liked it an awful lot when I talked like this.”
The Australian accent has made a reappearance. He’s Chris Hemsworth again, the evil bastard.
But I’m not stupid. I spread my legs and draw him inside me, closing my eyes to pretend it’s the actor I’d rather have make love to me, rather than my dangerous gangster with the heart of a poet and a thousand unspoken secrets swimming in the darkness behind his eyes.
22
Jules
When I wake the next morning, he’s gone again. It hurts even more this time than it did the last.
I spend the day wandering aimlessly through town. I think it will become my new routine. When the sun is setting over the ocean, I head back to the same restaurant I’ve visited for the past two nights, knowing I’ll find him there.
Or he’ll find me. Magnets have a funny way of attracting each other like that.
This time when he arrives, he’s in a gorgeous navy blue pinstripe suit with a white silk pocket square and black leather loafers polished to a mirror shine.
His hair is perfect. His beard is trimmed. He’s not wearing a tie, so the strong column of his throat is exposed, tattoo and all. The combination of sleek sophistication with raw masculinity is devastating.
As is the British accent.
Instead of Chris Hemsworth, tonight he’s James Bond.
Leaning an elbow on the bar, he says to Harley, “Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
Harley stares at him, nonplussed. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
I lift my wine glass to him in a mock salute. “Amen.”
Killian smiles blandly at the bartender. “And don’t shake too vigorously. The ice will bruise the vodka.” He turns to me, sending me a hot, half-lidded look. “Hello there.”
“Hello yourself, Mr. Craig.”
He lifts his brows. “Who’s Mr. Craig?”
I look him up and down. “Daniel Craig. As in, the actor? As in, James Bond?”
Killian laughs a husky, sexy-as-hell, ovulation inducing laugh. “No. Sean Connery is the best and only Bond. All those other blokes are just window dressing.”
“I’ll give you the macho, devil-may-care thing. You’ve got that one pinned down. But Sean Connery had a super thick Scottish accent.”
Killian leans closer to me, smirking. “A super thick Scottish accent like this?”
Yes, exactly like that. I could strangle him with my bare hands.
“Were you an actor before you turned to a life of crime?”
He switches back to the posh British Bond accent. “No. I was a farm boy. Acting didn’t come until after I turned to a life of crime.”
He holds my gaze. His own is unflinching. He’s just told me the truth, strange as it is.
“A farm boy,” I muse, warming to the idea. “In Ireland?”
He nods.
“Did your parents make you do chores?”
He nods again.
Fascinated, I try to picture it. Killian as a young boy, on the farm, completing his daily chores. Mucking out horse stalls. Feeding the chickens. Milking the cows.
Impossible.
“Do you have siblings?”
His pause is infinitesimal. “One.”
I search his face, knowing he left something unsaid. “One…?”
“Left,” he says, his voice lower. “I have one sibling left now.”
“That’s right. Your brother. You told me.” After a beat, I say, “Wait. Left?”
Hesitating, he moistens his lips. “There were eight of us. Only two are still alive.”
Surprised, I stare at him. Accidents? Illnesses? Something worse? What would take six siblings in the same family before middle age? I’m dying to ask, but I don’t want to pry.
Idiotic, considering I’ve swallowed the man’s ejaculate.
Reading my expression, Killian says softly, “There was a fire.”
My heart stops. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.”
He reaches out to stroke a lock of my hair, gazing at it intently as he runs it slowly through two fingers. “Thank you.”
“And…and your parents? Are they still alive?”
His eyes very far away, he murmurs, “Gone. Everyone. Everything. Anything that mattered. All that was left for me was revenge.”
He’s somewhere distant for a moment before he snaps back to himself. His hazy gaze sharpens. His eyes gather the light, glinting dangerously like the edge of a blade. He drops his hand to his side and straightens, facing the bar.
Harley sets a martini in front of him with a dramatic flourish. “If your vodka’s bruised, King Arthur, feel free to lodge a complaint with management.”
He dodders off, cackling.
Cheeks ruddy, jaw tight, Killian grabs the martini and downs it in a single swallow.
Meanwhile, I stare at his profile with one word that he said echoing over and over inside my mind.
Revenge.
The fire that took his family wasn’t an accident.
I feel as if a