Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
A guy wolf whistles. While the boisterous group disperse into different directions, I kiss her like this is my last kiss, and it’s not just to shut her up.
This kiss is different.
This kiss seals a deal.
“Is that you, Anya?” someone asks in a croaky voice.
I tear my lips from the little fairy’s mouth, noticing with no small measure of satisfaction how her pink lips glisten from my kiss, and cut my gaze toward the intruder.
An old lady dressed in a frilly blouse and a pencil skirt stands next to us. Her gray hair is piled in soft curls on her head, and her lips are painted knockout pink. The long string of pearls that’s twisted in several loops around her throat must weigh down her neck. A whiff of rosewater reaches my nostrils.
“Oh, it is you,” she says, arranging the strap of a patent leather handbag over her forearm. A mischievous smile creases her face. “I see you finally followed my advice and caught yourself a juicy dish to break your dry spell.”
“Indeed,” I say with a chuckle, phrasing that as a question directed at my prey.
“Livy,” Anya chokes out, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of apricot either from fear or embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”
Anya. I like it. It’s a pretty name.
Livy frowns. “I had my nightcap at the bar.” She scrutinizes Anya. “As I do every night. You know that.” Casting a curious look at me, she asks, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your hunk?”
I press the flat end of the blade harder against my captive’s stomach, making sure she gets the message while ensuring I don’t cut her.
“I—” Anya swallows.
“Saverio De Luca,” I say. “My friends call me Sav.”
Anya sags a little in my hold as if the mere sound of my name steals her strength. I guess she didn’t want to know that.
“Olivia Simmons,” the old lady replies. “My friends call me Livy.” She winks at Anya. “Were you out on a date?”
I glide my hand from Anya’s neck down the front of her body before curling my fingers in an iron grip around her narrow hip. “I was just walking Anya home.”
“In that case, you won’t mind walking an old lady home too.”
Catching Livy’s gaze, Anya gives an inconspicuous shake of her head.
Bad girl. I tighten my grip on her in warning.
“Seeing that we live in the same building,” Livy adds sweetly.
“Yes,” I drawl. “We’ll definitely walk you.” Testing the sound of her name on my tongue, I add, “Anya and I insist on seeing you home safely.”
Anya’s breath catches on an almost inaudible hitch. Yeah. She doesn’t want me to know where she lives. She mistakenly believed the witnesses who peeled out of the bar would scare me away and save her. She’ll learn quickly that nothing I care to know stays a secret from me for long and that no one is ever safe from me.
Livy bats her eyelashes. “You’re such a gentleman.” She motions at Anya’s bag. “Oh, look at that. You’re even carrying her bag for her. It makes me think of those romantic pictures of couples who walk hand in hand with the woman’s shoes dangling from the man’s fingers.” She lowers her voice. “Next time, get a room instead of making out in the street. No one can argue that passion knows no time and has no manners.” She leans closer. “However, a gentleman should always think about a lady’s honor.”
With that reprimand directed at me, she turns up her nose and waltzes down the street.
I slip the knife into the sheath strapped around my waist and tuck Anya against my side. “Let’s go, tesoro.” When she resists, hanging back as I take the first step, I lower my head and brush a whisper over her ear. “You don’t want Livy to get hurt, do you? She seems like a very sweet old woman.”
Fear bleeds into her eyes, making them sparkle like amber garnet. She cares about the old lady. There was complicity in the familiarity with which Livy addressed her. Anya isn’t going to do anything that could get her friend hurt. No, she walks obediently next to me, albeit with a stiff back and stilted steps.
We don’t go far. A few hundred yards farther down, Livy unlocks the door of a Greek Revival style apartment building, letting us into a small lobby that’s decorated with art deco furniture.
Turning to me, she says, “This is where I leave you. I’m on the first floor. Have a good night, kids. You don’t have to worry about the sound. The walls are thick.”
Anya makes a choking sound.
I bid the old lady good night. When she’s gone through a door that leads to a hallway, I turn to Anya. Save for those freckles that are scattered like tiny golden stars over her nose and cheeks, her complexion is flawless. Under the bright overhead light, her youth is undeniable in the smooth, porcelain quality of her unblemished skin and the unspoiled innocence in those captivating eyes. Her pupils are pinpoints of black in a sea that resembles the color of liquor. Of sin. A man can drown in those pools and in the generous curves of her body. She’s not a day older than twenty-three. Like I said, young. Definitely too young for me. And I don’t mean just in age. She’s too young in everything that matters—in experience, in the uglier side of the world, and in the darker desires of men.