Page 14 of Lost Kingdom

Sorry Jacinta.

“Come on.” He’s so much gentler now, compared to when we got on the plane, wrapping his palm around my bicep and drawing me carefully to my feet. I tossed my jacket about a thousand air-miles ago, when sweat began pooling under my armpits and the threat of hyperventilation was too real. But that jacket, now wet with perspiration, will be needed when we step off this jet and head toward home.

Shakily turning, I bend to grab the sparkling item, but Tim snags it instead, too fast for my weak hands. He balls it up and tosses it to the bags at the front of the plane, then he accepts his coat, the one he handed Jacinta when she delivered our coffee after takeoff. But instead of slipping his arms into the sleeves, he holds it for me, smiling in encouragement when I accept his offering. “Good girl,” he purrs.He purrs! “Who knew you could be so compliant?”

“Watch yourself.” Frail because of how my knees tremble, I slip my arms into the sleeves and snuggle into the soft, warm fabric. Folding the excess material across to double layer my front, rather than button it up, I discreetly turn my face and sniff the collar that sits conveniently in linewith my nose. So delicious. So comforting, despite our tendency to argue every time we’re in the same room. “I’m compliant when it serves me. I’ll turn on you faster than a rattlesnake if you’re not careful.”

“Uh-huh.” He nudges me into the aisle—not really an aisle—and wraps his arm across my back, anchoring his hand on my hip to keep me standing. Then he starts us toward the door while Jacinta speeds ahead and releases the locks.

An icy wind sprints in and swaps the sweat on my spine for goosebumps. “Jesus.” He rubs the side of my arm while simultaneously grabbing our bags as we move past. “It’s colder out there than I remember it from yesterday. What the fuck?”

“It’s December.”Thanks, Captain Obvious. Wonderful addition to the conversation.“You remember the storm last year?”

“The one where you refused to keep your ass inside my bar?” He flips my duffel up onto his shoulder, then my backpack too, so the overly large, tattooed, bearded, mafioso’s back glitters with the treasures TSA scanners probably wouldn’t allow onto a regular commercial flight. “That one when you were nervous about your new chief starting Monday, so you were sitting at the bar while a snowstorm belted down outside, reading your textbooks like you thought she would quiz you, but then you got up and walked home anyway. All to piss me off?”

“I had to go home.” I burrow into his jacket as we breach the door, and look out at the private hangars paid for by Malone money. Cars sit just feet from the base of the jet’s stairs, and a man in a suit waits, much like they did in New York, with his hands folded in front of his hips and his feet set shoulder-width apart. Ready to run, I suppose. Ready to fight. Ready to join Will Smith in his war against aliens. “It was getting late.”

“It was dark. People were dying out there in that cold.” He helps me onto the steel steps, squeezing my arm to stop me from slipping. “And I had no help at the bar, so short of kicking everyone out, or letting them have free rein of my taps, I couldn’t follow you home. You wore jeans that night. And boots that went all the way to your knees.” He glances down at the skirt I wear now, and the goosebumps that litter every spare inch of exposed skin between my thighs and socks. “You were all tangled up in your stress, so you wore something a little less bright that night.”

“What I wear each day is hardly an indication of my stress levels.”

“False.” He helps me off the last step and hands our bags over to the soldier waiting. There are no words spoken, no orders given. Each man knows his role in this world, even the mafia heir who declined his place atthe top of a powerful totem pole. “Your clothing choices absolutely dictate how you’re feeling. Bigger and brighter means ‘I’m feeling good and I’m okay with people seeing me’. Muted colors, or standard clothes with no crazy adornments, means ‘I’m a little insecure right now’ or ‘I’m not as confident as I wish I could be, so I choose to blend in until I feel better’.” He grabs the back door of what can only be a hundred-thousand-dollar SUV and holds it wide for me to slide in. “I suppose you could say I’m an observer. And everything we are, everything I know about you, began long before Minka Mayet stomped her way into my bar and declared you her best friend.”

“I made the declarations.” And I work damn hard not to flash my backside as I scoot across the backseat. “I was the one who said we’d be friends. She was the one who didn’t want to socialize.”

“And because she was so prickly at first, you wore regular jeans and your hair only had one color in it. You wore glitter high tops, which are still brighter than the average Joe’s shoe of choice, but they’re not platform ass kickers with spikes or chains.”

“You make it sound like I’m a whole spectacle everywhere I walk.” I hate that his words make me reconsider my penchant for color, like fashion is something to be ashamed of. But when I fix my seatbelt and glance across, intending to watch him do the same, I startle and find his eyes burning into mine. His lips curled and his cheeks pushed just a little higher with his smile. “What?”

“Youarea spectacle everywhere you walk. You’re a fucking vision. Beauty and grace, wrapped in rainbows and really good fucking energy. Peoplefeelyour presence long before they see you, and the fact you make them feel good is why everyone wants you around.”

