you want to know?” he asked softly.
“Everything. I learn by listening, and if there’s one thing a good leader needs, it’s the ability to listen.”
“And the ability to judge the truth of what she hears.”
“Who wants truth? I’ll settle for clever flattery.”
He smiled, took another sip from his glass and moved over to one of the windows. The shades were open to the glittering city below, and he glanced back at her. “A beautiful view. I always love looking down on a night-covered city.”
“See? That’s what I mean. That’s the kind of thing you can tell me about.”
“If I weren’t mistaken, I’d think that inviting me here to discuss ‘business’ was just a cover.” He turned from the window and walked toward her. Had she commented on how gracefully he moved before? Oh, right. Several times.
She lifted her chin toward him. “And what if it was just a cover?”
He leaned in very close. She could feel the hunger in his gaze, searing across her skin like a striking match. “Then I’d have to ask why a cover was needed at all.”
His lips touched hers, softly, almost teasingly. She tilted her head up farther and pressed closer to him. His lips and his skin were surprisingly cool to the touch, nearly cold, but she didn’t draw away. The kiss became more insistent, deeper. Desire, the same desire that had been an ember when she’d hung up the phone, now burned with new heat, and her skin felt shockingly warm against his, like fire meeting ice.
Her cell phone rang.
She pulled away from him. “Son of a bitch.” Breaking contact with Karl cleared her head a bit, and she was none too sure if that was what she wanted.
“Ignore it,” Karl suggested.
“It could be business.” She stopped and corrected herself. “It had better be business at this time of night.”
She flipped open her phone. “This better be good.”
“Oh, it’s good, you spoiled little bitch.”
Roberto Pulani. Beautiful. Nothing else could simultaneously flood her with tension, murder the mood and drag back the shadow of mafia business like talking to Roberto. Her rival. Her personal affliction. Her bastard half brother.
It was going to be a long night after all. Just not in the way she had hoped.
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