Page 47 of SINS & Lies

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong with your plane? And do not lie.” He gives me that frustrated look that means a punch might be headed for my throat.

So, I explain. “Between the media and Uncle Andre, I’m constantly tracked by bloodhounds. I needed my space. My privacy.”

“You need a swift kick to the ass, that’s what you need.” Dante takes a breath, looks skeptically at the plane, then back at me. “Privacy,” he repeats slowly. “For what?”

Uh-oh.

This is the problem with having brothers. Crack open the door even a smidge, and they’ll bulldoze right through. Nosy as all hell and always up in my business.

And do I spill about Kennedy?

Not even if every last one of my fingernails was being ripped from the skin. Dante would never let it go. He’d launch into endless lectures about having a conscience and respecting women, yada, yada, yada...

But because Dante runs ten miles every damn day, he zips past me like a gazelle before I can stop him.

I scurry after him, practically crashing into him as soon as we’re inside the doors.

“Hello,” Savannah says, all flirty smiles when she sees Dante.

Confused, he waves back. “Uh, hello.” His gaze flicks between her and the dog, then he shoves me back and whispers, “You’re seeing Savannah Whitaker, ‘Dog Trainer to the Stars’?” He air quotes for effect.

He knows damn well she’s not my type. At all. I make sure we’re out of earshot. “I am not dating Savannah Whitaker,” I scoff under my breath. Not in a million years.

She’s like a bone china doll—beautiful and polished but utterly pretentious and high maintenance. The kind of woman who’s obsessed with taking selfies and a nightmare to fuck.

“Then what’s she doing here?” Dante asks.

I glance at her and try to think. “She’s...training my dog.”

“You have a dog?” Horrified, he looks back at the useless ball of fur. “Does the ASPCA know about this?”

I sock him in the chest. “You know I’ve always wanted a dog.”

“When you were eight.” We both look on as Savannah takes a selfie with the little guy. Dante turns back, skeptical. “I’m not buying it. You didn’t buy a jet to take a dog to Italy.”

“You’re right. I didn’t buy the jet. You did.” This time, it’s him who socks me in the chest. Ow.

Then he sniffs the air. “What is that?”

The issue is, I smell it too. Floral with that alluring hint of lemon that follows Kennedy wherever she goes. I try to throw him off. “Jet fuel,” I state.

“It’s not jet fuel, it’s not her,” He points to Savannah as he steps towards her. “And it’s definitely not him.” He points to the panting patch of fur on Savannah’s lap. “There’s someone else here. I can smell her.”

Dante heads for the back room as Savannah chugs her drink and tries not to pay attention.

I grab his arm. “First of all,” I point out, “you saying that is just creepy. No wonder you don’t have a woman. Your vibe is too Hannibal Lecter. And second, there’s no one else here. You’re simply starting to crack.” I throw an arm around his shoulder and try to lead him out. “There’s an excellent shrink I could recommend.”

“I bet you could.” Dante weasels out of my arm and rushes for the back. He throws open the doors and puts both hands on his waist.

Protectively, I rush in. If by some miracle Kennedy decided to get with the program—lying buck naked with those sculpted, soft thighs spread in the center of my bed—no one sees her but me.

But no such luck.

“What the fuck?” he asks.

And what the fuck is right.

Front and center on the bed are an assortment of toys. Dog toys. Along with treats. And outfits. So many fucking outfits it’s like the damned dog is having a baby shower. Or he’s one of those bears you stuff at the mall. What are they called again?

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