Page 61 of Reckless Woman
Her face is mostly in shadow, but her lips are a glistening promise.
I could almost fool myself that it’s true.Instead, I let my cock slip from her body.
“Get dressed,” I say, fixing my belt as I climb back into the car.
“You don’t believe me?” A beat later, she’s sliding into the passenger seat, still adjusting her jeans.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I say, starting up the engine. “Life is a frozen lake in Michigan. One minute it’s solid, the next it’s broken, but we keep on skating anyway.”
“Broken like the driveway at that old farmhouse in Texas,” she muses.
At this, I say nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
Viviana
The sunset is a war between fire and death, and they’re dragging the whole damn horizon into it.
I’m still deciding on a winner as Santiago hands me a double whiskey.
“It’s one of the reasons I bought the island.” He gestures at the crimson battlefield, before adding dryly, “The skyline should always imitate your work.”
That, or your severed conscience.
“How did you find out about this place?” I ask, knowing the answer already. I know every movement he and his bitch wife made after they left my father for dead in Miami three years ago.
“A British arms dealer owed me a favor. I took it in part-exchange.” He leans back against the balcony’s white stone wall—the Man in Black—and offers me a toast. His dark eyes are gleaming with something unreadable. “To new, ah, beginnings?”
“To newdaughtersand new beginnings,” I correct, faking graciousness as I raise the glass to my lips and take a sip.
Santiago doesn’t comment. He doesn’t even take a sip of his bourbon. He just stands there, his face an unmovable mask, studying me—trying to crawl inside my brain like a rat within the walls of a house.
A nasty thought hits me.Did this hijo de puta just spike my drink?
The glass drops from my mouth as I search his face for evidence. The corners of his mouth are curving, but it’s not a pleasant smile.
“Problem with the whiskey?”
“I prefer ice,” I say, my heart hammering.
“My mistake,” he says idly, but he doesn’t offer to remedy it.
“Pendejo,” I mutter under my breath. Being in Santiago’s company is like juggling knives. You’re constantly on edge, whether you’re on the verge of destroying his kingdom or not. One false move and his blades are fatal.
Holding his gaze, I return the drink to my mouth and drain the contents. If my uncle is the dark cartel prince of psychological warfare, I’m the doyenne of giving it back, two-fold.
“Your father was a cunt,” he declares, turning to look at the sunset again.
I give a bark of relieved laughter. “I’ve been told that by many.”
“I should have killed him sooner. How much do you know about him?”
“Next to nothing.”
“How old were you when Gabriela found you again?”
“Eight. She hated my father too. She never spoke about him. Manuel, even less so.”