Page 104 of Trust Me

She rubbed her swollen lips together, tempting me with her lush mouth. My restraint broke. I backed her up and hoisted her onto my desk.

My desk.

My wife.

She sat perched on the edge, her earlier scowl replaced by the pliant look she gave me when she set her shields at my feet.

It gave me pause.

Willa’s trust was sacred. I would never take it for granted.

I swallowed the ball of emotion that had wedged somewhere in the vicinity of my larynx.

Leaning forward, I rested my hands on either side of her, committed to giving her the few remaining minutes of my undivided attention. “I have a meeting at Bianco’s.”

I wasn’t sure Willa would remember the East Boston restaurant owned by the Bianco Famiglia.

The way she wrinkled her nose told me that, in fact, she did. “Italians.”

“Aye. It’s neutral territory. An ideal location for a sit-down with the Russians.”

Her nostrils flared. We’d have to work on her poker face.

“No need to be alarmed, nymph. Preliminary discussions went well. Today we’ll call a truce, and it will be done.”

“Will it be safe?”

“Aye. As safe as it can be.”

After a merciless stare down that made me think about postponing the whole thing, she finally reached upward, curling her fingers around my tie.

Something shifted in her expression. She was calculating my reaction.

Willa Callahan was not cut out for the role of the obedient mob wife.

Her grip loosened as though she’d concluded that she’d broken some sort of unspoken rule. Everyone would see my wrinkled tie. They’d have their theories.

I didn’t give a fuck what they believed.

I knew the facts: Willa already held my heart in her fist. Why not a piece of useless material?

My hand wrapped around hers, securing her hold.

I squeezed.

Willa was mine. I was utterly fucking hers.

She tugged me closer at the same time she blew the untamed hairs from her face. I smiled. Disarrayed Willa made my heart pound in ways it never had before.

“The new look suits you ...” Her shoulders rose, shuddering as they fell with a weighted sigh. “But I’m not sorry we didn’t have any photos taken.” Her accent thickened with each syllable spoken. A tear slid from each eye.

“Willa.”

“I mean, look at you, all sexy mob-boss chic—and me? I look like I’ve been hanging out in a barn all day. Which reminds me ... how do you feel about horses?”

“Willa.”

“Horses—for or against? I probably should have asked you this before I agreed to marry you because ... you see ... horses ... well, I ...” A case of the sniffles drowned out her admission.

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