Page 8 of Caruso
“Bad luck.”
Something about her cool reassurance impresses me, and I glance at the dead body at her feet.
“Tell me what happened.”
Her voice is low, a little husky and soft—sweet even. I detect a slight southern drawl as she fills me in on what happened.
When she gets to the part where she grabbed his balls and twisted them, my eyes water at how that must have felt, and I exhale sharply. “You have impressive moves. How did you learn to defend yourself like that?”
“My stepfather taught me.”
“He did well. You must be grateful to him.”
For the first time, she turns, and I stare in shock as her huge gray eyes harden, the dark lashes fluttering against her porcelain skin as she whispers, “Not really. It was self-defense. Fight or flight — isn’t that what they say? I learned my skills the hard way.”
I can’t look away. Her angelic face belies her strength, and the resignation in her expression floors me a little. So much pain hides behind her flashing eyes, and yet the beauty that shines in them renders me speechless.
I have a strong urge to cup that face between my hands and reassure her that I’ve got this—got her. That I will sort this, look after her and protect her. It’s as if an angel fell from the sky and was tutored by the devil because this girl is nothing short of ethereal.
Her hair is highlighted with streaks of blue that complement the inky black dye in her hair. It’s obvious she’s colored it as I notice the roots beginning to emerge, almost white—a natural blonde.
She’s hiding from something—is it him—her stepfather?
She doesn’t even blink as she regards me, a step away from madness. Is that me or her?
I check myself and glance back at the body, noting his pants around his knees and the shock on his face.
“What happens now?”
Her question holds no fear, merely curiosity, and I shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.”
If anything, it strikes me how indecisive I am about this. Ordinarily, I would call the cops, remove the body and dispose of the girl either by firing her or handing her over to the cops. But not this time. I have an irresistible urge to prolong our encounter, and I wonder why.
Simon returns before I have made up my mind and says in a low voice, “They are on their way.”
Taylor angles her head to one side. “The cops?”
“No.”
I stand and jerk my thumb toward the door.
“Follow me.”
As she stands, I note how she smooths her dress down and walks carefully, almost defiantly, as she steps over the body at her feet. She shows no remorse for what just happened. No tears, no worries, no pain. Merely calm, cool resignation, which impresses the fuck out of me.
This girl would make a fantastic assassin, and I wonder why that interests me so much.
Simon catches my eye, and his expression is blank, once again reminding me why he will get a raise next payday. He is proving to be an asset, and I wonder if he’s not the only one.
Taylor follows me to the elevator, and as we wait, she says nothing at all. She shows no nerves, no hesitation, and I wonder what is running through her mind.
I don’t enlighten her, and as the elevator grinds to a halt and the doors open, I thank God it’s empty. The fewer people that see us together, the better until I figure thisshit out.
Our destination is my apartment, which I share with my brothers on the top floor of the hotel. One half is home to three penthouses; the other half is solely our accommodation.
As we head to my private space, I wonder why I brought her here at all. It’s unusual. We only bring people here we don’t want anyone to know about—take the man who is fast becoming Giorgio’s new jigsaw puzzle in reverse.
But Taylor Harvey is different from that. I don’t want to share her with my brothers. For some reason, I want to get her on her own.
