Page 8 of Brutal Vows
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Untilshewalks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.
I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”
I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.
Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”
It sounds likeI’m going to eat your spleen for supper.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is but go with a neutral greeting instead.
“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”
My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”
I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.
It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.
All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.
Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.
When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.
“My sister is a widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”
She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.
I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.
Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.
Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”
