Hitman's Promise: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 3

  But either way, I find myself slipping on a simple jersey dress and heading back out into Greece.

  Chapter Four

  Kennedy

  So, the old man keeps a gat strapped to his back. And he looks like he knows how to use it. Good thing I didn't try to ambush him last night.

  I sit in the back corner of the little dingy bar around the corner from their hotel and consider the two of them. They're interesting, despite the fact that I try not to get too interested in people I'm about to hand deliver to a torturous mobster. But I can't deny that there is interest there.

  The father/daughter relationship. The absent-minded archaeologist and his brilliant, scrupulous daughter. The internet searches I did on them before I got to Greece told me that much. That he was world renowned, and she was fast building a reputation for herself. They're good at what they do. But I could find no record of their current dig. But what do I know? Maybe that kind of thing isn't public knowledge yet. I'm no scientist.

  The internet did tell me that they've worked side-by-side for a decade. Even before she had her Ph.D.s he allowed her free reign on his dig sites. But the web search didn't tell me how much he loves her. That I saw with my own eyes in the way he sprang to her defense this morning.

  It was really something. To see the dreamy, clumsy, professor type in a safari hat and spectacles suddenly transform into a hardened, ready warrior. He would have killed that man this morning. That was obvious. I recognized it in his eyes.

  I had the same look in my own. The guy, Stavros, is obviously a real dickhead. I've asked around town about him and he's into dirty shit. I didn't like seeing him up against Rowena like that. Not anymore than her father did.

  The waitress sets down the gyro and fries in front of me and I shoot her a little smile. She's cute. Long dark hair and sweet little smile. She blushes when I smile at her. Score. She's feeling it. With any luck, I'll get a little company tonight.

  I lean forward to whisper something to her, anything, I’ve found it doesn't really matter what you whisper as long as you lean in close enough to scramble a woman's brains. But I go on alert as I feel the air in the bar change.

  There's a quiet tension zinging around the other patrons and looking up, I realize it's because a beautiful woman has just walked in. Her long purple dress swishes around her legs, almost touching the floor, but it hugs her breasts and ass. An ass that I've come to know well. It's Rowena.

  The men in the bar start whispering and elbowing one another as she makes her way toward an empty table. A protective instinct is rising up, inexplicably within me. The same feeling that had me hopping the fence at the dig site when that dickhead grabbed her today. The waitress moves to go tend to Rowena, but I grab her by the arm. "Seat her with me," I tell the shy little woman.

  She nods, immediately acquiescing, like the request isn't that unusual. I think I may really be passing up on a treasure in that one. She seems like she takes directions well.

  Rowena looks up, surprised, when the waitress guides her to my corner booth, dark and tucked away. She stands above me, a confusion that fades when she realizes that she recognizes me. I can see her hesitating. And who can blame her? She hasn't had the best time with strange men today.

  "Look," I say, raising my hands as she starts to step back. "Just sit. We don't have to talk, or even acknowledge one another. But that's probably the most polite offer you're gonna get tonight. Especially if you sit out there by yourself."

  Rowena glances around the bar and seems a little surprised by the number of eyes currently boring into her. She glances at the door, but then at the food in front of me. Shrugging, she plops down next to me unceremoniously.

  "Miss?" the waitress asks. "What food for you?"

  Rowena just points to my plate and then to my beer. The waitress nods and immediately heads to another table.

  The silence stretches out between us, and I can smell that scent again. It tangles in the air and makes my mouth water. Coconuts and roses or something. I shove my untouched food toward her. She looks up at me, surprised.

  "You look hungry." I shrug. "You can have mine, and I'll wait for the next round."

  She mirrors my shrug and digs into the food without a single hesitation. I try not to wince. If she were mine, I'd have to teach her not to take food from a strange man in a dark bar. But she's not mine, I remind myself. She's Esposito's.

  She swallows a big bite of food and follows my face with her eyes. I nudge my beer forward, and she takes a swig. Huh.

  "You don't care about cooties?" I ask, intrigued by her.

  She shrugs again, indelicately, and starts working on the fries. After a minute or two of her absolutely mowing the food down, she wipes her mouth and looks at me. She picks up the beer and watches my face.

  "You were at the dig site today."

  Her voice hits me like a sack of bricks, and I feel the wind get sucked away from me. First of all, her voice is sexy as shit. All husky and velvety. She sounds like she's trying to talk me into bed. Even with a mouthful of gyro. But that's not what really has me discreetly adjusting myself in my pants. It's her accent.

  "You have a Cajun accent," I say in surprise. I can feel my eyebrows disappear into my hairline.

  She nods. "So they tell me."

  "How'd you get it?" I can hear the idiocy of my question the second the words leave my mouth.

  Now she's the one who is raising her eyebrows. "I lived there. That's generally how people get their accents."

