Page 49 of American Hellhound
She sent him a tight, unfriendly smile. “I’ve always been grown up, Roman. I’ve just got a few more crow’s feet now.”
Roman snorted. “Just the same, huh?” He cast a glance around the office. “’Cept your man’s built you quite the little empire here, hasn’t he?”
The back of her neck prickled. Roman had always been able to get Ghost’s hackles up, but she’d always managed to keep cool and aloof. Outwardly. “He built it for the club,” she corrected. “For his brothers. Their future.”
“Right, right. The future.” He scuffed the toe of his boot across the tile. “It never turns out like you think it will, does it?” He flipped her a hooded look, his eyes bright in the fall of afternoon sunlight.
She suppressed a shudder.
Roman turned, then, and glanced over his shoulder at Holly, lazy, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Nice to see some things never change. You still got all the prettiest groupies around here.”
Holly’s eyes flipped wide.
“She’s an old lady,” Maggie snapped. “Show some damn respect.”
“Ooh-hoo, my mistake,” he chuckled. He held up both hands, palms toward Holly. “Apologies, ma’am. Mrs. Old Lady.”
“What do you want, Roman?” Maggie asked.
“I wanna talk to your man.” He turned back to face her. “I come bearing gifts.”
~*~
How many times, Ghost wondered, was some idiot with a death wish going to go bother his old lady at the office? “For the sake of your pretty little nose,” he told Roman, sneering, “you’re damn lucky I got to you before Michael did.”
Roman, looking pleased and amused, slumped down with his elbows on the bar and lifted his brows in question. “Michael?”
“Married to the old lady you were hitting on.”
“Ah.”
“He doesn’t have my way with words.”
“Noted.”
Ghost, standing behind the bar, added a splash of whiskey to his coffee and didn’t offer any to Roman. He thought it fitting symbolism: the bar – theclub– between them. Both on either side of something they’d both once had, now opposed.
“What gifts?” Ghost ask, impatient.
“Hmm?” Roman trailed his fingertips down the polished wood of the bar top, not making eye contact.
“You told Mags you came ‘bearing gifts.’ Hand ‘em over already and get your ass outta here.”
He grinned. “Charming as ever.”
“Five seconds, Roman.”
The man heaved a dramatic sigh. It was a shame he was straight, Ghost thought, because he would have been a perfect match for Ian.
“Fine,” he said, head lifting. “I got you a parlay with the prez of the Saints.”
Ghost blinked. “A parlay?”
“You know, like–”
“I know what it means. What I don’t get is why you think I’ll believe you.”
For the first time this afternoon, Roman grew serious. His voice lowered; he leaned forward on his stool. “Look. Kenny. I know there’s bad blood. A lot of it. I’m not an idiot.”
