Page 28 of Ruthless Love

Scowling, Evie glares at an imperfection I didn’t notice. “The edges are a little burned.”

“You say that like I’m not going to eat every last bite of it. Trust me. I am.”

That brings a small smile to her lips. “It should really cool before I cut it.”

“For how long?”

“An hour.”

“Well, there’s zero chance of that. Ice cream?”

Her shoulders drop with the disappointment of a woman who could really use a gallon tub and a spoon. She shakes her head. “I ate the last of it last night for dinner.”

“Had I known your eating habits, I would’ve come over sooner. I’ve got some. Be right back.”

We spend the rest of our evening eating a bourbon peach pie that I can only imagine rivals crack cocaine, and slip back into the easygoing conversation of nothing too deep.

Checking my phone a while later, I say, “It’s getting late.”

“But ... the spider.”

“The spider’s gone. You’re fine.”

“You said there might be more.”

“No, I said the boys would check just in case.” I try to stay strong when her sad eyes and sulking pout accompany the words of course and I understand.

I lay a confident hand on her shoulder and look her square in the eye. “Evie, you’ve got this. The spider’s gone. Your house is safe. I’m right across the street if you need me.”

Meek as a mouse, she nods before pulling out the big guns. Hands clasped, pleading. Eyes batting those ridiculously long lashes. Mouthing the word please as if anyone else might hear.

My expression stern, I point a single accusatory finger at her. “That’s absolutely not fair.”

“Just one night. And the guest room has its own bathroom.”

Deadpan, I say, “I know. We have the exact same model. Well, except for your upgraded patio that I intend to rectify by starting a neighborly patio war.”

“I’ll buy you a patio,” she says out of desperation.

Surprised, I realize she’s not only serious, but probably ready to torch the place if she does see another one of those fuckers. And to her credit, it was the biggest monster of a tarantula I’ve seen in Texas. Ever.

“Look, you don’t have to buy me a patio,” I say like an idiot. “I’ll head home, shower, and call to check on you in half an hour. If you still need spider-protection services, I’ll put on my very grubbiest sweats, with the full expectation that you have no objection to me rummaging in your pantry, and any movies we watch have to be pre-approved. On my all-in list is anything with the words fast, furious, or death in the title.”

“Really?” she asks with enough hope in her eyes, she’s adorable. When I nod, she says, “Deal,” squealing like the girl she is.

“That was an if, Evie. And just for tonight.”

Maybe it was the please that filled my ears. That small word whittled its way deep into my mind, carving a hole through my better judgment and common sense, and making me wonder how it would sound less like a plea and more like a beg.

But it’s less about the words and more about Evie. She’s an anomaly with the body of a goddess, the heart of a saint, and the mouth of a sailor. A puzzle I need to piece together. To understand. The all-American debutante wouldn’t be slumming with a creep like Dimitri without an enticement. One that goes beyond the normal enticements of ultimate power and piles of cash.

But aside from that, why would he be marrying her?

He doesn’t need the money. Or an heir. The man doesn’t exactly lay low, though he’s been a person of interest in more than two dozen cases of money laundering, extortion, and missing persons, just to name a few. Slave trade. Torture. Murder. It’s a wonder if any of the people on his payroll are there of their own free will.

As she watches a movie, and I pretend to, I consider again why Dimitri would marry a blueblood like Evelyn Banks, a girl shedding her socialite status, opting to be completely down to earth.

Case in point ...

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