  "When did you live there?" I'm leaning toward her now. I can't help it. She really smells fucking amazing.

  But she leans back, away from me, and slaps what's left of the gyro back on her plate.

  "You were at the dig site," she repeats and I can tell she's done with the 20 questions.

  I keep my pose casual. "I like to watch."

  Her eyebrows raise even higher. "You're interested in archaeology?"

  "Sure," I say, tipping my cap back and rubbing at my hair for a second. "But I really meant that I like to watch pretty women do stuff they're obviously really good at."

  The expression on her face could have sunk the Titanic.

  Ok. So she's not into the whole flirty thing. Note taken.

  The waitress comes back with the new plate of food and beer. She sets it all down in front of us. Rowena slides the plate across the table to me, but gives me back my old beer and keeps the new one for herself. I like her style.

  I take a fry and casually chomp it down. I wasn't that hungry before. And now, I find myself completely distracted from anything other than her.

  "So, then. What are you doing in Korinos?" she asks me. Her voice. Jesus. It's really doing a number on me.

  I tip my Yankee’s cap back again and take another swig of beer. "You don't have any guesses?"

  Her look is inscrutable. I take the opportunity to really study her face. She truly is exquisite. I had thought her face was just “nice” before. Pleasant. But I see now that there is a softness to her features. A fluid roundness from her eye to the curve of her cheek to her plump mouth. It's very appealing.

  "I don't make guesses until I have as much information as possible. It clouds the judgment."

  "Alright. So what information do you have so far? Maybe I can fill in some blanks for you." Not that I would ever actually tell her about myself. First of all, I don't tell anyone about myself. And second of all, what's the point? I'm about to deliver her to Esposito.

  Her eyes scan up and down my body, and it makes my dick jump in my pants. "You have an American accent. Bland. neutral. So either you're from somewhere in the Midwest, or you've trained your natural lilt out of your voice. You're wearing a Yankees cap, but it's new and it looks like airport quality, not regulation stitch. So you're not a real fan. You've got naturally fair skin but a good tan. And no sunburn on your nose or ears. So you've been in the sun a lot lately, regularly. So you've maybe been traveling a lot. Whether or not that's in Greece I don't know. You're comfortable
in this bar. Which most people wouldn't be, considering it's a little… unsavory. And you are sitting in a dark corner by yourself, without talking to any locals. So I don't think you're actually a tourist. I think you're dressed up as a tourist. And that you're here for another reason. Oh. And you're trying to sleep with the waitress."

  She finishes her assessment of me with a sizable gulp of beer.

  I shift, a little uncomfortable at how right-on-the-money she is. "If I'm pretending to be a tourist, then what am I actually doing here?"

  She lasers me with her eyes again. "Like I said, I think prejudgments cloud the information, but if I had to guess," she cocks her head to one side. "I'd say you were a graverobber."

  I inhale half my beer. "What?"

  She stares at me another second before she shrugs. "Maybe not, then."

  "No, seriously. Is that real? Do people really do that?"

  "Of course. We've had plenty of run-ins before. People who show up at dig sites and wait for us to dig up something valuable. Why do you think my father has a gun strapped to his back?"

  I lean back and grin at her. "To scare off overzealous assholes that lay hands on you, of course."

  She furrows her brow at me. "That was a very unusual situation and I-. Oh Jesus Christ superstar," she breaks off and swears as she stares at the front of the bar where three men have just come in.

  "Friends of yours?" I ask, draping my arm over the back of the booth, trying to seem casual and proprietary of her at the same time.

  "The tall one with the earring? That's Vasilis. Stavros's brother. And the other two, I don't know by name but they come by the dig site as often as he does."

  I’ve only been in Korinos for two days, and already I know that these are not guys somebody like Rowena would want to cross. They’re small time compared with the kind of people I work with. But they’re probably pretty scary to her.

  As evidenced by the panic racing across her face. I drop my hand to her shoulder, meaning to comfort her, but she winces. She pulls her arm away from me and the sleeve of her dress pulls up, revealing a ring of purple bruising.

  From where Stavros grabbed her. Rage lances through me, hot and angry. What a fucking dickhead. I want to reach out and brush a hand gently over her bruises, but I never want her to flinch from me like that again.

  I look up at the men and see that they’ve already spotted her. Smirking and scowling, they start to make their way across the bar toward our booth. My hand automatically goes to the Ruger at my hip, but apparently Rowena has a different idea.

  Swiveling toward me, she tosses one leg over mine and grabs a fistful of my shirt.

  I regain control of the moment just long enough to pause a breath away from her face. From a distance, I had thought her eyes were brown. But I can see now they’re more green. Like looking down at a forest from overhead. I could get lost in a forest like that.

