Page 92 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“That’s because your teeth have an unearthly glow. You could find your way through a haunted forest just by smiling.”
“Your jealousy of my dental perfection is flatterin’, darlin’, but considering you have beautiful teeth, it’s also a little weird.”
My teeth were crooked as fishhooks until I was fifteen and Reynard paid for my braces, but I keep that to myself. I’m suffering a serious bout of superstition that saying his name aloud will cause something bad to happen. Instead, I say, “Not as weird as the way you drive. You are aware that we’re not currently engaged in a high-speed pursuit with the police, right?”
“Excuse me, woman, but I’m an excellent driver. Example.”
He swerves hard to avoid a squirrel that has darted into the road, then cuts back into his lane just as quickly, saving the squirrel but leaving a swath of squealing tires in his wake from other drivers slamming on their brakes to avoid colliding with us.
“Hmm,” I say, my heart thumping. “Seeing as how your example was accompanied by a chorus of horns and what is probably a nasty case of whiplash on my part, I reject it out of hand.” A black BMW speeds by us in the next lane. “Oh, and that guy wants you to know you’re number one. Boy, does he have a long middle finger.”
“What does he know? He’s driving a Beemer!” Ryan scoffs. “Douche.”
I sense this is some vestigial prejudice from his fraternity days and decide silence is the most intelligent reply.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re a fan of German cars.”
He’s looking at me in dread, like I might be about to sprout horns. Despite my better judgment, I decide to engage in this ridiculous line of conversation.
At least it will keep my mind off how difficult it’s going to be to meet Capo with a blank, innocent face.
“I’m guessing by your tone and expression of horror that that would be a terrifying development in our relationship?”
“Nothing is terrifying to me,” he says with utter disdain. “I’m a Marine.”
“You were a Marine,” I point out with what I consider solid logic.
He makes a face like I’ve just said his mother is ugly and that he also has a small dick. “Once a Marine, always a Marine, woman! Semper fi!”
I sigh. “Great. I’ve awakened the Macho Kraken.”
“You know you get that face you have right now from Reynard, right?”
When I look at him with one eyebrow cocked, he answers. “Yeah. That face. That ‘How’ve you managed to live to this age with your gnat-size IQ?’ face. That ‘How did you get here, did someone leave your cage open?’ face. That ‘You must have a terribly empty feeling inside your skull’ face!”
I can’t help myself. I clutch my stomach and dissolve into laughter.
“Good,” he says, sounding satisfied. “Laughter is better than worry lines. Trust me, darlin’, it’s all gonna work out.”
This is when I realize the entire back-and-forth was a ploy—a very effective ploy—to make me feel better and put my mind at ease.
He doesn’t give a shit about German cars one way or another. He just gives a shit about me.
My laughter abruptly ends, and I’m fighting tears.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.
I’m a thief. A professional criminal. An outlaw and a miscreant, down to the marrow of my bones. I take things from people, things that don’t belong to me, cherished things that hold meaning to their owners. I lie and cheat and steal, I have since I was a small child, and I don’t deserve anything even close to the goodness of this man, the hugeness of his heart, the promise of a better tomorrow that shines in every one of his beautiful smiles.
“We’re creatures of the underworld, my darling. We have no business in the dealings of heroes.”
Reynard’s words echo in my head like a bitter winter wind. I suck in a breath and stare out the passenger window, my vision blurred by all the water in my eyes.
“Ah, darlin’,” Ryan sighs, squeezing my hand. “It’s not what you’re forced to do to survive that shows your character. It’s what you do when no one’s looking. Perfect example? You puttin’ that pillow under my head after you roofied me. That was fuckin’ sweet, Angel.”
I start to laugh again. How could I not?
“Better,” he says, pulling me closer. “C’mere and snuggle up. You need some body contact.”
