Page 72 of Disarming Caine

He was directly across the table from me, so I leaned forward slightly, holding my voice to a mock whisper. “Trying to make both of us look good.”

Oncethekitchenanddining room were clean, I stood at the living room window. I raised a hand, and a car in front of the house flashed its lights.

Samantha appeared at my side, took my hand, and leaned close enough to whisper. “That the security guy you were talking about?”

I pressed my lips to her wondrous cheek. “One of them. He parks out front to be obvious. There are at least two or three elsewhere.”

“Thanks for doing that.” She hugged my arm tight.

I freed the arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, her arm finding its way around my waist. “Your sister cornered me in the kitchen.”

She grimaced. “I warned you.”

“She asked what my intentions were with you.”

The grimace grew to an exaggerated one. “What did you say?”

“I told her the truth.” I kissed her temple, her playful look softening. “That I intend to chain you to my bed—”

Her eyes narrowed, and she smacked my chest.

“—and keep you as my sex slave.”

“You did not!”

“Seriously, though, bella. You didn’t tell them what happened in Napoli, did you?”

She shook her head slightly and rested it on my shoulder. “I told them I got the stitches from the grotto where I sprained the ankle. That it was just an accident. It lowered the overall stress level when I got home.”

There was no blaming her for that. I’d worried what they would say when they found out the danger she’d been in. Not telling them was likely wise. I leaned my head against hers and held her tighter.

“That’s enough, you two lovebirds!” Kevin appeared next to us, holding up the purple and gold box of the exquisite single malt I’d brought. “The wine was good, but it’s time for us to head to the man-cave and watch some basketball.”

I raised an eyebrow at Samantha, who rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dr. Ferraro, I’ll be the responsible one and drive home.”

With one more kiss, I descended into the biggest test of the evening.

The walls were covered in sports memorabilia, posters, pennants, and jerseys from baseball, American football, and hockey. A long couch, bracketed by two recliners, all in black leather, faced a large television, which was playing a sports commentary about the Christmas Day games. Behind the couch, next to the bottom of the stairs, was a well-stocked bar.

And Miller.

“I’ll give you this much, Ferraro. You’ve got good taste in Scotch.” He pulled two leather boxes from under the bar and opened one at a time, revealing two Glencairn Whiskey Glasses in each. “Really went all-out to impress the family?”

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Fist, you mean.” He withdrew three glasses and poured into each.

“You have quite the right hook.”

He picked up a glass by its squat stem and opened an ice drawer in the bar. “Ice?”

“I certainly hope that’s a test.” I accepted the glass from him, without ice, swirling gently to admire the light mahogany shade.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sam told me to give you a chance. But I’m a straight shooter, so let me be clear: If you hurt her again, my right hook will be the least of your worries.”

Don’t hit him.

“So Sam was right,” said Kevin, appearing next to me.

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