Page 77 of Brutal Vows
“No. I’ve been here for hours.” He shakes hands with Gianni, nods at Lili and Mamma, then looks over at me.
The sheer force of his gaze knocks me back onto my heels.
“Reyna,” he says gruffly.
“Quinn.”
His gaze scorches me up and down. He licks his lips, straightens his tie, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then he looks away, jaw muscles flexing.
“Everyone’s already inside.”
I can tell Gianni’s horrified that we’re the last to arrive, but he tries not to show it.
“Wonderful! Shall we go in?”
Quinn gestures toward the doors. Gianni takes Lili’s hand and drags her through them. Mamma follows, chuckling to herself and shaking her head. I’m following her, wondering if she’s starting to lose her marbles, when Quinn reaches out and grabs my arm.
Startled, I look at him.
His voice low, he says, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Really? Did you borrow someone else’s brain?”
“Very funny, viper.”
We gaze at each other for a moment as his fingers tighten ever so slightly around my upper arm. When I inhale, I smell him. Skin, heat, and masculine musk. Just his essence, undiluted by cologne.
My mouth starts to water. I think that faint moaning I hear is my ovaries.
He says, “It wasn’t fair, what I said about you not seeing Lili after the wedding. She’s welcome to go see you in New York anytime she wants.”
I’m so surprised, I almost laugh. “Are you sure? I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
His reply is stiff. “That’s why I said she could go see you, not that you could come see her.”
Why is he holding my arm? Why is my heart pounding? Why are we standing so close?
I say, “It’s good you came around, because I wasn’t going to obey that ridiculous order anyway.”
His lashes lower. He drawls, “What a shock.”
“I didn’t think you’d be surprised. May I please have my arm back now?”
His gaze takes a leisurely trip over me again, skimming every curve. “Why do you always wear black?”
“Says the man who always wears black.”
“I’m a mobster. It’s the uniform.”
“It’s the uniform for widows, too.”
“You’ve been a widow for three years. Black’s only traditional for the first year.”
Surprised he remembered that detail, I say, “I’ll wear black as long as I’m a widow. Which will be forever, so I’ll always wear black. Is this the best time to be having a conversation about my wardrobe? You’re supposed to be marching around an altar right now, practicing for tomorrow.”
Ignoring me, probably because I’m making too much sense, he says, “You won’t be a widow anymore if you remarry.”
My laugh is soft, but full of bitterness. “I’llneverremarry.”
