When I glance over my shoulder again, Fin sighs in exasperation.
“Will you quit doing that? You’re making me jumpy.”
I mumble an apology and take another sip of my margarita, but can’t shake the sensation that I’m being stared at intently.
Considering I grew up under the constant, watchful gaze of several dozen bodyguards, tutors, and nannies, I know the feeling well.
Which is why I’m on edge when I should be celebrating.
Sitting on either side of me at the high-top table in La Fiesta’s noisy, crowded bar, Fin and Max don’t share my jitters. They’re all smiles and easy laughs, flirting with the cute bartender who keeps sending over free drinks.
As usual, I’m the lucky beneficiary of the incandescent glow my friends produce—hence the free drinks—but if I were here alone, I’d be paying.
Not because I’m a dog or anything. Though compared to the curvy, creamy beauty of Fin and the edgy, tough-girl sex appeal of Max, I’m as interesting as the sole of a shoe.
It’s for the same reason I wear baggy clothes and no makeup and go by a fake last name: to blend in. To disappear into the background.
Attention is the last thing I want.
Attention means questions, and questions mean answers, and answers—especially truthful ones—are something I never give.
For a girl like me, attention can be dangerous.
It can be deadly.
So I keep my head down and my mouth shut and stay as cool and detached as possible, even as these two yahoos on either side of me cause spontaneous erections all around.
I wish Fin didn’t have such a fondness for low-cut blouses.
“Could you put those things away?” I say crossly, waving a hand at her boobs. “They’re almost in my salsa.”
I grab the dish of salsa out from under her hovering breasts, take a tortilla chip from a basket in the center of the table, and dunk the chip into the sauce. Then I pop it into my mouth, enjoying the spicy, satisfying crunch.
Fin smiles serenely at me. “I know this is hard for you to understand, B Cups, but the girls need air.”
“What they need is scaffolding.”
She arches her brows. “Are you suggesting my glorious cleavage is sagging?”
“No. I’m suggesting you invest in some undergarments that don’t provide the male population of Boston with an anatomical drawing of your chest. It’s like you’re wearing tracing paper for a bra. That man over there is about to have a heart attack.”
Fin turns her green-eyed gaze to the person in question, an elderly gentleman sitting a few tables away. He promptly chokes on his taco when he notices her looking at him.
She says fondly, “The poor things. They don’t stand a chance.”
“Speaking of poor things,” says Max under her breath, “that guy at the end of the bar is fire. My panties are melting.”
She’s staring over my left shoulder. When I start to turn my head in that direction, she hisses, “Don’t look!”
“How am I supposed to judge if he’s fire if I can’t look?”
“I mean don’t look now.” She casually pretends to inspect her manicure. “I’ll let you know as soon as he’s not burning holes into the back of your head.”
So someone is staring at me.
A man.
Not good.
“What does he look like?”
Max glances up, then quickly back down to her nails. A flush of red creeps over her cheeks. She mutters, “Like he could impregnate a woman through osmosis. Jesus, those eyes. That face. That body.”
After a surreptitious glance in his direction that she tries to disguise by tossing her hair, Fin pipes in, “He looks like a cross between James Bond and Wolverine. Only bigger. And hotter.”
Max nods. “And way more dangerous.”
Dangerous? My heart skips a beat. All the little hairs on my arms stand on end.
My tone as stiff as my spine, I say to Fin, “Give me your compact.”
She shares a worried look with Max, then digs into the handbag hanging off the side of her chair and produces the small mirrored compact she never goes anywhere without.
She hands it to me silently.
I flick it open, take a steadying breath, and lift it to my face.
Pretending to check my non-existent lipstick, I check out the guy at the end of the bar behind me instead.
Reflected in the mirror, a pair of blistering dark eyes meet mine.
Sweet Jesus. I feel a jolt like someone plugged me into a socket.
Max was wrong. He isn’t fire.
He’s a fucking volcano.
