Page 193 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

I snort. “Oh, cut the crap. We didn’t speak for six months and you survived. Besides, I don’t know if you heard, but I’m busy running—”

She jumps in, “The business I broke my fucking back helping you brainstorm for? Yeah, I heard.”

“You mean the way you werehelpingwhile also fucking my uncle’sbrainsout behindmy back?”

Reese dissolves into cackles. “God, I’ve missed that mouth of yours.”

I gag. “Eww! Disgusting.”

Reese’s laughter only gets louder, filling the car.

I’m not sure if it’s because she’s finally broken up with Uncle Jacques—and is now dating her fifty-year-old boss—or because I’ve developed a thicker skin over the years, but somehow our friendship feels closer than ever. Maybe it’s both.

“I’ve missed you too,” I say with a smile. “But honestly, I don’t see Paris happening for another three or four months.”

“Luna!” Reese huffs in protest.

“What?” I snicker. “You could always pull your own weight and visit . . . Oh wait, you can’t. Last I heard, a certain someone would have you flattened with an eighteen-wheeler, scraped off the road, and set on fire. In no particular order.”

“Wow, bitch.” Reese’s mock horror carries through her snorting laughter. “You’re starting to sound like a complete psycho. Reflective of the company you’re keeping these days, no doubt.”

I grin because she’s not wrong. That’s what happens when you’re surrounded by the likes of Nico and Dante—the kind of bigbrothers whose idea of fun involves dropping their baby sister on her head just to see if she bounces. And don’t even get me started on the rest of those Capos.

My phone pings with a text, the sound unnaturally loud in the parking garage. “Got to go, Reese. I’m home.”

I disconnect and step into the private elevator, glancing down at the message from my assistant:

Market projections are in. You were right about Lisbon, boss.

Of course, I was right about Lisbon—just like Warsaw and Paris before that. Europe is hungry for Guilty Pleasures. Desire speaks every language.

The elevator doors glide open to our penthouse, and I kick off my Louboutin pumps with a relieved groan.

Saint bounds around the corner, but even in his excitement, he waits for permission, his whole body vibrating with anticipation.

“Come here, big guy.”

At my command, the dog presses against my legs, his tail wagging furiously. It’s hard to believe this is the same creature who tore out a man’s throat nine months ago.

“How’s Rex?” I ask, scratching behind Saint’s ears.

Without hesitation, he leads me to the terrarium to show me his pet iguana. Getting him to protect something smaller had been Cade’s idea, and now Saint guards his cold-blooded charge with the same vigilance he shows me—even if Rex seems utterly unimpressed by the toys Saint leaves in his enclosure.

I glance at my watch again, anticipation and dread curling in the pit of my belly. It’s getting late.

After three days away, Cade returned from Harmony, all bike, leather, and raw sex appeal, and right at the time I was pulling out of the lot this morning

NowI’m driving myself crazy imagining him in Armani, filling the shoulders and crotch of his suit to mouth-watering perfection.

Saint’s wet nose nudges my hand. Right. Back to work. I might run on love and raw need, butGuilty Pleasuresruns on deadlines and projections.

I head to my home office, Cade’s massive form a shadow at my heels. The wall of windows frames a spectacular view of Chicago’s nighttime skyline, but my eyes, as always, snag on the photo on my desk.

Taken in Harmony on our wedding day—me in a wedding dress and biker boots, perched on the Ducati, Cade between my legs, looking down at me like I hung the moon.

The desk intercom breaks the moment. “There’s a signed delivery for you, Mrs. Quinn.”

“Thanks, send it up, Kevin.”

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