Page 157 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

He narrows his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Maybe she wasn’t completely obsessed with barbarian invaders.”

“Thank you,” I say primly. “Her interests were varied and scholarly.”

“Unlike someone I know,” he says, voice dropping low as he leans closer, “who definitely has a barbarian obsession.” His hand slides up my thigh.

I swat him away, laughing. “Behave. We have a beautiful sunset to enjoy.”

His dark eyes never leave my face. “You still play hard to get, even when we’re alone in paradise.”

I give him a witchy glance and take another sip.

The porch swing creaks as the breeze pushes it. Our little cottage isn’t large or fancy, but it’s ours – our weekend escape from the city. The main house is just down the beach, but we’ve made this little guest cottage our own.

“Did Storm call today?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Luka smirks. “Business talk? During our celebration?”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“Things are going smoothly,” he says after a moment. “Storm says the Bratva is respecting our new boundaries. The Pruszków will fall into line.”

Or else,I think.

What would my professors think if they knew I could now identify most Eastern European criminal syndicates by name? Or that I’ve developed opinions on territorial expansion strategies?

“That’s good,” I say. “Less headaches for you.”

“Mmm,” he agrees.

The business is thriving under Luka’s leadership, and he’s forged stronger alliances with the other families. The Ghost Hound Clan has never been more powerful or stable.

Not that I approve of criminal activities. But Luka is who he is, and I’ve made my peace with it. We have boundaries – things I don’t ask about, things he doesn’t bring home. It works for us.

I get up and cross to the weathered trunk we use as a coffee table, lifting the lid.

“What are you doing?” Luka asks.

I pull out my harmonica, holding it up with a flourish. His eyes light up like I’ve produced a golden orb or something.

“Really?” he asks, sitting forward.

I grin. His fascination with my harmonica skill has been endlessly amusing. I’m always telling him that harmonica playing is something I do for myself and nobody else—completely true—but things have shifted so much in the last year. Luka isn’t somebody else anymore. It’s us against the world, and I wanna share everything with him.

“Consider it part of the celebration.”

I take a deep breath. I haven’t played for ages, what with nailing my master’s degree and finding this place and finishing up the book. And of course, Luka.

But I bring the harmonica to my lips and start to play.

He watches with intensity.

It’s nothing fancy – just an Irish folk melody I’ve always loved, and it has the bonus of being easy to play. Even so, I screw up a few notes, but then I get over it and the notes sound out against the crashing waves.

When I finish, Luka is watching me with that awestruck expression that I love.

“More,” he says simply.

I play another tune, this one livelier. Halfway through, I noticemovement on the beach – two figures walking toward our cottage, silhouetted against the dimming sky.