Page 66 of Last Shot at Love

I’ve only had a couple of kisses before. I’m not completely inexperienced when it comes to that, though it’s a little more intense when I’m trying to get him to open up without aggravating his fresh injury. I’m not worried about the bloodthat might still be in his mouth, thought I probably should be. It’s more that I don’t want his cheek to hurt.

So I try to be careful.

Cross?

The moment my tongue touches his, he’s like a wildfire ready to consume me. His heat sears me down to my core, and I’m not sure if I’m kissing him or he’s kissing me, just that I never want to stop kissing this man ever.

And who knows what would have happened next if it wasn’t for a soft rap-tap-tap at our glass door…

Cross groans into his mouth, but he immediately releases me. Dropping his hands to my waist, he eases me out of the way, then moves so he’s standing right in front of me as I turned to see who is out there.

I doubted it would be Mickey. I thought it might be Noah, returning after he brought Mickey to the car waiting to bring him to get stitched up if possible.

It’s neither.

In fact, I have no clue who he is at all.

Once he has our attention, he opens the glass door and steps into our cell. Not too far, though, barely a step inside, and he’s so confident that he can handle a five-three ballerina and a half-beaten artist, he doesn’t close the door behind him.

He’s also obviously not a moron because, like Mickey, he has his gun out.

This man has a pleasant face. His hair is a rich, inky black, styled similarly to how my brother wears his. His suit is the same color. His eyes are dark, though his skin is very, very pale.

I feel like I know him, though, and that gives me enough nerve to demand, “Who are you?”

There’s a snowflake inked on his palm.

After seeing Cross’s work, I know a shitty tat when I see one. That one is not shitty. I can’t imagine how much time he spentgetting the details of such an elaborate snowflake on such a sensitive, lined piece of skin, but unless it’s crappy up close, that tells me has time, money, and patience.

Oh, and a pretty fucking high pain tolerance, too.

That’s what his tattoo tells me. It’s gotta tell Cross the same thing, but he must see something else I don’t because he goes stiff in front of me, his voice low as he spits out, “I know who he is.Winter.”

That’s impossible. Damien had a file about his would-be killer in his office. Christopher snapped a pic of it for me, so I know what Jimmy Winter looks like. And, yeah, now that Cross mentions it, his face does remind me of Jimmy Winter, but the rest of him?

“That’s not Jimmy Winter. He had white hair.”

“Dye exists,” Cross mutters.

“Okay, fine. But he’sdead. Sav— I mean. Someone killed him.”

The dark-haired man gives me an indulgent grin. “Don’t be shy, Ms. Libellula. I know very well what happened to my brother. How he didn’t listen to me when I told him we needed more time to infiltrate Springfield. How we’re used to wiping out single gangs, not one as large as the conglomerate created when Mr. Libellula and Mr. Crewes joined forces. How one needn’t use death as a motivator until it’s a last resort.” His lips twitch. “You kill a man, he’s gone. You destroy him and, well, he has to live with what he lost.”

Cross gulps.

Me? I’m stuck on one thing in particular this guy said. “Brother?”

“Twin,” he agrees. “Very astute, Mr. da Silva. Dye exists. So does bleach, and Jimmy was a very big fan of it. Not me. So now that he’s gone and we don’t have to pretend to be the same mananymore, I’ve tidied up a few details about what it means to be a Winter. Starting with the hair.”

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

Cross doesn’t seem as shocked as me to discover there aretwoWinters. “You know, I was beginning to doubt our guy’s skill. If Winter had a twin, he would’ve figured it out. But two of you pretending to be one guy… wasn’t there a movie like that? With magicians?”

“Perhaps. But, I assure you, that this is real life. My life, and now yours.JohnnyWinter, at your service.” His dark eyes gleam. “I hope you’re enjoying your accommodations.”

Okay. Whether he’s screwing with us or not, I don’t care. “What do you want with us?”

He seems pleased I asked.