Cruel Paradise

20

I thought she meant drug dealers, perhaps, or some other kind of commonplace felon. Maybe even a soulless billionaire CEO. But added together with the acid disdain in her voice every time she calls me a gangster, and the unnatural calm she displayed during the car chase and gunfight, and her paranoia about becoming a victim of kidnapping—and, frankly, everything else—I think my little thief is the offspring of someone a tad worse than I thought.

Watching my expression, she demands, “What?”

“Juliet,” I say thoughtfully. “That’s an Italian name if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No. It’s English.”

“Not if it’s given to a girl born into an Italian family.” As if she’s been slapped, her face turns white.

Bingo.

Something on my face makes her take a step back, shaking her head, her eyes wide.

“I won’t hurt you. There’s no need to try to run away.”

Her voice is strangled when she speaks. “Please let me go.”

I say firmly, “Juliet, I don’t care who your father is.”

She freezes in place as if turned to stone. The pulse in the side of her neck is flying.

Keeping my tone low and unthreatening, I say, “I won’t hold you against your will. I swear to you. But I need to find out who exactly was behind that attack and deal with him—or them—before you can go. For your own safety, as well as mine. All right?”

Her throat works. Her hands shake. I fight the urge to cross to her and take her into my arms and gesture to the corridor beyond the kitchen instead.

“There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. You can stay there. I won’t disturb you.”

When she doesn’t move, I add, “The door locks from the inside. The frame is reinforced with steel. No one can get in unless you let them in.”

“Are there cameras?”

“No.”

She licks her lips, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether or not to believe me.

“There’s also a gun in the nightstand. It’s loaded.” I add mildly, “Judging by how you held that rifle, I’m guessing you’re familiar with firearms.”

She narrows her eyes at me. She’s probably wishing she had a gun in hand right now.

Then she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “How long do you think it will take you to find out what you need to know?”

“A few hours, at most.”

She blinks. I hope it’s because she’s impressed.

“So I could…maybe just…relax for a while until you’re done?”

I incline my head, watching her try to maintain her composure and fight against the urge to run screaming to the front door. Except there is no front door, which she’s already well aware of.

I take a few steps toward her. When she backs up, startled,

I stop and hold up a hand, feeling pained. “Please. Trust me.” Her laugh is small and dry. “Can you appreciate how crazy that request sounds, coming from you?”

“I did save your life.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She looks sheepish for a moment, then glances down at her feet. “Sorry. And, um…thank you.”

Fuck, she’s adorable. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

She glances up from her feet, her mouth quirked. She studies me from under lowered brows for a moment, then sighs and throws her hands in the air.

“Oh, for f**k’s sake. Fine. I’ll stay here for a few hours. I don’t want to believe you’ll keep your word, but I do. Mostly. Against my better judgment.”

Then she props her hands on her hips and sends me her signature glare. “So don’t screw it up, okay?”

I say solemnly, “I’d rather die than disappoint you.”

It was an attempt at dry humor, but I surprise myself by meaning it.

She rolls her eyes. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

She turns on her heel and stalks off through the kitchen, toward the guest room down the hall. I hear a door slam and smile.

Then I take a plastic Ziploc bag from a drawer, put my hand inside it, pick up her whiskey glass with the same hand and pour the contents into the sink, and head whistling to my office to discover who my beautiful thief really is.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Killian. Seriously. You’re joking.”

“I’m not, Declan. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Fingerprints don’t lie.”

Silence crackles on the other end of the line for a moment, then I hear a low, disbelieving laugh. “Well, f**k. What are the odds?”

“Approximately seven billion to one.”

“Christ on a cracker. Antonio Moretti’s daughter?” More laughter. “That’s some serious s**t right there.”

I say drily, “You don’t say?”

“So what’s your next move?”

“Good question.”

I gaze at the FBI report on my computer screen, my state of shock having only recently dulled to a more manageable amazement.

It isn’t every day I discover that the most interesting and attractive woman I’ve ever met is none other than the only child of the head of an infamous New York Italian crime family.

A man so vicious his breath is probably toxic.

A man whom, inconveniently, has been trying to kill me for quite some time.

“You think he set her up on the job?”

The diaper theft, Declan means. “No. I can’t find any evidence of contact between her and her father.”