to collide with the present, making his stomach clench on a nauseating pang. Sweat trickled down his spine and he had to surreptitiously clear the thickness from his throat just to speak.
‘Crack shot, querida.’ Question was, why wouldn’t she let him turn, look at her?
‘The best, I assure you. Now, tell me I have your undivided attention and that you will behave.’
Nic had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to win this argument. And that voice... Dios, she could read him passages from the most profoundly boring literature in the world and he’d still get sweaty and hard at the sound of her licking those consonants and vowels past her lips.
‘I will be on my best behaviour. Scout’s honour.’
Not that he’d ever been one. At the suggestion his mother had arched one perfectly plucked, disgusted brow, told him the idea was simply not to be endured and that she’d rather take him to the country club to play poker.
How he’d loved that woman.
Ignoring the misery dragging at his heart, he strived for joviality. ‘Though if it’s co-operation you’re looking for, I’ll be far more amenable without a gun trained on my head by an expert marksman.’
‘Trouble must follow you if you’re familiar with the sounds of a loaded gun. Why does that not surprise me?’
‘Guess I’m just that kind of guy.’
‘A thief? A criminal? Insane?’
Dios! Why was everyone calling him insane today?
‘Misjudged was more the word I was thinking of. Or maybe I’m simply enigmatic, like your lover. Or is he your boss?’
‘My...boss?’ she replied, with a haughty edge that said no man would ever lord it over her.
He almost rolled his eyes then. ‘Okay, then, your lover.’
That earned him a disgruntled snicker.
‘Think again. And while you’re at it who are you talking about? Who is my boss supposed to be? Who are you looking for?’
‘Zeus, of course—who else?’
The room hushed into a cacophony of silence; the lack of sound so loud his ears rang. No doubt a pin dropping would have detonated in an explosion of sound.
Nic pounced on the lull—he’d always liked creating a big bang. ‘I have a meeting with him here. Tonight. So if you’d like to run along and get him I’d be greatly appreciative.’
A stunned pause gave way to a burst of incredulous laughter. The kind that was infectious. It was rusty—as if she didn’t get much practice—but it was out there, all smoky and sultry, and it filled him with a scorching hot kind of pleasure.
Who the devil was she?
‘A meeting, you say? I think not. And I believe you are toying with the wrong woman, stranger. So forgive me if I just run along and leave you with some friends of mine.’
From nowhere three hulks had three guns trained on various parts of his anatomy and he fought the violent urge to cup his crotch. Because 1) despite evidence to the contrary he was of high intellect, and 2) despite their tailored Savile Row attire their eyes were dull from a hard life and the inevitable slide into madness.
Splendid.
For pity’s sake, why guns? Why not knives? He hated guns!
‘Ah, come now, querida, this is hardly fair. Three against one?’
‘I wish you the best of luck. If you survive we will meet again.’
He’d always been a lover, not a fighter. Still, living on the streets had taught him more than how to break a lock—which was just as well because he was nowhere near done with this night or this woman.
SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT. Walked out. Left them to rid her of the criminal in their midst. Here she’d been expecting news of his disposal to the authorities, or his being shoved onto a plane to Timbuktu, and instead she was standing in the security room faced with three decidedly sheepish guards and a fifty-two-inch plasma screen filled with the image of a prominent, high-profile billionaire tied up in her cellar!
‘I don’t believe this,’ Pia breathed.
Exquisitely tall.
Beautifully dark.
Devastatingly handsome.
And infamous for satisfying his limitless wants and desires. Not—as far as she was aware, and she generally knew more than most—renowned for being a felon.
‘Nicandro Carvalho. I almost shot Nicandro Carvalho!’
Pia’s insides shook like a shaken soda can ready to spray. He’d been in her bedroom. Maybe watched her sleep. She’d been half naked when he’d swaggered into her rooms and for a split second she’d thought her past was catching up with her.
But what really ratcheted up her ‘creeped-out’ meter was the fact she’d shot her favourite painting. Of a werewolf. Lobisomem. How freaky was that? Considering she’d code-named him herself.
‘It would have been his own fault! What was he doing, snooping around in there?’
All three testosterone-dripping men in the room flinched at Jovan’s holler but Pia was used to his bark—especially where she was concerned. Protectiveness didn’t come close to the way he went on. Ridiculous. You would think she was eight, not twenty-eight.
‘More to the point, how did he even get in here?’ she said, glaring at her supposed security staff, who flushed beneath her scrutiny. ‘Find the breach and deal with it. Someone betrayed me today and I want them found.’
Skin visibly paled at her tone. ‘Yes, madame.’
Purposefully avoiding the image on screen—because every time she looked at Carvalho the lamb she’d eaten for dinner threatened to reappear—she speared Jovan with her displeasure. ‘Did you realise who he was before you roughed him up? Tell me you went easy on him.’
‘Easy?’ Jovan said, with a hefty amount of incredulity, and she only had to glance across the room to see why.
One of his men sported a black eye and a broken nose, the other winced with every turn and the third had a pronounced limp.
‘The guy should be a cage fighter! I recognised that pretty-boy face within minutes and I still wanted to pulverise him, regardless. He could have hurt you, Pia! So what if the man has money? Only last year they discovered that billionaire who had buried thirty-two bodies in his back yard!’
Heaven help her.
‘All right—calm down.’ If he worked himself up any more he’d either have a seizure or charge back in there to finish Carvalho off. Which would now be a manageable feat, considering he’d tied the stunner
