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952 Words
I’m about to jump back up and run out of the room when he says abruptly, “Why do you live with your brother and niece?”
“Why do you have a spiderweb tattoo on your neck?”
It’s out before I can stop it. I had no idea I was curious about that stupid tattoo until just now.
He sets his forearms on the table and leans closer. “I’m the one asking the questions.”
“I know you think you’re in charge of everyone in the universe, Mr.
Quinn, but you’re deluded.”
“I’m not in charge of everyone in the universe. Only everyone in this house.”
God, how I hate him for that. How I hate his dominating confidence and his pathological maleness, his assumption that he—and only he—is the one in control.
I hate it more than anything that he’s right.
Because in our world, men are in charge.
And alpha males like him are the very top of the food chain.
My poor sweet Lili. He’s going to eat her alive.
“I won’t hurt her,” he says suddenly, startling me.
“What?”
“I said I won’t hurt her. I know you’re worried about that, but I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in my life.” He laughs softly. “Well, not in anger.”
I look away, unnerved that he can read my mind so easily, and also by the vivid image my mind unhelpfully provided me of him on top of a naked woman, thrusting between her spread thighs as she arches and cries out in ecstasy.
My face flushes hot again. It seems to be happening with concerning frequency.
“Let’s try again. Why do you live with your brother and your niece?”
I flatten my hands on the tabletop and stare down at them as I gather the necessary mental armor to answer.
“When my husband died, I…” I stop to clear my throat. “I’d never lived alone before. I went straight from my father’s house to Enzo’s. After the funeral, I went home to that big, empty house, and I couldn’t stand it. The awful silence.”
And the awful memories. Lurking goblin memories that haunted me at every turn.
“So I packed a bag and came here. I’ve been here since. I’ll get a place of my own eventually. I just…haven’t yet.”
“How long have you been a widow?”
“Three years.”
Three blissful, broken-bone-and-bruise-free years.
I notice my hands shaking, so I pour myself the last of the wine from the bottle and gulp it down. Quinn watches me silently, his gaze intense.
“How long were you married?”
“Too f*****g long.”
“And how long is that?”
I draw a steadying breath and glance at the ink on my ring finger. It’s black and comforting, a visual reminder of the promise I made to myself that no man would ever own me again.
“Fourteen years.” “That’s a long time.” To spend in hell.
Aloud, I say, “It felt longer.”
Neither of us speaks after that for a while. Then he says, “Tell me about the rest of the family.”
“Like what?”
“Like how many of you are there?”
“It’s just me, Mamma, Lili, and Gianni.”
“No grandparents?”
“All dead.”
“Cousins?”
“There’s no one. Just us.”
“I thought all Italian families were big.”
“I thought all Irishmen were drunks.”
He chuckles. “You have a smart comeback for everything, don’t you?”
“It’s easy to win a war of words when your opponent is a donkey.”
Surprised by how viciously that came out, I look up at Quinn. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
But he doesn’t seem offended at all. He’s chuckling again, shaking his head.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but a donkey’s a first.”
I’m taken aback by his reaction. If Enzo were sitting in his place, my jaw would already be broken.
“Well…it’s not that it’s untrue. I just shouldn’t have said it.” He laughs harder.
Despite my utter hatred for him, I smile.
My smile fades when he rises from his chair, crosses to the wine fridge, and removes another bottle.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Like you’re going to open another bottle of wine.”
“Aye. And here I thought you were nothing but a pretty face and a forked tongue. You can actually make correct assumptions, too.”
Something about the familiar way he’s teasing me, the way he’s smiling at me from under his lashes and especially the thing about my pretty face, sets my teeth on edge all over again.
“How about my assumption that you’re going to make my niece’s life hell? Is that correct?”
He pauses before saying softly, “Not every marriage is awful, lass.”
I scoff. “Really? What fairy tales have you been reading?”
He grabs the corkscrew from the counter, peels off the top of the label from the bottle, and opens it with swift efficiency. Then he crosses to the table and refills my glass.
Standing over me, he’s all heat and muscle, a powerfully potent male presence in a black Armani suit.
“Don’t know how many times I’ll have to repeat this, but I’m not your dead husband.”
- Writer
