Page 40 of Gilded Saint

“You travel a lot?”

I have this urge to brush my finger across her nose. To tease out that smile that fell behind a cloud. “I do. Nature of the beast.”

She brushes her hands off. She only ate the top bread and cheese and left the meat behind.

“Are you a vegetarian?”

“Pescetarian.”

“Interesting.” Sloane, my sister, once attempted veganism. Didn’t work out well for her.

“Well, I suppose I should get back to the studio. Unless…” She pauses, plate suspended, “Did you want to do something today?”

“No.” It’s a weekday. Email is piling up as we speak. The job Nick hired me for is quite real.

“I’m not sure. I just…what do you want from this arrangement?” She sets the plate down on the stool and faces me with one arm crossed over her belly. The cardigan gapes open, and my gaze drifts to the silhouette of a perky nipple beneath the outline of the flimsy tank.

Jesus, I’m a pervert.

I push off from the barstool, lift my plate, and collect hers.

“Nothing.” I’m one step past her when I realize I lied. “No, that’s not true.” I set the plates down on the island. “This business of going around town without security has to stop. You need to be safe. I expect you to coordinate with John.”

“I know how to be safe.” Her spine straightens, and her hands fall to her side.

“You’re in a new city.” Nick sends regular updates on Leandro. The fact he’s made it into our status file doesn’t sit right, but there’s no point in scaring her. “Just be smart.”

Her chin tilts up, defiant.

“What’s that look for? I can’t imagine your father let you walk around without security.”

“I absolutely did.”

Ah, fuck. She probably did. If anyone laid a hand on her, they knew they’d die shortly after. Everyone except the capo’s brother.

“Well, you’re not in Italy anymore, sweetheart. You chose to come here.”

“You’re right. I did. And I’m appreciative. But I’m also confused. Why won’t you tell me what you want in return?”

A grin breaks out. This version of Willow is much better. The strong-willed version who will go toe to toe is much more to my liking. I’m about to tell her to get back to her art when a vision of lover boy strikes. “What’s with that kid?”

“Kid?” she asks with enough petulance I half-expect her to stomp her boot. “You know, I’m in my twenties. So is he.”

“Barely,” I counter.

She’s too fucking young, which is one more reason this farce is a bad idea.

“Just say what you want. You don’t want me to date? Wasn’t planning on it. Although…have you been celibate these past two weeks? Because what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Isn’t that the saying?”

I rub my jaw, hiding my smirk. “What’s good,” I correct.

“Excuse me?”

“The saying. It’s what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” I scrub my fingers through my scalp. What we’ve got going on is an ill-conceived arrangement, and this conversation is pointless because I will not promise my fidelity. It sets expectations. But then I think about that kid. Jesus. “If you care for your little friend, watch yourself with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I’m talking like a thug, but what the fuck? It’s the role I’m playing, and it’s a language she should comprehend. “It’s exactly what you think it means.”

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