Page 28 of Brutal Vows

I nearly fall face-first onto the kitchen floor.

First, because Quinn is acting like a human for once—not the ape I know him to be—and second, because…Homer?

Mamma accepts his outstretched hand. He clasps it gently for a moment, inclining his head, then releases it and straightens. She gazes up at him through her glasses with narrowed eyes.

She says bluntly, “What kind of name is that for an Irishman?”

He doesn’t take offense. He only chuckles. “My mother was an art student. Winslow Homer was her favorite artist.”

Mamma cackles. “Good thing it wasn’t Edvard Munch.”

“If I tell you the name everyone else knows me by, you’ll laugh even harder.”

“What is it?”

“Spider.”

She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she looks over at me. “You didn’t tell me he was a comedian.”

“He’s not,” I say through gritted teeth. “But he is leaving.”

“Not before he pours me my wine!”

Quinn’s smug smile reappears. “And puts the flowers in water.”

I mentally telegraph a murder threat to him, which he ignores, turning instead to the cabinet behind him to select a vase from the collection of crystal.

As my mother and I watch him, he brings the vase and the flowers to the sink, tears the plastic and tissue paper wrap from the bouquet, fills the vase from the tap, then says calmly, “Your pot’s boiling.”

I look over at the stove. The pot of water is at a full rolling boil, about to spill over the edges.

Cursing, I abandon the bottle of wine and jump over to the stove. I switch off the heat, turn back to Quinn, and demand, “How did you get in here?”

“Through the front door.”

Cocky bastard.“I mean who let you in?”

“The housekeeper. Nice lass. Bettina, I believe? Couldn’t have been sweeter.”

I bet she couldn’t. One look at Mr. Supermodel Assassin here and she most likely fainted.

“Why didn’t she announce you?”

“I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.” He sends me a smoldering glance. “Surprise.”

I feel that look all the way down to my toes.

Flustered, my cheeks hot, I snap, “I hate surprises.”

Mamma mutters, “Somebody around here is about to get a surprise in the form of a smack if I don’t get my wine soon.”

Quinn drops the flowers into the vase of water, fusses with them for a moment until he’s satisfied they’re just so, then crosses to the counter and picks up the bottle of Pinot Noir.

He examines the label. “Hmm.”

Mamma says, “I’m sorry we don’t have any beer to offer you.”

His smile is faintly amused. “I don’t drink beer.”