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I hate how calm his voice is. How easily that vicious threat can slip through his pearly white teeth and kiss-me lips.
When I don’t reply, he slowly turns to the door. “Behave yourself, China Doll.”
With my heart in my Gucci stilettos, I remember my place.
I may be on his arm tonight, but to him, I belong in his museum as nothing more than a keepsake. He’ll take me out, show all his friends, then lock me back in my cabinet.
Lorcan
Regret.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling. Especially when it’s not accompanied by a hangover.
But I’m stone-cold sober, feeling every crack in the iron-cladding around my heart. All because I didn’t give little Poppy Fucking Murphy what she wanted. I try not to glance at her, her long limbs curled up in the furthest corner of the Rolls. Her copper hair falling down her back as she turns to stare at the streets of Boston passing us by.
It was easier when I hated her guts.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my brain to think forward, not sideways. This is a big night for the Quinns, and I have to navigate it with the precision of my father. I have to stay sharp and composed. Which is why I haven’t loaded up with half a bottle ofThe Smugglers Cluband why the Glock in my breast pocket still has the safety catch on. I can’t afford to start an all-out war in the middle ofGatsby’sbecause of a snide remark or a filthy look, especially not when I’m already mid-battle with the Bratnovs.
But there’s no way I’d leave my weapon, or my men at home. There’s too much I have to make sure of. Like whether the Regazzis really have distanced themselves from the Delfinos. Or why the fuck the Mexicans would have an interest in forming an alliance.
My cell screen flashes with a curt message from Antoin. He’s already there. When I look up, I realize we’re pulling up outsideGatsby’sourselves.
The joint looks impressive at night. A newGatsby’ssign hangs outside the doorway, made up of thousands of white light bulbs. The soft glow from floodlights sprawls up the brick walls on either side, and there’s even a red carpet hugging the three steps leading up to the door.Yeah, maybe I should have mentioned to Ricardo that this was going to be a more…private event.
One of my men, clad in a suit, opens the door for Poppy, before rounding the Rolls to open mine. I step out and cast an eye over him, taking in his radio earpiece. Then I slam the back of my hand against his chest. It lands with a hard thud against a bulletproof vest.
“Are you all equipped in this way?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, scanning the guards lining the exterior of the restaurant, and those inside the lobby manning the body scanners.
“Yes, sir.”
I nod and close the gap between me and Poppy, snaking a strong hand around her waist. Then, I lean down to meet her ear. “Do me a favor and try to act like you don’t hate my guts tonight.”
She replies acidly, “I’m not Meryl fucking Streep.”
Under my forearm, I feel her muscles unclench slightly as we step into the restaurant, side-stepping the body scanners, obviously. A glance at her face tells me she’s in just as much awe as she was when I first took her here, if not more. I steal a moment to watch her, taking in the green velvet booths lining the walls and the white-gloved pianist on the grand piano at the back. All the other seating has been removed, leaving a long table in the middle of the room.
The lights from the Venetian chandeliers above our head refract their soft glow over her face, as she raises it to the ceiling to drink it all in.
I have the sudden urge to call the whole fucking meeting off and kick everyone out. Everyone except Poppy. I’d walk her through every antique and ornament in the whole joint, letting her touch and feel and smell its history while I tell her the story of my travels and how I acquired it.
Antoin’s glowering eyes from the bar bring me back to earth with a thump.
No distractions.
I lock eyes with my cousin, before making a sweeping glance around the company he’s keeping. All of their eyes are on me too.
Using a firm yet gentle touch, I spin Poppy around and pull her close, before crushing my lips against hers. It takes only a beat before she’s kissing me back, melting into my body in that goddamn sexy way that she does. Before I pull away, I brush my lips against her ear, trying to pretend like her sudden heavy breathing isn’t bringing my dick to life. “Remember, I’ll loan you out to each and every one of those men if you don’t behave yourself tonight.”
I stifle a groan as her hand finds its way to my beard. It’s soft and delicate and I want nothing more than to have it wrapped around my cock. “No need to loan me out,” she snarls in a tone that doesn’t match the touch of her hand or the intensity behind her kiss. “I’ll take the bald one.”
I pull away to wipe the smear of lipstick off her chin and to flash her a cold smile. Her eyes have enough humor to let me know she’s kidding. Nodding towards the gaggle of tarts around one of the booths in the back of the room, I say. “Go make friends. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Hesitant, she turns towards the wives and girlfriends of the men I’m hoping to get on our side and totters over in her ridiculously high heels. My attention goes back to the men by the bar. I straighten up, tighten my cufflinks and draw a deep breath. My plan worked straight away.
“Quite the lady you have there,” a balding Italian says with a smirk.
I pin him with a hard stare. “She’s Marcus Murphy’s daughter.” He lets out a low whistle, impressed.
