Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(10)

I clear my throat. ‘Do you still want to see the fireflies?’

She takes a deep and shuddering breath.

SNOW

I shouldn’t involve him in my mess. I know how cold and wicked Lenny can be, but my head nods and he removes his finger.

‘Would you like to go on Friday night? I’ll bring you back by Sunday.’

‘I … I can’t do it at the weekends.’ In spite of myself, my voice becomes sad. ‘Actually, I can’t leave the country at any time. He … er … expects me to be around all the time.’

There is a slight tightening of his jaw, but his eyes are expressionless. ‘Lenny is busy this weekend.’

My jaw sags. ‘You know Lenny?’ I breathe, taken by surprise.

‘It’s a small world, Snow.’

‘Then you must know what he is.’

‘Yeah, I know what he is,’ he says, but he appears unimpressed.

I lean forward. ‘He’s a gangster. He’s killed men before,’ I say fiercely.

There is no change in his voice. ‘I know.’

I drop back to the chocolate chair back. ‘Are you not afraid of him?’

He shakes his head slowly, never taking his dirty, cocky, arrogant gaze off me.

I stare deep into his eyes. The flecks inside them are almost violet. I feel transfixed by them. as if he has a strange power over me. ‘Who are you?’ I whisper.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything?’ Raja asks.

His voice startles me and I jump.

Shane doesn’t look at Raja. ‘What’s good to eat here?’ he asks me.

‘The Neer dosa with chicken curry, I think,’ I say awkwardly.

‘Is that what you’re having?’

I nod.

He glances up briefly at Raja. ‘I’ll have two portions of that and a bottle of beer.’

Raja shuffles away, his eyes brimming with curiosity. From now on, Raja will never look at me in the same way again.

‘I’m not a gangster, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Shane says.

‘So, what are you?’

He shrugs carelessly. ‘I’m just a regular guy. I own some businesses.’

‘And how do you know Lenny?’

‘My brother used to do business with him.’

‘Is your brother a gangster?’

‘He used to be.’

‘And you? Were you one too?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘What are you doing here?’

He grins irresistibly. ‘I’m doing what the fireflies do when they flash. I’m sweet-talking you.’

Raja comes with the beer and a glass, and Shane ignores the glass and takes a mouthful straight from the bottle. ‘So: are you on for Friday?’

‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny will kill you if he finds out.’

‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny is sorted.’

‘How?’ I demand.

‘Let’s just say he’s had an offer he just can’t refuse.’

‘What kind of an offer? I thought you said you weren’t a gangster.’

‘I’m not. But I know people Lenny wants to trade with. As to what kind of an offer, you’re better off not knowing Lenny’s business.’

I frown. ‘You’re not going to get him into trouble, are you?’

His jaw tightens. ‘Lenny’s old enough and ugly enough to dig himself into trouble without any help from me.’

‘But it’s not some kind of trap you’re luring him into?’ I insist.

His face softens. ‘It’s not a trap. It’s just business.’

And immediately I know. He is telling the truth. I hardly know Shane but I trust him. ‘OK, I believe you.’

‘Good.’

‘What time Friday?’ I ask.

He throws his head back and laughs, a triumphant, satisfied laugh, and my gaze travels helplessly down his strong, brown throat. He’s special. I know then that we are not going to be just friends, even though this is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me to avoid at all cost. Men who are too beautiful have too much choice. And a man with too much temptation is like a pig in shit. It will roll around in it all day long.

Our food arrives, and Shane watches me ignore the fork and knife as I tear the crêpe-thin Neer dosa with the fingers of my right hand, then dip it into the creamy chicken curry, bringing it to my mouth.

‘Does it taste better like that?’ he asks with a crooked smile.

‘Actually, yes,’ I admit. ‘You can wash your hands in the men’s toilet.’

‘No need,’ he says, spreading his fingers out in front of him. He has beautiful hands. They are large and masculine, the nails square. ‘I’ve eaten things off the floor and survived.’

I watch him rip the delicate white dosa, dunk it in the curry and put it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully then raises one impressed eyebrow. ‘It’s good,’ he pronounces.


I smile. ‘I think so. It’s a dish from Mangalore.’

‘Do you come here often?’

‘Yes, as often as I can.’

He looks around at the deserted restaurant. ‘Is it always this dead?’