Page 89 of Savage Lover

He writes out a check, rips it out of the book, and pushes it across the table to me.

“That’s what I’m willing to pay,” he tells me.

I pick it up. The check says, “$0.00.”

“Not. One. Fucking. Cent,” Raymond seethes. “If I ever see your face again, or this so-called spawn of mine, I’ll introduce the pair of you to a colleague of mine who isn’t nearly as friendly as Porter. I like to call him The Dentist. He’ll pull out every one of your teeth with pliers, down to the last molar. And I’m afraid he doesn’t use anesthetic. We’ll see how well you negotiate then, with a mouthful of gums. You have my word on that.”

I set the check down on the table with trembling hands.

“No,” Raymond hisses. “Take it with you. As a reminder. If I hear one fucking whisper in this city about a bastard son . . . I don’t think it will be hard to find you. And stay the fuck away from my daughter.”

I stand up from the table. I’m terrified that Raymond is going to get up too, but he remains seated. He doesn’t do anything to stop me as I stumble out of the restaurant.

20

NERO

Iwas up till the early hours of the morning, tracking down info about Matthew Schultz, so I end up sleeping in much longer than usual. It’s past noon when I’m finally woken by a knock on my door.

“What?” I groan, not bothering to lift my head out of the pillow.

“There’s someone at the door for you,” Greta says.

“Who?”

“Come see for yourself,” she says impatiently.

I roll out of bed—literally roll out of it, onto the floor. I’m only wearing boxer shorts and I can feel my hair sticking up in all directions, but I don’t particularly care. If it was somebody important, Greta would have given me a heads up. It’s probably just Aida—though god knows she wouldn’t wait on the doorstep. She’d march right into my room if she felt like it.

Maybe it’s Cal.

Greta has already stomped off without waiting for me. She hates when we sleep in. It’s the Puritan in her. She likes to bang the pots and pans around in the kitchen when she thinks we’re being lazy. Luckily, I was exhausted enough to sleep through it this morning.

I stumble down the rickety staircase, so narrow that Dante has to turn sideways every time he comes up. That’s probably why he has his room on the main level. I can’t stand having people creaking around over my head. I like to be as high up as possible, someplace with a view. Sort of like Camille’s room.

Well . . . speak of the devil.

Camille Rivera is standing on my doorstep.

She looks somber and pale, wearing a black dress that doesn’t really fit the last days of August. She flushes when she sees me, dropping her eyes down to her shoes. I remember that I’m practically naked. I lean up against the doorframe, standing close to her, because she’s cute when she’s nervous.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Camille says, goaded into looking at me by her need to correct me. As her eyes run over my bare chest, she blushes harder than ever.

“Still,” I growl, my voice husky with sleep. “I thought you’d be tired after the night you had.”

Camille darts another look at me, then covers her face with her hands to hide the color.

“Could you put a shirt on, please?” she says.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So I can talk to you without—”

“Without what?” I say, leaning even closer.

“I’m not looking ‘till you’re dressed,” she says, hand over her eyes.

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