Big, dark haired, and utterly masculine, he’s got a jaw covered in scruff and a wide, sensuous mouth. His black Armani suit is molded to his frame, showcasing bulging biceps and thick thighs. When he rubs a hand over his jaw, I catch a glimpse of the array of tattoos on his knuckles.
As if he knows my stomach dropped to the floor at the sight of him, his full lips curve into a small, mocking smile.
Horrified, I whisper, “Clean up on aisle five.”
It’s one of our many code phrases. Translated, it means: everything’s fucked, create a diversion, and run away as fast as you can.
Fin freezes.
Max does too, then sighs. “Well, shit.”
As for me, I snap shut the compact, hand it back to Fin, then guzzle the rest of my margarita. I touch the knife in my coat pocket, wishing it were a gun. Then I look back and forth between my friends.
My heart hammers against my breastbone. My blood is molten lava in my veins.
“Ready?”
Fin says indignantly, “I’m not losing another pair of Louboutins.”
Max says, “This is why you should always wear biker boots like me, dummy. Those spiky things you like aren’t meant for running.”
“If I wanted to look like a homeless circus performer, I would definitely dress like you, Maxima.”
“Up yours, Finley.”
Scowling because she hates to be called by her full name, Max stands abruptly and stalks off, pushing through a swinging door that leads to a back corridor of the restaurant where the restrooms are.
Five seconds later, we hear a muffled boom, then screaming. Moments later, the fire alarms screech to life.
The restaurant erupts into chaos.
Panicked men and women stream out from the corridor Max disappeared into, shoving each other and tripping over their own feet in their haste. All the patrons at the tables around us jump to their feet, exclaiming, and stampede toward the front door.
Emergency lights flash red and blue.
The sprinkler system kicks on, spitting freezing water from the ceiling.
Above the opening to the corridor, gray plumes of smoke billow up the wall.
Fin grabs my hand. We start running.
Pushing against the flow of bodies, we head toward the kitchen, dodging toppled chairs and trying not to slip on the slick tile floor. As soon as we burst through the kitchen doors, I drop Fin’s hand and we go in opposite directions.
She makes a hard left toward the employee break room. I run toward the exit at the back. We’ll hook up again at the apartment later after everyone has left the all-clear code on a designated voicemail.
If one of us fails to call, the other two won’t go back to the apartment.
Ever.
Outside, the cold evening air is a stinging slap on my heated cheeks. I’m in the parking lot behind the restaurant. Overflowing Dumpsters flank me, reeking of trash.
I run as fast as I can to the street, not looking behind me. Once there, I make a sharp right and head to the next street, a busy boulevard with four lanes of traffic zooming past at top speed.
I don’t hear footsteps pounding behind me. All I hear is the wild thunder of my heartbeat and my panting, panicked breaths.
When I hit the corner of the boulevard, I glance over my shoulder, but no one’s there.
He isn’t following me.
I escaped.
Gulping air, I slow my pace but keep going, headed to the bright lights of the building ahead. It’s an old-fashioned movie theater, the kind with a tiny box office near the sidewalk and a gilded Art Deco marquee. A small crowd mills in front, waiting for the doors to open.
Like a gift from the universe, a taxi pulls to a stop at the curb right outside.
I break into a run again.
Beating out a young couple just about to open the back door of the cab, I dive inside, slam the door shut, and slide low in the seat, peering out the window for any sign of danger.
I tell the driver breathlessly, “Beacon Hill, please.”
A low voice to my left says, “Fifty-nine Mount Vernon Street, if I’m not mistaken.”
The voice has an Irish accent. My blood freezes to ice in my veins.
I turn my head, and there he is on the seat beside me, smiling like some testosterone-jacked version of the Cheshire Cat.
The volcano.
AKA Liam Black.
AKA the biggest, baddest, most ruthless mobster on both sides of the Atlantic.
The man I stole a truckload of diapers from.
Shit.
