Page 8 of The Cost of Corruption
“That depends on your cousins,” I told her plainly. “Some nights, they settle down quickly. But other times, when they’ve been drinking, it can take…a while.”
A defeated look washed over her face. “Heaven help me. We must have gone through a whole case of champagne. I’m going to be stuck in here for hours, aren’t I?”
I didn’t answer, and not just because I could tell she’d been talking to herself, but because the longer I watched her, the more obvious it became that the soft sway of her body as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other had little to do with impatience or nerves.
We must have gone through a whole case of champagne,she’d said.
We.
Behind that demure expression and those downcast eyes, little Chastity Costa was just as drunk as her cousins.
I wasn’t sure why the realization stunned me. She wasn’t a child anymore. And even if her father had finally succeeded in his life-long dream of making her into a nun, she was still a Costa.
And Costas always found their way into trouble.
“You should sit,” I told her, gesturing toward the worn leather couch tucked against the dark wood paneled walls.
She shook her head and gripped her hands even tighter as she leaned back against the door. “I’m fine right here.”
“If that’s what you want,” I said with a shrug. “But like you said, it might be a while before Marcus and his crew get your cousins under control.”
Might.
That one word kept me from being an outright liar. Anythingmighthappen. Hundred-dollar billsmightrain down from the sky. Sister Chastity Costamightslip her hands up my shirt and her tongue down my throat before the night was through. And the Costa familymightoverwhelm my security.
None of that was outside the realm of possibility.
Just highly,highlyunlikely.
Marcus and his men were the best security team in Manhattan. It had never taken them more than a few minutes to squash even the nastiest fights and drag the rowdies out thedoor, but if Chastity wanted to believe her drunk cousins were tough enough to last hours, let her.
“Can I at least offer you something to drink?” I asked, pushing away from the desk and heading toward the mahogany bar cart in the corner.
“Do you have soda water?”
“Of course.”
“Then, yes,” she said as I scooped ice into two tumblers and began to pour.
Once the glasses were full, I turned back around and held one out toward her. Just the sound of ice clinking against the sides of the cut crystal was enough to cause her to unconsciously wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
But she still didn’t move away from the door.
And I didn’t take a step toward her.
No, if she wanted this drink, she would have to come to me.
For a long moment, she didn’t say a word. Her eyes flicked silently back and forth between the glass and my face. Tiny creases at the corners of her lips and eyes crinkled as she warred within herself, trying to decide what she wanted more—to satisfy her thirst or stay shaded in the imaginary safety of the doorway.
In the end, her thirst won out, and she pushed away from the wall, her movements slow and hesitant. Even her tone was wary as she finally came close enough to take the tumbler from my hand.
“Thank you,” she said, cradling it with two hands before raising it up and downing half the glass in one go.
Immediately, she sputtered, struggling to swallow the oversized gulp. When she finally managed to get it down, those golden brown eyes of hers flashed up at me with a mixture of surprise and anger.
“You said this was soda water,” she said, still coughing.
“It is,” I answered.