  And then she closes the distance between us, and her mouth is on mine. At first her kiss is tentative, unschooled. But after a second, I feel her melt against me. Her plump lips close around my bottom lip. She lets out just the tiniest gasp, and I feel her hand open and close against my chest.

  I keep my hands along the back of the booth, because I know what would happen if I touched her right now.

  I feel her mouth gently part my lips and her sweet little tongue sweeps into my mouth just a tiny bit. That’s about as much as a mortal man can take. My hands are instantly everywhere. One runs down the thigh that’s tossed over my lap, all the way down to her ankle and back up. The other hand curves down the slope of her back and straight to the plush heaven that is her ass.

  If I keep touching that ass, I’m going to push her dress up and fuck her right here in this booth. And Greece isn’t ready for that. So I skate my hand back up, under her hair to her warm, soft neck. I clamp my hand there, firmly but gently, and pull her away from me.

  “We’ve got company, darling,” I say to her and am pretty fucking obliged to see her eyes are fuzzy, deep with lust, twirling. They search mine for a second, struggling to catch up, understand. But the blissful expression on her face clicks off like a light when she remembers where we are and who is standing behind her.

  She turns, but I don’t let her get any further away from me. I already don’t like that she’s sitting in between me and these three needle dicks. I slide one hand around her waist and pull her practically all the way up onto my lap.

  “Oh, Vasilis, nice to see you. Out for dinner?” Her voice is light, even breathless. I sit a little straighter.

  The douche, Vasilis sneers and surveys the table. “Drinks. With my cousins. I see you have company tonight.”

  Rowena turns to me, pulls an invisible speck off my shirt, straightens my tugged collar. “Yes, this is my husband.”

  “Dwight Jones,” I say, easily and perfectly imitating her Cajun accent. I lift my hand to shake like a typical American. Just as I expect, the three men sneer at the gesture.

  “We did not know you were married, Rowena.” This Vasilis is a real cold fish. Much less passionate than Stavros, and that gives me pause. Word around town is that Stavros runs their operation. But I’ve got ten on Vasilis here.

  Rowena nods. “Highschool sweethearts.”

  I tighten my grip around her waist when I notice Vasilis’s hand flicker to his waist, then up to his hair. He’s pissed and deciding whether or not to punish us for it. Let him try.

  “This explains much,” Vasilis says. “Of your humiliation of my brother. And our family.”

  “I think humiliation is a little bit much, don’t you think?” Rowena looks to me, her eyes starting to widen.

  “Y’all have a good night, now,” I say, and despite the easy, southern lilt in my voice, the dismissal is clear.

  Vasilis looks at me, his dark eyes boring into mine. “And you as well.”

  His voice must have sent a shiver down her spine because Rowena trembles for a second, pushes even further into me. We watch together as the three men walk away together, straight out of the bar.

  I’m relieved they didn’t stay, the tension they brought with them is distracting me from another sort of tension that’s filling our booth. A much more delicious kind.

  But the second they’re out the door, Rowena is scrambling down from my lap, inserting an absurd amount of distance between us. My instinct is to hold her still, keep her on my lap and stroke her nerves right out of her, but even an idiot could see that’s not the move for her right now. She needs a little space. A little independence in a moment like this.

  She drinks deeply from her beer then turns to look me straight in the eye. She’s steady. “I would apologize for that, Mr. Jones, but it’s quite clear that you enjoyed it enough to make up for the imposition.”

  I grin at her and lean back on the booth again, my arms across the top. “Yes. I did.”

  She says nothing, just stares into her beer for a second. “I don’t usually do things like that. Actually, I never do things like that. It’s just I was scared, and I wasn’t thinking. I just thought, I needed a way to make them see that I won’t do what they want. And for a perfectly good reason! And then you were there, and being so nice to me already. And, oh, but now I’ve dragged you into it. And what if you’re in danger now? Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones. All becau-”

  “Rowena,” I say as I place a hand gently on her neck, the same place I held her moments before. She jumps, goes still, looks at me with those forest eyes. “For a kiss like that, I’d face a firing squad.”

  For a moment, she leans into my hand on the back of her neck, surrenders to it. My fingers tighten infinitesimally. An image flashes through my mind. Holding her there while she moans my name. Holding her there while she’s got her mouth full of me. I drop my hand.

  Christ. Get a grip, Squire.

  Running a finger around the edge of her beer glass, she makes it sing for a second. One long, clear note. She breaks the note and turns to me. Her eyes clear now, of lust and fea
r. “Row.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Most people call me Row, except for my father. And those fuckheads.”

  I snort a little of my drink up nose. This is why I love the world. You think you know somebody. And then they say fuckheads.

  She continues on, ignoring the beer I’m wiping off my face. “So I figure you can call me Row as well.”

  “Considering I’m your husband?”

  She smirks at me. “Considering.”

  “You got a last name to go with that?” I ask her, though I already know.