Page 10 of Brutal Vows

“Excuseme?”

“You’re not as good an actress as you think.”

She stares at me in blistering silence for a few seconds, then says icily, “Number one: don’t call me ‘woman’ like it’s a pejorative. It’s not. Number two: if you’re not bright enough to know what the word ‘pejorative’ means, ask your sidekick. He seems like he might have actually read a book once. Number three—”

“Will this take long? I’ve got a meeting to get through.”

Her nostrils flare. Her lips thin. Her body trembles with impotent fury, and I think I’m starting to have fun.

She says tightly, “Number three: I have nothing to say to you.”

“No?” I let my gaze travel the length of her body, down and back up again, relishing every dangerous curve. “Because it bloody sure seems like you do.”

With what appears to be a huge effort of will, Reyna holds back whatever vitriol is burning the tip of her tongue. She smooths a hand over her dark hair, straightens her shoulders, and forces a tight smile.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“But it won’t be pleasant.”

“I doubt you’re capable of pleasantries, wee viper.”

Her eyes flash. “Insulting me won’t win you any points.”

“I’m not the one here who needs to win points.”

That makes her even angrier. Her cheeks turn scarlet. “Why are you deliberately baiting me?”

“Because you’re better than your brother,” I say, holding her infuriated gaze. “You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not. Now talk to me. I need to know why you’re so angry, and I won’t get the truth from him.”

She’s taken aback by the compliment and by my forthrightness, both of which she obviously wasn’t expecting.

I get the feeling there isn’t much she doesn’t anticipate, so that’s gratifying.

When she doesn’t speak for too long, I prompt, “You don’t like that I’m Irish.”

“I’m not that petty or prejudiced,” she says crossly. “I don’t judge people by where they were born.”

The way she says it, I believe her. She’s genuinely insulted by the suggestion.

Which is interesting, considering most of her kin would rather be burned alive than befriend an Irishman.

Our families might do business together when it suits us, but it’s a point of pride that we hate each other’s guts.

“So what, then?”

She gazes at me in silence, measuring me up. Then she shakes her head.

“You know I can’t possibly be honest with you. There’s too much at stake for my family.”

“There’s too much at stake if you’re not honest with me.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll walk out of here without meeting Liliana and without looking back, because there are plenty of other lasses in the Cosa Nostra who’ll happily spread their legs for me and gain advantage for their families if she doesn’t.”

She stares at me. Her eyes are an unusual color, a pale greenish-gray, like a mermaid might have.