Page 43 of All for her Forgiveness

I decide to ignore her. "As for the answer to your question, I already told you I wouldn't be home before eleven, Pam."

Hades

Past

My first feeling when she decided to answer the phone was irritation. I don't like interruptions, especially when they come between me and what I desire.

Despite that, I decided to let Kennedy catch her breath a bit and answer the call, before I used heavy artillery to convince her to spend the night with me.

I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I have nothing more to do in New Orleans, and I can't think of a better way to bid farewell to the city than inside the woman who made me hard with just a simple kiss.

I'm not interested in any conversation she has on the phone, so the almost obsessive way I watch Kennedy as she takes her phone out of her bag has nothing to do with wanting to know who the hell interrupted us and everything to do with the fact that I can't take my eyes off the woman.

And that’s why, totally focused on her actions just inches away from me, when I hear the woman on the other end—it’s easy to tell it’s a woman because the voice is a bit too loud—call her "Juliet," I think my mind is playing tricks on me.

The name immediately reminds me of the conversation I had earlier today with Vina.

It's the same name as the girl who will be living in Manhattan with them.

I don't even have time to think about the coincidence of also knowing someone in New Orleans with that name, when her response to the person makes my blood run cold.

"I don't usually respond when I'm called Juliet, so be warned again that I prefer Kennedy. As for the answer to your question, I already told you I wouldn't be home before eleven, Pam."

Fuck! I can't believe this is happening. I was about to take Pam's almost-cousin to bed?

Vina'salmost-granddaughter?

Damn it!

I feel a layer of sweat cover my neck, my brain short-circuiting as I try to remember how old the girl is that Vina told me about.

Almost nineteen.

Nineteen fucking years. Too young for what I thought of doing with her today.

I shut off my brain from the conversation, impatiently waiting for it to end, and as soon as she puts the phone back in her bag, I ask, "Who are you?"

"What?"

"What's your full name?"

I see suspicion spread across her features, and at the same time, she moves away from me in a clearly defensive posture. "Why do you want to know? I haven't done anything wrong."

Fear.

Kennedy . . . or rather, Juliet, whatever her real name is, is afraid of me.

"I told you mine."

"We're not part of each other's world. Your name means nothing in my universe."

"Did you lie? Is your name not Kennedy?" I ask directly, tired of this cat and mouse game because right now guilt is spreading through every cell of my body.

Her hands clasp together in her lap, and I see her tighten them. It's not a very obvious movement, and to a less observant man, it would go unnoticed, but not by me.

Just as she did when she first got into the car, she focuses ahead. "My name is Kennedy Juliet O'Neal, and if you're from the police, know that I've never stolen anything in my life, no matter what they may have told you at the casino or where I live."

What the hell was that?

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