Page 7 of Last Shot

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Max

The youngest heir to the Barbarani fortune was drooling. Max had stayed awake most of the night, curled up like a flea-ridden cat at the foot of his bed. There’d been no point trying anything last night – if he’d been drunk at the auction, Luca’s bloodstream was ninety per cent bourbon by the time they’d reached the Barbarani Estate. He wouldn’t have remembered anything. But mainly she’d stayed awake because she knew if she slept, she’d probably think she’d dreamed the whole thing.

How long until he woke up naturally?

The room was sweltering. Perhaps they’d driven into the centre of the Earth’s core. Two hours ago she’d given in and removed her shorts and singlet, accepting that if it was some sort of central-heating manipulation ploy from the Fixer to reduce her to a melted puddle of goo and sweat, he’d won.

But she’d won too. She was here, wasn’t she? With her emerald glasses removed in the city of Oz. She’d broken through the impossible fortress, muzzled the grumpy lion (temporarily) and now, all she needed to do was get the drunk tinman to wake up from his overdose on oil so he could take her to the wizard.

At least she was no longer dressed in her past-the-expiry-date clothes that had rotted in the storage compartment at Semperdom Women’s Prison for six months, waiting for her. Her not-generally-for-public-consumption shorts and tank top were stupid clothes to be wearing in July, but it had been the edge of summer when she’d first walked through the prison gates. And she hadn’t had time to acquire a new wardrobe before the last bus left to Bindi Bindi Cove yesterday afternoon. Anyway, it wasn’t like Luca Barbarani hadn’t seen a half-naked woman before.

And it allowed her to breathe for a while.

Even in the darkness she’d been able to make out the pink-iced Barbarani mansion, which looked more like an eight-year-old’s dream birthday cake than the home of Western Australia’s most famous dynasty as they’d driven in last night. She was pretty sure the driver was the same one who’d taken the drunk girl home – she recognised the scar across his face and the dimples in his cheeks. Now, as Max looked out the window of Luca’s second-storey bedroom, she was close enough to see the sun glint off the black windows of a nearby cottage she’d noticed last night. Bulletproof, she guessed.

Luca stirred. Max’s hand went instinctively to the shorts by her feet – feeling in the pocket for the knife she’d bought at a petrol station opposite the bus depot. Its outline calmed her shaking fingers as she pressed the hard denim.

She’d left prison. But prison hadn’t left her.

She should have foreseen a family like this would have someone like the Fixer indentured to them. Sipping their beverages to check for poison. Attempting to weed undesirable women from their bedsheets. Too bad Luca seemed more concerned with pissing off his father than upholding the Fixer’s security measures.

She didn’t care about the Barbarani family dynamics as long as they played out in her favour. As long as they got her out of this room and into one with Giovanni.

‘Morning,’ a voice yawned from the black sheets on the king bed Max had declined to sleep in. Even hungover, Luca looked like a tanned Renaissance statue. At least he was wearing underwear, even if they left nothing about male morning afflictions to the imagination.

‘Hello.’ She clasped her hands behind her back, suddenly self-conscious – especially since his penis was poking through the silk of his shorts, staring at her.

Luca glanced at the empty, unrumpled space next to him. ‘Did we, uh ...?’

‘No.’

‘This is a very strange situation then. I’m not sure how to greet a bedroom guest in the morning without starting withyou’re welcome.’

Max moved away from the window – just on the off-chance the Fixer was also a trained sniper. In her sleep-deprived state she was imagining tiny red dots spotting her skin. ‘Do you remember much from last night?’

‘Only two names,’ Luca said. ‘Johnnie and Walker.’

‘Do you remember me?’ Max asked.

‘Of course, baby.’ He winked, but it seemed to be an involuntary, habitual movement rather than a sincere come-on. Christ. Had she picked the right kid?

Tomaso was gay. Antonella was straight. Francesca was AWOL. Luca had been her best bet, but now, looking at his lazy, bourbon-soaked eyes, she wasn’t so sure.

‘I mean, do you remember what I said to you in the hall, just before the auction?’

Luca blinked, a frown forming on his pretty face. Her chest tightened. He might be foolish and juvenile, but she sensed he might not be completely stupid. ‘You said something about my family?’ He pulled his sheets back over his crotch, black silk cascading down his perfect body like a dark river. His chest was covered in tattoos that would likely annoy his father, from what Max had gathered about the old wine mogul. He really did look like he’d stepped out of a Michelangelo painting, but nothing stirred within Max at the sight of his perfectly rippled abdominals.

‘Your father is hosting a gala tomorrow night, is that right?’ she said, trying to gently nudge Luca in the direction she needed him. Both hands were on her crumpled shorts now, the knife cool and solid against her palm.

‘I suppose so.’

‘You really don’t remember what I said?’

‘Look, lady ...’

‘Max.’

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