It’s not an exaggeration to say I have the best day of my fucking life.
Jenna is enchanted by the library, with its triple-height ceiling and leather-bound books. I show her the old editions of smutty novels that used to belong to some of the more daring previous residents. I ask what she reads, and listen with pleasure as she tells me the entire plot of a six-book series of fantasy romances. I promise to read them. Internally, I vow to have a new library wing with the books she enjoys.
She’s curious about how this house became mine, so I explain how my father bought it from a bankrupt aristocrat and how the Voronovs moved to London and made our ruthless fortune here.
At her request, we wander through the whole house. When she gazes longingly out of the window, I offer to show her the gardens and the woods beyond. That leads to us walking through every inch of the house’s grounds, her curiosity insatiable. Karik follows us around loyally, seemingly having adopted Jenna as his person.
I scrupulously don’t touch her.
More or less.
Okay, I do touch her. But not as much or how I want. I’m a flawed man, who has been watching my girl for months now, so I guide her out of harm’s way with a palm at the small of her back, and cup her shoulder to turn her towards a pretty view. I brush dust from her sleeve and sweep a stray tendril of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear.
We walk through the forest along the most picturesque paths, and our conversation never stops. We’re both fascinated by information about each other.
She’s a veterinarian nurse, and loves animals. I knew that, of course, but I didn’t know that she dreams of being a fully-qualified vet, but her parents couldn’t afford to help her with the tuition fees, so she decided on the cheaper career path. I offer to sponsor her, but she laughs me off.
She asks questions I’d kill anyone else for asking, and I find myself telling her far more than I intended. More bloodthirsty than I expected, she doesn’t shy away from the less savoury aspects of the mafia, questioning the money and the tactics.
I hesitate over her question about my body count.
“Which sort do you mean?” I return. We’re walking through the forest, this part sloping down to a babbling stream with moss-covered boulders. The heat of the afternoon wanes and the sun has begun to slide down the sky.
“Oh!” She covers her mouth. “I meant… Oh god. But maybe asking about the unalived body count is as rude as the, er, sleeping body count.”
“It is impolite to ask a mafia boss how many people he’s killed,” I explain. “But those rules don’t apply to you.” I curse myself over and over for the stupidity of saying I’d answer anything honestly. Because every revelation has the threat that she might find this one too much.
Pride at being special glows from her and she takes her hand from her mouth. “So, you’ll tell me?”
We come to the stream, and she pauses at the stepping stones that punctuate the clear water.
“Will you tell me yours?” I’m stalling.
“Pfft.” Jenna skips over the stones, and I’m tempted to rip them up and throw them miles away, so she has to turn to me to keep her feet dry. “Hardly fair!”
On the other side of the stream, she turns and looks back at me. I haven’t crossed, and somehow, I want her on this side. With me.
“Tell me.” I set my boots into the gravel at the edge of the flowing water.
Her scowl is cute, but I wait. She holds up her thumb and forefinger making an “o”.
“Zero.”
“And.” This shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. But I want to be her first.
“Zero and zero.”
I grin, savage, primal glee zinging down my spine as Jenna looks away bashfully.
“Come back, and I’ll tell you,” I command.
Her chin lifts in challenge. “Come and get me.”
I’m across the stream before she has moved more than an inch, and swing her into my arms, one arm below her knees and she grips my shoulders, laughing. Splashing through the water, careless of my clothes, I bring her back towards my house.
I stop and slide her down my body to the ground. Once she’s steady, I reluctantly let her go, saying, “We should return to the house for your date. I need to cook.”
“You’re going to cook for me?” she asks, disbelieving.
“Of course. How else would a man show his respect, admiration, and caring for a woman?”
“A greetings card and a bunch of flowers?”
I laugh from my belly.
“So, what’s your number?” she asks again as we fall into step. “You have to tell me now.”
“I would if I could,” I confess. “But after so many, the only one who matters is the next.”
She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“Whether the next man might kill me. Or the next woman might be the one I’ve waited for.”
