Knight (Unfinished Hero #1)(32)

And even I liked my eyes. This was because they were my Dad’s and my Mom always used to look in my eyes, smile her sweet smile, and whisper to me in her sing-song way, “When Irish eyes are smiling…” My Dad was Irish and even though neither of them had been to Ireland, both declared with grave authority that the Irish had the most beautiful eyes in the world. And Mom put Dad and my eyes forward as proof and she did this repeatedly.

I couldn’t see them very well in my reflection in the window but I knew they were a light gray with a very thin ring of midnight blue at the edge of the iris. They were set well in my face and with Mom giving me her dark, long lashes and dark, arched brows, even I had to admit my eyes were striking.

I was five seven. I had tits and ass and a slightly rounded tummy that even though I tried to run as often as I could, did ab crunches and stability ball crunches not to mention regular pushups and other stuff , that roundness didn’t go away. My midriff was lean, my waist tiny, I had decent arms, not as toned as Sandrine but they weren’t flabby but that round in my belly always got to me. Vivica told me I worked it, it looked good on me, men totally dug it, especially as it came with my little waist, big ass and br**sts. She also told me I’d learn that as time went on and get over hating it.

But that had yet to happen.

Other than that, looking at my reflection and knowing it by heart in my mind’s eyes, still, I was seeing me differently.

I was seeing what Knight saw in me.

People were people and everyone was different. There were as many different tastes and opinions as there were people. And it wasn’t lost on me there were men who liked tits and ass and hair far, far more than they liked super lean and cut.

And, clearly, Knight was one of those.

But it was my face he talked about and standing there, I remembered how Dad used to stop Mom for no reason but to cup her cheek and run his thumb over it as his eyes moved over her face. He did this like he was mesmerized, like he was seeing her for the first time even though he’d had her for years. And he did it always smiling.

And I also remembered how my aunt would get drunk on occasion and wax on and on about my mother’s extreme beauty.

“Coulda had anybody,” she’d slur. “Anybody. A movie star. A millionaire. With one look. That was how beautiful was my Ekateirna.”

It didn’t hit me until right then that even though she talked trash to me often about what I wore, my makeup, my hair, she also told me often I looked just like my Mom. So her giving Mom that compliment meant she was also, even though she didn’t get it, giving it to me.

I had a face that launched a thousand hard-ons. A face men would fight wars for. A face that, a man as aggressively masculine and beautiful as, Knight wanted to possess. So much, he barely knew me but knew he had little time with me and intended to make ways to get as much as he could get.

I watched my hazy reflection in the glass smile a secret smile that was just for me as I felt something calm and nourishing settle deep inside me.

Then I moved out of the room in search of Knight.

The minute I opened the door, I heard Billie Holliday. It was super quiet and I knew that was because he wanted music but he didn’t want it to disturb me.

I smiled my secret smile again but it didn’t curve my lips. It curved in that tranquil, sated place inside me.

I hit the living room-kitchen area and saw the under the counter lights on in the kitchen and one domed light softly illuminating the sunken living room. There was also a tall floor lamp I hadn’t noticed in the corner of the windows on the upper level that was casting a soft glow on the space.

Knight was not to be seen until my scan of the area took in the outside of the balcony and I saw his shadowy frame and the glowing tip of a cigarette.

I moved there and out and saw him turn to me.

He’d put on boots and a black turtleneck. I wondered if it covered Metallica or if Metallica was gone and totally casual, personality-showing Knight was a memory and I had somewhat casual, hot guy club owner in an expensive turtleneck Knight.

“Hey,” I called as I moved across the balcony to him. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“Here, baby,” he called back softly even as I was going there but when his arm came out I knew he meant he wanted me there as in, in his arm.

I thought about it as I moved the two feet I had left.

Then I did it and his arm curled around my waist and he pulled my lower body into his.

“Business done?” I asked, tipping my head back to look at his face softly illuminated partly by moon and city lights and partly by the lights coming from his apartment.

“Yeah,” he answered then asked, “You sleep last night?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Fuck,” he muttered then got half the reason right, “Nick.”

He was the other half of the reason but I didn’t share this. I didn’t say anything.

He shifted and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray he had resting on the edge of the railing.

Then he came back to me, curving his other arm around me so he held me loosely in both and asked, “What happened to him?”

This question was confusing so I asked back, “Who?”

“Guy who did your parents.”

I sucked in an unexpected breath like he’d struck me with a surprise body blow.

He either didn’t hear it or was focused because he repeated, “What happened to him?”