Page 58 of Brutal Vows

When I open my eyes, he’s pointing at the bottle, a questioning look in his eyes.

“You’re shot, you fool.”

“I’m used to operating under less-than-ideal circumstances.”

That makes me laugh. “I’m sure you are. By the way, why are you in here? I thought you were going to the basement.”

“I did. Everything’s fine down there. Gianni wants to staythere with Lili until his men arrive, and I agreed with that. So now I’m back up here.” His voice drops. “With you.”

Ignoring Mamma’s piercing stare, I say, “If you’re staying, you’re getting stitched up.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“No arguments. I don’t want your blood all over my clean floor. I’ll pour us all some wine, then have a look at your wound. Whether you like it or not!” I add loudly when he starts to protest.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “How about if we make a deal? You can stitch me up, but after that, I’d like you to make me supper.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, the master of the universe is issuing a request? And here I thought you only knew how to bark orders.”

“I’ve noticed that you don’t respond well to orders.”

When I don’t say anything, he adds softly, “Please?”

We gaze at each other for a moment as Mamma looks back and forth between us. Then she raps her wineglass against the table, muttering, “Prisoners get better service than this.”

Quinn sends her a fond smile. “I’m glad you said it and not me.”

“If the two of you are going to gang up on me,nobody’sgetting wine!”

Irritated by their easy camaraderie, I pour Mamma her wine, then get two more glasses from the cupboard. I serve Quinn his, then stand beside the table and guzzle an entire glass of Chianti in one go.

Watching me, Quinn is silent.

When he stands and loosens his tie, I’m still under control. It isn’t until he unbuttons his black dress shirt and pulls it off that I almost topple over backward in a dead faint.

The muscles. Good God, the muscles.

His chest is broad and rock-hard. His nipples are pierced withsmall silver studs. His abs look like they were carved from marble. His shoulders are wide and his biceps bulging. Everything is hard, defined, and tight. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him.

And the tattoos.

Mercy, the tattoos.

How can a collection of colorful ink be so devastatingly sexy?

His right arm has a full sleeve, shoulder to wrist. An elaborate scrolled font in a language I don’t know snakes in an arc across the top of his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, just under his collarbone. There’s some kind of tribal symbol decorating his left biceps, and another on his left shoulder.

And that spiderweb on the side of his neck, of course.

Somehow with him stripped naked to the waist, even that damn spiderweb tattoo has taken on a seductive allure. I want to trace every line with my tongue.

Where he isn’t tattooed, his skin is smooth and golden, like he works shirtless outdoors in the sun.

This man could be a pinup model.

At least my vagina thinks so. A five-alarm blaze has erupted in my underpants. I’m going to have to go in search of a fire extinguisher to put these roaring flames out.

Quinn’s brows draw together. Examining my expression, he says, “What’s wrong?”