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God, how I want to ruin her.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut and my scowl fixed as we walk through the museum and to the waiting car at the front of the estate. Although making a conscious effort not to look at her, I can feel every inch of her presence, hear every footstep and breath as she tries to keep pace next to me. So, I feel it when she slows down to a halt.
“Uh, are we going to war?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.How the fuck does she know?I glance up and follow her gaze, then breathe a sigh of relief.
The bulletproof cladding of the Rezvani Tank X glistens in the sun. Two Range Rovers flank the front and back of it, and a cluster of my men, all-black uniforms, rifles, and earpieces all intact, surround the fleet. “We amped up security a little,” I say briskly, snaking an arm around her waist to push her towards the Rezvani. One of my men opens the passenger door for her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
That pretty little head faces away from me for the whole journey into downtown. Her ankles crossed, her fingers locked in her lap, and her pale shoulders peeking out from under her hair.
For the first time, I wonder what’s going on in that pretty little head.What are you thinking about, China Doll?
My mouth opens but closes as quickly. She’s probably thinking about the life she’s left behind. Maybe even her pussy of a boyfriend.
Silence is safer.
Thirty minutes later we’re outside Ruby Blue’s Gentleman’s Club. Inside is dark and seedy, cigar smoke swirling between the sapphire booths and stripper poles. Poppy uses the hem of her skirt to wipe down a bar stool, before sitting down and staring into space until my meeting with O’Donnel is done. He’s a fellow Irishman who’s owned this joint longer than I’ve been alive. He shakes my hand with the largest grin I’ve ever seen from him — probably something to do with the fact his main competitor, Mickey, is now chilling six feet under.
Then we cross the street to Goldmine bookies, where the soured liquor sticks to the floor and regular gamblers prop up the fruit machines. Poppy folds her arms across her chest and stands in the corner, making eye contact only with the white light strip across the ceiling. When one of the punters draws his eyes away fromThe Racing Postand to Poppy for longer than half a second, my hand instinctively curls around the grip of my gun. But then I remember my promise to her, and I breathe out my anger in a deep grumble.
“I feel like I need a shower followed by a long bible session,” Poppy moans as we step out ofMovers and Shakersnightclub into the midday sun.
“I’ll join you.”
She raises an eyebrow and says, “You? Bible session? You’d go up in flames.”
I guide her across the busy road, stopping cars with nothing but a glare. “Then I’ll settle just for the shower.”
“Do you really have investments in every business in town?”
“Only the ones making money.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can deal with going into another strip joint.”
“Good thing I’m not taking you to one then.”
I’ve saved the best till last.
We step down a side street that opens up to Copley Square. I stop outside a glass window withGatsby’s Brasseriehanging in copper letters above it. I rap, tap, tap on the glass, before turning to Poppy.
“This is Quinn Capital’s latest investment. And probably the only establishment that I’d be caught dead in in daylight.”
I flash her a grin as the door opens, and Ricardo appears.
“Mr. Quinn?” he queries, smoothing down the breast of his purple velvet suit and giving the silk pocket square a quick plump-up. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
I push Poppy inside and follow her in, taking Ricardo to the side. “I was in the neighborhood—”
A squeal interrupts us, and we both turn to the source. Poppy is sliding into a velvet green booth, cupping the lamp at the center of the table. “Is this real?” she gasps, her big doe-eyes glancing up at Ricardo.
He’s startled. He glances at me, twirls the curl of his mustache and blinks. “Y-yes. Authenticated at Christie’s.”
I’m fascinated by how my china doll has come alive. She’s opened up like a stubborn flower that had previously refused to bloom. I ignore Ricardo and turn all of my attention to her. Watching how her big emerald eyes shine with excitement, how her delicate fingers roll over the stained glass patterns.
I break away from Ricardo and slide onto the bench opposite her. “The Tiffany Wisteria table lamp,” I say, not taking my eyes off her. “Made in 1901.”
Poppy breaks her gaze away from the antique long enough to ask me, “but what’s it doing here?”
