Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
“Havana?” I spin her and flip on the overhead light.
It’s her, all right.
She looks fragile. Her golden eyes are startlingly large in her unusually pale face. She’s thinner. There’s a smear of blood on her cheek. And she’s wearing a T-shirt I recognize as Ethan’s.
Son of a bitch. Did they fuck tonight, on her birthday?
“How did I get here?” Wherever here is.
She fills me in. I remember the gunfire, but I don’t remember passing out. Damn. Thankfully, I’m only vaguely aware of the pain now.
Grabbing her by the wrist, I haul her into the house. One of the first doors on the left opens to a powder bath. I switch on the light and look in the mirror. Yep. There’s a neat row of stitches up my neck. She did that?
My shirt dried soaked with my blood and it now feels crusty. Gingerly, I work it off and find more stitches along my biceps. “And you gave me your blood?”
She nods. “Ethan helped.”
“Why are you wearing his shirt?” I gesture to the navy-blue cotton that reads Sarc: My Second Favorite -asm.
“He gave it to me. I used mine to stop your bleeding.”
So maybe they didn’t fuck, at least not today. And that’s not what I should be fixated on.
Havana patched me up. I’m not surprised my son went out on a limb to help me. Since he’s come to live with me full-time, we’ve developed a decent relationship. But this woman who’s barely more than a girl? Despite the fact I tossed her out of my house, she did her best to save me. And how am I repaying her? I’ve got a fucking death grip on her wrist that must hurt.
With a grimace, I let go. “Thanks for helping me. You’re sure we weren’t followed?”
No way I could live with myself if any of the dangerous shit I’m mixed up in came for Havana.
“Positive.”
Maybe she’s right, but she doesn’t know the people I’m dealing with. I hope to fuck she never does.
“I need to make sure this place is secure and call a few people.” I can’t resist touching her. I should…but when it comes to Havana, I’m weak. I take her face in my hands. “Then we’re going to talk.”
Something streaks across her expression. Worry? She blanks it so quickly I can’t tell. Havana is good at hiding her feelings. No surprise considering everything she’s been through since her parents died.
“Okay. I’ll look around and take stock of the supplies here. Ethan said the place would be pretty empty.”
Then she steps away like she doesn’t want me to touch her.
You threw her out when she needed you because your job is risky as hell and because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants for a few more weeks. Why should she want you?
“If you see or hear anything, scream. I’ll come running.”
Then I search the ground floor, checking every door and window before I do the same upstairs. I’ll have to ask Ethan whose place this is and how he got in. It’s expansive and lavish. Sexy. Like someplace a wealthy man would bring his mistress to bang her in total privacy.
Since we’re as secure as we can be, I double back to the home office on the far side of the first floor. It’s got a sick view of the infinity-edge pool and spa with multicolored lights in the vast backyard that butts up to a long fairway. The room itself is dominated by a massive desk and dark woods, recessed lighting and overstuffed chairs. I hear Havana rummaging around the kitchen, so I shut the double doors.
And I wrench my phone from my pocket to call my son. I always thought Ethan was a smart kid, but putting Havana in danger like this is the stupidest fucking decision he could have made.
Before I can connect the call to ask him what the hell he was thinking, the device rings in my hand. Ridge.
If my brother is calling now, it’s not good.
I skip the greeting. “Ridge? Talk to me.”
“You’re alive?”
So he’s already heard I’ve been shot? That’s bad news, too. “What made you think I wasn’t? And if you thought I’d kicked it, why are you calling me?”
He drops his voice. “Paul Carboni came tearing in here about an hour ago, whooping like an idiot.”
Because he thought I was dead? “He is an idiot.”
Ridge huffs. “I can’t argue with that. But he gave Donzelli the thumbs-up and started popping champagne. When I asked why the fuck we’re partying, Paulie announced that he iced you tonight in the parking lot of some ratty-ass strip mall.”
Of course Marco Donzelli and his boys had something to do with the attempt on my life. Pieces of shit.
“Carboni tried. He tagged me twice.” If Havana hadn’t called the police and my son, he might have succeeded. “But I got some stitches and meds. I’m good as new.”