In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(61)

Sam parked and handed his keys to a middle-aged man in a suit who had come out the door. “Good to see you, Mr. Petrie. Are your friends staying?”

“No, we’re just the escort,” Kev said, as his window buzzed down. “I’ll be heading right on home, Sam, if you’re good here.”

“We’re fine now,” Sam said. “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

The interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior, but Sam didn’t offer to give her a tour. He had a brief conversation with the staff about dinner, took her hand, and led her up a grand staircase. Another flight, a long corridor, and he opened the door to a large attic room paneled in natural wood. A bank of windows the entire length of the room looked out on the fading cobalt sky and tossing treetops.

Sveti dropped her bag on a chair as Sam shrugged out of his jacket. She felt weirdly shy in this alien environment. “Val’s clothes look good on you,” she ventured. Tam had thrown a fit this morning about Sam’s foul clothes, which resulted in Val’s wardrobe being raided.

“Goddamn skintight Italian designer crap,” Sam growled, plucking at the shirt that strained over his shoulders. “Didn’t the guy used to be a gigolo or something? He dresses like a Eurotrash fop.”

“Do not say a word against Val or Tam,” she blurted.

Sam looked taken aback. “I’m just talking trash about his wardrobe. I’m not judging him personally.”

“The hell you’re not.” Out of nowhere, her chin was shaking. “Those people are everything to me. They’re all I have in the world.”

“Jesus, Sveti. I was just bitching about his shirt.”

“Well, don’t! He did you a favor. It’s unbecoming to complain.”

She ran for the bathroom and leaned over the sink, splashing her face. Ashamed of herself for being childish and snotty.

It had just hit her, full force. She’d been too distracted to let herself feel it, overloaded by the attack, the affair with Sam. But she was leaving her beloved family behind. She’d counted on their love and support and fierce protection for so long. What an ungrateful bitch she’d been. And after all her posturing and carrying on, all her whining tantrums about being smothered, the world suddenly seemed so big and fanged and hungry. She hadn’t dared let herself feel scared or vulnerable, as if admitting that she felt it would make it more real.

It felt real now. She was pathetically glad Sam was going with her. That feeling was so dangerous. That feeling was the drum roll of doom.

She didn’t dare allow herself to need him like that.



Sam dredged up some old clothes from the closets while he waited for Sveti to work through her snit. It had been years since he’d spent the night here. There was a limit to how long he could be in his father’s residence without morphing into a snarling animal. Usually, he managed the problem by cutting visits off well before he approached the danger zone.

Tonight no one was here to torment him, but he still didn’t like the person he became in this house. Barricaded against certain attack. Wary of hidden agendas, subtle traps and decoys. So f*cking tense.

He listened for signs from the bathroom. Still nothing. He should cut her some slack. After all she’d been through, she still had to deal with his smart remarks and his perpetual boner. Being put in his place just made it stiffer, which was borderline kinky, but hey. Just the fact that the elusive, mysterious Sveti was letting him into her glorious orbit was miracle enough. Let her scold and rant and bitch.

He’d stay put, panting and hopeful. Tongue at the ready.

He stretched out driving-stiffened muscles, and the sting in his hip reminded him of the bandage. He shrugged off the shirt and dug out the bag of stuff from the pharmacy.

He positioned himself in front of the mirror on the bathroom door. Tricky spot to reach. Twisting made the scab stretch and pull. Ouch.

The door opened. Sveti stepped out. “I’ll do that,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll get Dolores to help.”

“Hell with that,” Sveti said softly. “This one’s mine.”

He liked the sound of that. He felt claimed. At least his wound.

She’d taken off her sweater and wore a close-fitting button-down brown blouse in some clingy knit. Her low-rise jeans showed a teasing strip of taut belly. As she bent over him, the shirt dangled, opening a window to the shadowy wonders within: a flash of cleavage, a cream-colored lace bra strap, a whiff of mouth-watering scent. The mirror also offered the back view, which was dazzling in its own right.

It had been too long since they’d had sex. Twenty-four hours, and a lot of those hours had been spent holding her body in his arms with his neglected stiffie throbbing away, unappeased.

Her hair brushed over his shoulder like a flow of warm water.

Then she kissed him. A brief, butterfly touch of her lips on his cheek that left him openmouthed and stammering. “Wha . . . huh?”

“Sorry about my tantrum,” she said. “You didn’t deserve it.”

He stared, jaw slack. He’d been braced for a scold, and was totally unbraced for a kiss. Her hair did another soft, liquid swish. Then she started peeling off the bandage, and he started hissing obscenities.

“It’s messy, but it doesn’t look infected,” she commented.