Page 36 of Last Shot

When Grey and Max arrived, Julianna Prescott, owner of the Bindi Inn, had hit Grey over the head with a newspaper because he’d left it so long between visits. She insisted on making him a coffee (which was not a good idea after Gio’s espresso) and spent twenty minutes telling Max how Grey used to play on the staircase in the inn while his dad ran around town doing errands for the Barbaranis. Grey sat throughout the entire ordeal with clenched fists. Every time Max laughed or looked at him like ‘did you actually do that?’ he quirked his lips for Julianna’s sake.

What had that been between Max and Raphael? When he’d gone to pay (even though Forrest had smugly told him Raphael had taken care of the bill, much to his disgust; Gio would murder Grey if he found out he’d taken something for free from the La Marcas), he’d told her to wait. Next thing he knew, she was basically grinding against Raphael’s front with her head down his shirt. He knew what she was looking at. The cuore. And it had all clicked into place.

He must have slammed the door of his cottage harder than he thought because she spun like she’d heard a gunshot.

‘Whatis your problem?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Maxella.’ His hands were shaking, even though his hands did not shake. Not even in sub-arctic temperatures. He ripped the fridge open, and the suction door made a loud kissing sound as he took a bottle of water and downed it. His throat had been achingly dry since he’d seen Max and Raphael in the winery. ‘Why don’t you tell me who you really are? Then we’ll see if I have a problem.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘My star sign? My blood type? Are you annoyed Julianna told that story about you peeing off the balcony? I’ve got tonnes of embarrassing childhood stories if you want to feel like we’re even. This one time ...’

Fine. If she wasn’t going to listen, he’d make her.

Her voice tapered off as he stepped away from the island bench. He was as close to her as Raphael had been. He could see that her eyes weren’t quite green – there were flecks of brown in there too, like autumn leaves. She sucked in a breath when he stopped. Was she afraid of him?

Did hewanther to be afraid of him?

‘You let him touch you.’

‘What? Who? Raphael? He didn’t touch me—’

‘Stop.’ As he held up a hand, she flinched and then glared as though annoyed at her own reaction. Did she seriously think he’dhither?

‘You didn’t flinch like you do when I touch you. You practically broke my arm in the garden. But not Raphael. And I saw the way he looked at you. Like he knew you. Likehe ...likeyou...’

‘What are you asking me, Greyson?’ Her voice was a blade hovering over his throat.

‘You know what I’m asking.’ His voice barely made it out. It was happening again. How could he be so stupid as to trust her, even a little bit, after everything? With everything he knew about women like her?

‘You better goddamn ask it then.’

‘Do you work for the La Marcas?’

She tugged at her shirt. Grey’s heart stopped. He told himself it was old army instinct, bracing because she could be about to pull a weapon on him. It had nothing to do with the slip of milky brown skin she revealed as her fingers went under the shirt. But he couldn’t kid himself that it was army instinct that stopped every other part of him working as she lifted the singlet to her neck.

‘Take a good look, Hawke,’ she taunted. ‘Can you see a cuore tattoo?’

He kept his eyes on her face. Every inch of her was twisted in anger.

‘Look, goddamn it!’ She was almost screaming.

His eyes trained down her neck to the curve of her breasts cupped by the black lacy bra he’d done a very good job of not thinking about since he’d first seen it.

Well, maybe not averygood job.

‘Ha!’ she barked. ‘But you won’t believe something as obvious as my goddamn skin, would you? NO!’ She grabbed a fistful of the pearl top and yanked it completely over her head. It pooled like a dollop of shaving cream on his floor.

‘What are you ...’ There were no words for this woman. No thoughts. No breaths.

‘What do you want me to do?’ She spread her arms.

An answer shot like a stray bullet into his head as a warm heaviness tugged in his abdomen.For fuck’s sake.

‘What should I do?’ she repeated. ‘Grate off a layer of skin so you can make sure there’s no make-up covering the tattoo? Here, do you want to check me for zips, make sure I’m not wearing a skin suit?’

‘I—’

‘That’s what acriminallike me would do, right? Go on. Prove I’m the liar you think I am.’

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