Page 27

I sat with my whiskey, looking around the room. Men and women filled the space, dressed in their best. I recognized a few faces. The criminal underworld was a vast place, but a lot of it centered on the major cities: New York, Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Chicago.

Boston was well-known, but a smaller city. It was how we kept off the radar more than some of the other organizations. We didn’t have buildings in the heart of downtown blowing up, creating news stories that placed a giant red target on our heads.

As my gaze traveled around the room again, it froze at the entrance. She was here. I watched as the hostess helped her with her coat. The dress she wore beneath was the stuff wet dreams were made of.

Her slim shoulders were bare, the top tying around her neck. Leaving the perfect path for my lips to caress. The ruffles around her hips swished with every step she took.

As she made her way toward me, I willed my cock to settle down before I had to stand and greet her. Would it be embarrassing? Not for me. I wanted nothing more than for her to see what she was doing to me. But the hostess who walked her to the table? Yea, that girl was barely twenty years old. That was a gap I would never consider. I wasn’t sure how oldmo bandiawas, but she looked like she could be in her thirties.

Please God, let her be in her thirties.

The thought that she might be over twenty years my junior was exactly what I needed to flatten the tent created in my suit pants. But as I stood, I buttoned my jacket anyway.

“Mo bandia.”I took her hand in mine and brought it to my lips. Her skin was smooth and soft. The slight fragrance of perfume wafted from her wrist, daring me to press my lips against it.

Who was I to ignore a dare?

I turned her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist before pulling her closer. “You are breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Duncan. You are quite handsome yourself.”

Her smile wavered, and I wondered what had her on edge. “Please sit.” I pulled the chair out for her, then took my own. “I was concerned you might cancel.”

“I considered it,” she answered honestly, and my chest tightened. This woman was different. I had known that from the first moment I laid eyes on her as she fell into my arms. But her honesty floored me at every turn.

“But you came.”

“I did.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what her hesitation was. I didn’t think I could be as honest as she was, unless it was to tell her how much I wanted her in my bed.

Sal’s words were in the back of my mind. I knew nothing about this woman. She could be a honey trap in so many ways. Maybe her only desire was to get me alone and steal what money I had on me. Which was always at least a few grand.

If that was her goal, I would gladly hand over every bill I had for just a taste of what she had to offer.

But there was also the possibility she was working for Kelley, or worse, Tyran. Earlier, when he knocked her down on the street, he turned and said something to her. We were all too far away to hear it.

It could have been something as simple as him being an asshole, or he could have told her one of us were her mark.

The more I thought about it, the more I considered the coincidences. What were the odds that a beautiful young woman would fall into my arms on the rare day I was in the city?

Then that same woman being in my path weeks later, when the boys and I were chasing Tyran through the crowded streets. Only for her to end up once again falling to the ground, where I stopped to help her.

Dammit, Sal!

Shaking my head, I tried to expel my boss from my mind. I didn’t need him fucking this up for me. Regardless of why she was here, I wanted her. I hadn’t gotten to where I was by being stupid or naïve.

“Well, now that we’re on a date, maybe you’ll tell me your name.”

“I wasn’t hiding it. You never asked. Instead, choosing to call memo bandia,” she countered, and she was right. Her name hadn’t mattered until my boss got inside my head and laid down his conspiracy theories and doubts.

“What is your name?” I asked with a smile. Though I was now questioning why she was hesitant to tell me.

“Freyja Malpas.”

“Freyja, that’s Scandinavian,” I remarked.

“It is. Though my father is Greek.”