Page 9 of Wicked Lies

“And where do I fit in?”

“I’m thinking a little bit of both, so why don’t you spill 'cause it’s obvious you’re in some kind of trouble.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It usually is.” Nick dragged deep on the smoke, then threw his arm over the back of the chair like he had all the time in the world.

How she would’ve loved to unburden herself, tell him the fear that made her stab Jimmy, and the horror of watching Frank Barnett end his life with the flick of his wrist—how she literally ran for her life from the dangerous mob boss.

“I really am sorry about barging in on you before.” Deflect and diffuse. “I’ll tell Bambi that we don’t even really know each other if you want, and that—”

“Not necessary.” Nick finished the bourbon and then pushed off the chair. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?” Like she might just follow him blindly.

“I got someplace much more comfortable than this couch.”

“Ohhhh, no.” Cheryl laid the glass on the coffee table and stood, keeping plenty of distance between them. She eyed the door, figuring out how she could make her escape.

His deep laugh surprised her. “There’s an apartment on the third floor.”

“I’m sure there is, but I’m not interested.” Cheryl backed away from him while keeping her eye on the door. She could always yell for the muscle outside the door. He certainly wouldn’t help her, but she could use him as a diversion.

“Nah, nah, I don’t live there. My business partner and I used it when we first renovated the place, but now we’ve got other apartments on the Upper East Side.”

Her feet were not happy she was standing again, and total exhaustion was hitting her hard.

“Let’s get you settled before you face plant.” He smiled, and it seemed genuine but—

“I promise.” He held up both his palms. “I’ll let you in and show you around. You can rest and then leave whenever you’re ready.”

“I really can just stay here on this couch.”

“Not nearly as comfortable.” He motioned to her face. “I also know you didn’t have that black eye when I saw you earlier.”

Her fingers flew to her cheekbone as she tried to rearrange her hair.

“I’m guessing Jimmy was the one who put it there, and now you’re trying to get away from him.”

“Something like that.” Cheryl admired Nick’s reasoning skills. Most guys zoned in on her tits and hips, not seeing any further, but Nick had already managed to piece half of her story together—a good and a bad thing.

“Getting away from him is probably the first smart thing you’ve done in a while.”

“Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that comment.

Nick threw up his hands. “No judgment, just truth. I get being in a bad situation. And if I can help out by giving you a place to get yourself together, then it's all good.”

Who would’ve thought Nick Santoro might actually have a heart? His perfectly tailored designer clothes said player who’d never had a worry in the world, but something about how he carried himself told her differently.

* * *

After silently ridingthe elevator to the third floor, Cheryl followed Nick through a foyer and into the living room of a very spacious apartment.

Modern tapestries hung on exposed brick walls, softening the decor of glass, chrome, and black leather. A built-in, granite-topped bar covered one wall, adorned with crystal tumblers and stocked to overflowing with an assortment of liquors and wines of every variety. A flat-screen TV, worthy of a small theater, dominated the other wall. Manhattan chic in Brooklyn. He’d obviously had a decorator furnish the space.

Cheryl spun around. “This place is great.”

“We worked crazy hours in the beginning, and it made more sense to live over the club. We each have our own place and only use this if we don’t feel like driving to Manhattan.”

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