Page 11 of The Mob and his Messenger

“Okay, boss,” I say, trying for a joke. “From now on I’ll be the most arrogant person you’ve ever met. Happy?”

He turns with a slight smirk.

“Very. Anyway, what’s your book about?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I doubt it,” he says ruefully. “I try to laugh as little as possible at these parties. It gives the men the impression that I’m made of ice inside, and that can be very useful.”

Part of me wants to ask him, Why are you telling me this? Why are you even talking to me?

But then that might break the spell and he might just leave, and for some reason, that produces a cacophony of resentment inside of me, as though my body is screaming at me that if I let this man go, there’ll be repercussions.

“Well?” he says, staring at me almost sternly.

“It’s about a dragon born with no wings,” I tell him. “So she has to go on this mystical quest to discover why, and she befriends a wizard who teaches her how to fly without wings, but with magic. There’s more to it than that, but that’s the general gist.”

“Is it a children’s book?”

I glare. “No, it’s an adult’s fantasy book. It actually gets pretty dark in places.”

He holds his hands up, that same implacable calm on his face. “Okay, I didn’t mean to offend you, Firecracker.”

My glare gets harder, even if I feel a smile tugging my lips upward. “I’m sorry, but what in the name of holy hell did you just call me?”

“Firecracker,” he says, a teasing note in his voice. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it? It certainly fits with how quickly you can explode, don’t you think?”

“No, I absolutely don’t think,” I say, moving closer to him. Heat swells all around us. The night doesn’t seem as bracing anymore. “And while we’re on the subject of moods, how about I give you a nickname, hmm? Maybe Iceman? Because you come across as pretty freaking cold. And you said it yourself. You give the impression you’re made of ice inside.”

He chuckles deeply. It’s a wonderful sound.

“Fine,” he says. “Iceman and Firecracker it is.”

“We sound like a comedy duo.”

“Or a band,” he says. “But I should warn you. I can’t sing.”

“Try,” I laugh, the moment sweeping me up in its embrace. We’ve somehow ended up standing very close, so close I could reach up and touch his handsome face if I wanted to. If I was brave enough to. “Just a few lines.”

“Dallas Smith,” he says. “There is no world in which I sing.”

“Fine,” I sass. “Then Poppet and I will sing. Come here, girl.”

She leaps up and I cradle her in my arms, heavier than she used to be, but still feeling like my little baby as I cuddle her close. Then I throw my head back and let out a soft howl, and then another, and by the third, I realize what I’m doing, and embarrassment thuds through me.

“She usually howls with me,” I explain, cheeks glowing red.

“Well, let me try,” he says.

“You’re joking.”

“Give her here and see if I’m joking.”

“Okay, but be careful. She can get a bit flighty.”

“Come here, girl,” he says, voice soothing as he takes her from me.

His hand brushes against mine and electricity surges down through my body. He cradles her close and tips his head back, ready to let out a howl. He’s so muscular that even his neck has tendons of it, making him look solid, immovable. Poppet looks comfortable and right at home.

I can’t stop myself from giggling, the sight is so unexpected, so unusual.

He’s just taking an interest in his best friend’s daughter, nothing more. He’s just making you feel welcome.

But what if it is more?

What if—

But before Dom or Poppet can howl, an animal noise of pain comes from inside.

We turn and stare into Dad’s apartment, at the crowd gathered around a figure on the floor, his foot twitching.

Somebody screams.

Poppet whines worriedly.Chapter SevenDomenicoI have to struggle to push away the moment Dallas and I just shared. I haven’t let myself go like that in years, decades even. I haven’t sunk so easily into the back-and-forth with a woman for the simple reason that I’ve never wanted to, never even come close to wanting to.

But when Dallas started bantering with me, I felt an answering call inside of me.

And learning about her, about her hopes and dreams and talent, that was just as sweet.

When she tipped her head back and howled, though, that endearing howl moved something inside of me, I had to batter down the urge to leap at her and take her neck in my mouth. I’d kiss and bite as she stood there, at my mercy, looking fine-as-hell in her sparkly blue dress that pushes out her breasts gorgeously. A dignified slice of leg on display, her thighs thick, round, made to be grabbed and played with and owned.

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