“You think so?” Challenging, I sit back and fold my arms. Closing myself off from the man I want so badly to own me, claim me, but admit it’s for love and not duty. I cross one leg over the other and stare down at my sunshine-yellow skirt in defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t makemefeel good.” He fixes his seatbelt and snags a bottle of water from the center console between the front two seats. Crackling the lid open, he turns and offers his gift. “You set me on fire with your mean words and make me want to walk into a wall of machetes, most often. You’re mean to me.”

I snatch the water and sip as the car begins moving, if only because I’m certain my breath smells like barf. “You make me angry. You toy with my heart like it’s a yo-yo you get to toss around.”

“If it’s any consolation,” he reaches into his pocket and takes out a stickof gum. Ever the bloody boy scout. “My actions hurt my heart, too. I’ve wanted to wrap you up and put you in my pocket since the first time I set a soda in front of you at the bar. But just because I wanted you didn’t mean I’d get to have you. Back then, it was my choice to keep you on the outside. Now you’re in, because of Archer and Minka and all the rest of them. I still want you, and I’m willing to ensure your safety. But now you won’t have me. You keep saying no.”

“Life sure is a rollercoaster.” I snatch the gum and unwrap it with fast steadying hands. The longer we’re on the ground, the more my stomach settles. “I suppose the ball is in my court now, huh? I’ve just clawed my way through a year of hell, where I got to watch you date some other chick, discover your family’s historyà lablood on my shoes, argue with Felix friggin’ Malone like he’s not capable of disposing of my body where no one will ever find it, but that’s all water under the bridge, since, evidently, I was special enough to receive an invitation to his wedding. Oh, and since yousoenjoy screwing with my heart, you gave me a family heirloom at my best friend’s wedding, failed to explain to me the significance, and as recently as today, you discuss marriage.”

“Well—”

“I have a right to stability and normalcy. I have a right to a functional, healthy relationship. Not whateverthis,” I flick my hand in his direction, “is. Call me high maintenance, but your in and out, hot and cold,let’s discuss marriage and negotiate the dowryis not really a game I’m interested in playing.”

“I never said there would be a dowry.” He glances down when I toss the gum wrapper in his lap. Then picks it up, the small, scrunched ball, tiny compared to his thick, scarred fingers. “And I never specifically asked you to marry me. I said it’s something a man in my line of work might consider.”

“In your line of work?” I scoff and look toward the front of the car, inadvertently catching the gaze of our unnamed, unspeaking driver as he pulls out of the airport and starts us toward the city. But then I break our silent standoff—God forbid he gets caught and Tim punishes the poor guy:that’s what mafia men do, isn’t it? “Back when I mentioned maybe having a crush on this older, broader, quietly spoken grump,” I drag my gaze around and stop on an emerald stare, “I thought your line of work was in thepouring a beerand being mean to the customerskind. Had I known about Felix before he dropped a dead body onto my list of PTSD, I might have considered a different bar to study in.”

“Uh-huh, except youstillvisit my bar, even now. After all the shit. Thereare other places you can buy a soda and burger, Emeri. Some are even closer to your apartment than mine. And you still attended Lix’s wedding yesterday, and stayed in his home overnight, and flew in his plane today, despite claiming to hate him. You’re still here. You still want me. And most of all, you’re terrified that someday, I might stop apologizing for the things you’ve endured because of knowing me, and instead, I might give up pursuing you and start looking at someone else. Someone who poses far less work and stress for me. You enjoy your seat all the way up there on your high horse, looking down and acting like I’m some kind of fucking monster who screwed you over, when all along, I kept you at arm’s length so you wouldn’t get caught up in the very shit you’ve muscled your way into. Ultimately, you’re in a snit today because you thrive on independence and romance, and I mentioned marriage in a way that would rob you of both.”

“We’re not getting married!” He’s right. He always has been. Push me away to keep me safe. Bring me closealsoto keep me safe. Most horrifying of all, I lay awake at night, paralyzed at the thought that he may someday grow bored and choose someone else. Someone easier. “I’m mad that you gave me a family heirloom and didn’t tell me the story that came with it. I’m disappointed that although I rememberexactlywhy I hate Felix, that hate has simmered to more of avibeI struggle to hold on to when he’s being charming. I’m mortified that you know what clothes I wear and how they correspond with my mood. And I hate that, because of everything I pointed out just now, I realize you may be the most romantic man I’ve ever met. Oh, and I’m furious that my breath tastes like mint flavored barf. Because that’s embarrassing, considering our current argumentative stance.”

He plays with the wrapper between his fingers, calm, quiet, listening and absorbing my every word. So when I find a scrap of bravery and glance across to search his profile, I find him grinning, and the sparkle in his eyes, visible despite the fact he’s not looking my way.

“Well?”Shut. Up. Aubree! “What do you have to say about all that?”

“I know.”

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