“You’re late,” Smoke says, frowning at me as I step into the kitchen and help myself to a cup of black coffee.
Not that I need it. I’m still wired from last night, but as far as Smoke is concerned, the less he knows, the better. “I’m five minutes early.”
Smoke passes me a list of what I assume are the candidates we’re interviewing today for the caregiver position. Fifteen women and three men. “I thought math was your strong suit.” I smirk.
“Last minute add-on. Which means the fun starts that much sooner.”
I stifle a yawn and take another look. “Men?” I give him an incredulous look. “Why the hell would we want men?”
“The attorneys insist that unless I want to get my ass sued for discrimination, taking the interview is the easier path.”
“I’m no lawyer,” I say, as if Smoke doesn’t know, “but isn’t this the equivalent of getting maimed by a lion and being forced to pet a few just to get acclimated? No matter how domesticated they may seem, they’ll always be the enemy. Not to mention it’ll probably trigger some seriously fucked-up PTSD.”
As footsteps approach, we both zip it. We both know her footsteps by heart. Light. Timid. And seconds from entering.
Trinity D’Angelo. The crimes against her were enough to transform Smoke into the man he is today. Angry at the world and hungry for blood.
“Morning, Trini,” Smoke says, sweeping his sister into an embrace she eases into. When she doesn’t hug him back, it doesn’t break his heart the way it used to. Instead, it fuels his fury.
In all the years I’ve wished her a good morning, she merely gives me a polite nod. Her mouth doesn’t always lift to a smile, though it tries, but she never speaks. Still, there’s a small amount of hope inside me, the tiniest glimmer that one day, she will.
“Good morning.” After waiting a beat, I return the coffee to my lips for a sip.
Her thick blonde hair, still damp from the shower, clings to her cheeks, and her sweatshirt is the one she wore the first day we met. From the outside, she looks the same. But she’s not that girl anymore.
Confident and competitive, Trinity was in her second year of college back then, when the biggest thing on her mind was beating her brother’s MCAT scores. Back when Antonio D’Angelo ran the estate. When I was the outsider that he always treated like another son.
Smoke has her coffee ready, handing it to her as a store-bought muffin grabs her interest. She prefers the routine of a banana muffin, so we keep them stocked. It’s then that I see the bandage peeking out from beneath her sleeve.
With a small book in hand, she heads out to the west lawn. To read, maybe, or to write. I can’t tell if the book she’s holding is a journal, but whatever it is, I hope it gets her closer to freedom from the nightmares and pain that plague her.
“Where were we?” Smoke asks as soon as she’s out of the room.
“Some stranger watching over Trinity. Bad idea, interviewing men for the job. Worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t hold back,” Smoke says before tearing into a piece of toast. By his tightly clenched jaw, it’s obvious I’m preaching to the choir. “If we make a selection before the men are interviewed, which I’ve scheduled for last, then we don’t have to interview them. It’s that simple.”
His attention shifts out the window as I polish off the last of my coffee and stew over it.
“So, not only are we making a selection today, we need to make it in the first fourteen candidates.”
“Pre-selection. Contingent on a drug screen and background check.” Squinting, Smoke focuses on something in the distance.
When he waves me over, I take a look and freeze. Normally I’d be ready to let my team know there’s something they need to check out, but not this.
“What the hell?” Grappling at my composure, I try to temper the alarm in my voice. When Smoke shoots a glance at me, I know I’ve failed.
“Friend of yours?” he asks, but I’m too stunned to respond. “Is she changing her clothes? In her car?”
When Smoke has the audacity to add, “Let me get my binoculars,” I growl. Actually growl at the man who could quash my career like a grape. As he chuckles at me, I fume.
For a girl adamant about not being committed, she certainly managed to hunt me down fast. Sure, I might have her name and her license plate number, but it’s not like I showed up at her office. Or stripped in front of her boss. Not that we can see any of her goods, but the smartass grin beaming from Smoke’s face has me clenching my fists to avoid any attempt at punching him.
Heated, I stalk to the door. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
Smoke chuckles. “Not calling the team to check it out?”
Fuck. I need to keep my cool. That son of a bitch will have eyes on us the whole time. Probably from all three angles of the cameras. With the audio jacked up, no doubt, because that’s what I would do.
A small tinge of fear courses through me.
What did her note say? Thank you for sharing this part of yourself.
I used a condom. I mean, the first two times, for sure. How long does it take to get the results from a pregnancy test? Was that the reason she rushed out the door? That whole women’s intuition deal? That is a thing, right?
My vision tunnels and my heart pounds so hard, it’s the only thing I can hear.
Sure, I’ve thought about how life has dealt me a raw deal, and that I would have been a good dad. Goddammit, I would have been a great dad. But I don’t even know this woman. So, why do a dozen baby names flip through my head? With the soft espresso tones of her skin, and my blue eyes that never peg me as Italian, what would our child look like?
Or what if she thought I was a D’Angelo? Every one of the D’Angelo men have an inherent distrust of women, and it wouldn’t be the first time a woman has tried to impregnate her way into matrimony. I let my guard down, and I shouldn’t have. What if she thought I was a D’Angelo?
Fuck. I fell for her.
But can anyone blame me? She’s got the smile of an angel, the body of Jessica Rabbit, and in case those in the back missed it, her taste is goddamned addictive.
This is not my fault.
Irene—or Olivia, or whatever the hell her name is—is an addiction, and addictions need treatment. Cold turkey. No rubbing my cheeks over her silky-smooth thighs. No swirl of citrus and vanilla. No lapping up every last ounce of nectar until I’m dizzy with delighting her. And as I keep reminding myself with every step I take toward her as I watch her slip her clothes back on, no rock-hard boners.
If my dick would take the hint, that would be great.
Well, the joke’s on you, sweetheart. I’m not a D’Angelo, and I never will be.
But . . . shit. Just because I’m not a real D’Angelo doesn’t mean she isn’t really pregnant.
My strides turn into stomps, getting louder and louder the closer I get, and I remind myself to play it cool.
But the second our eyes meet, we both say the same thing in unison.
“What the fuck?”