Page 65 of His Deadly Lies

I flash her a grin. “Oh, I never forget about bottles up assholes. There is something gratifying about making a man scream.”

“Tell me about it.” The tenor of her voice changes, and before I have a chance to do anything with my hands, touching myself or her, Mia rises from the table.

“Seems to me you’ve done your fair share of watching me,” I tell her.

“You’re not the only one with eyes, Carter. I’ve been learning you the same way you’ve been learning me,” she quips.

It’s damn near impossible not to watch the sway of her hips as she carries her plate to the sink. Or to notice the fact that we’re alone in the kitchen. The rest of her guard detail, the one Ricardo and her father agreed was important to implement, have either not arrived at the house yet, or they’re giving us a wide berth.

I like to think it’s because they trust me.

They shouldn’t.

And I haven’t given them much thought.

Either way, it’s only the two of us, and how easy it would be to corner her at the counter, to spin her around slowly and slide my body along every inch of hers. To see just what kind of screams she makes when something long and hard is thrust into her.

A virgin.

In this day and age.

A glance at the clock shows me it’s well past noon, though.

“I’ve got to check in with Ricardo on a few things,” I tell her instead. Standing and readjusting the chair to fit neatly beneath the table yet again, I grab the folders and slip them beneath my arm. “I’ll have someone else take over for me while I’m gone.”

Mia whirls around, bracing herself on the counter. “You don’t have to go so soon.”

“So soon? You kept me up half the night with your sleep-talking and the other half because I was in a goddamn uncomfortable chair. Give the old man a break.”

“You’re not an old man,” she replies softly.

“No, I'm an asshole. Which divorces itself from age.”

It’s harder than I expect to leave the room and have someone else from the team take over. Harder yet to alert Balestra as to my movements like he’s entitled to know them. Then I’m in the car, cutting across town toward my house where my bed beckoned, and I know it will be miles to go before I sleep.

Thank you, Robert Frost.

By the time I find Ricardo in the lounge off the living room, the lighting dim and his hands already around a bottle of whiskey, I’ve worked up a good mad. Remembering his attitude at our morning meeting and his cocky-ass swagger.

“I swear,” I begin, just inside the room, “if you come at me again in front of that family, Ricardo, we’re going to have a fucking problem.”

He’s changed out of his suit and into a button-up shirt and khaki pants. Rather than turning him into the picture of a country club elite, he looks rough. Ready to sweep any woman who gets in his way off her feet.

Does Mia think about that when she looks at him? I wonder.

Rather than be properly cowed the way I intend, Ricardo bursts out laughing and pours a glass of whiskey for me. He hands it off before pouring his own and taking a sip. “Don’t be mad, Unc. You’ll give yourself a coronary. Then where will we be?”

I grimace, taking a sip. “You little shit.”

“I might be a little shit, but you know I’m right.”

“About the coronary?” I question.

He turns to face me and says, “About what I had to do back in that office. We can’t be pulled along behind the wake of a ship, waiting for something to drop in our laps. We’ve got to act.” Ricardo takes a long draw of his own whiskey and holds eye contact. “I did what I thought I had to do. You know that.”

I tighten my hold on the glass, whirling the amber liquid inside around repeatedly. “Your attitude needs serious adjusting.”

“Did you find anything?” Ricardo asks, ignoring me entirely.

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