Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(16)

“Yeah?” Her lips pursed, suppressing a smile. “So what is in it?”

He grinned wickedly. “Lard,” he announced. “Artery clogging, cholesterol-laden pig fat. Hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Her smile broke free, and it was f*cking blow-your-mind dazzling gorgeous. “At least you’re honest,” she commented.

“Always,” he said.

“I hate liars,” she told him.

“I don’t blame you,” he replied. “I don’t like them, either.”

More sipping, more silence, considering each other. He felt like he was under a blazing light, being silently interrogated. Except that instead of being a bad, scary feeling, it was . . . well, exciting. Like he was laid out naked. On the altar. Before the goddess.

Rigid and ready to serve. Yeah.

She picked up a spoon, let it dangle from her fingertips like a pendulum. The bowl of the spoon swung toward him, a blurred gleam in the foreground. He stared at the triangular arrangement of freckles on the bulge of her tit behind it. Where his gaze was helplessly focused.

“I can’t eat all of this,” she informed him.

“Try,” he urged. “I think your metabolism’s just fine.”

She held out the spoon. “You help.”

His cock jumped at the implied intimacy of the invitation. “No,” he said. “It’s for you.”

“It’s too much,” she said. “And I hate waste.”

He took the spoon, reluctantly, and waited. “You first.”

She went for the rice pudding first. Her soft, crimson lips parted slowly to accept the creamy mouthful, then contracted in eager surprise around the spoon. Her body went rigid with pleasure, her eyes softened in momentary bliss. Oh, man. He shifted on his seat to get some relief.

“Wow,” she whispered. “You made that?”

No need to repeat himself. He just waited for her to try the pie.

She forked up the tip of the triangle and stared at it, while the waiting silence took on an electrical charge that was almost unbearable.

She put it in her mouth, closed her eyes, savored it. Her eyelids twitched as she inhaled, sharply. “Oh, my God. That is delicious.”

Bruno sipped his coffee, trying not to look smug. “Told you.”

“A guy could rack up big points for desserts like this.”

He dipped his spoon into the rice pudding. It was damn good, if he did say so himself. Zia Rosa was a good teacher. “That’s good news,” he said. “What else racks up points with you? Give me a list.” He whipped out his order pad and pen. “I’ll take notes.”

She looked down into her coffee. “Honesty,” she said.

He’d been hoping for more sexy repartee, but if she wanted to take this to the next level, that was fine. “No worries. I do honesty.”

She rolled her eyes. “No worries, my ass.”

“What, have you picked out some liars recently?”

She scooped up another bite, her gaze evading his. “Either that, or it’s all men who are lying rat bastards.”

“I don’t lie,” he assured her. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you the uncensored, uncut truth. I swear.”

“Yeah? So tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

He was taken aback by the challenge. “Ah . . .”

“Don’t lie.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Or I’ll know.”

She would. He could tell. She was smart, she had the eye, the ear. And he was a piss-poor liar in the best of circumstances.

He let out a sigh. “Thinking isn’t really the word for it.”

“Use whatever words work for you.”

He braced himself. “I was imagining having sex with you,” he confessed. “I have been since I first saw you three nights ago.”

Her gaze was unflinching. “Oh. Really.”

“Yeah. I would never have told you that if you hadn’t compelled me by brute force. Certainly not before introducing ourselves.”

“I already knew,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And like I said, I do appreciate honesty.” She stuck out her hand. “Lily Torrance.”

He took her hand. It was cool, smooth, and something electric zinged through him at the contact. “Bruno Ranieri,” he said.

Lily. She had a name, finally. It suited her. Flowers were beautiful, feminine, tender. But a lily was no humble flower. Lilies had attitude. They were regal, queenlike. They took no shit off anybody. They demanded respect, worship. Tall, sensual, starkly elegant, even haughty. Flowers for church altars. Flowers for a goddess.

But something was off with her. She was too good to be true. Something was wrong with this picture. He studied her luminous skin, wondering if she was jailbait, maybe. A runaway. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” she said.

That was total crap. She looked fully ten years younger. He looked her over, frowning. “You f*cking with me?”

“Right after we’ve been introduced?” She handed him the spoon. “For the love of God, stop me before I hurt myself. Eat some of this.”

“I value honesty, too,” he told her, scooping up banana custard.

She stopped in the act of licking whipped cream off her thumb, chin going up in frosty hauteur. “I’m not a liar.”