Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(27)

After a moment, I manage to get my tongue to work. “No, I meant that I’m not a prostitute.”

He draws a slow breath. Somehow, he makes it look sexy.

His tone gentle, he says, “I’m not judging you, malyutka.”

Okay, I really like it when he calls me that. I like it an unreasonable amount. It’s not healthy. But I can’t get distracted from what I need to say.

“I’m not a sex worker. And I’m not saying that because I’m afraid of you judging me. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

A furrow appears between his dark brows.

That he apparently doesn’t believe me is irritating. “Making the jump from me wearing a revealing dress to me selling myself is a big stretch.”

“It wasn’t only the dress,” he says, frowning.

“What else was it? The heels?”

Ignoring that, he steps even closer and demands, “Who are you, then? Why are you staying with him? Why did you say he was keeping you prisoner?”

“No, you go first. Why are you watching me? And what are you doing in Bermuda?”

“I’m watching you because I like to. And maybe I live here.”

Bypassing all the internal screaming his “because I like to” comment evoked, I say, “Nobody who lives in Bermuda owns a knee-length black wool overcoat.”

“I could be on holiday.”

“I think a man who spends his time spying on people, dispensing cash like an ATM, and appearing out of thin air in locked rooms is up to something other than vacationing.”

“Then maybe you should stop thinking.”

“So you’re telling me you’re a good guy?”

After a pause, he says darkly, “No. I’m not good. In fact, Riley Rose, I’m the worst man you’ll ever meet.”

He stares at me with the truth of it burning in his eyes.

I’m sweating. My heart is pounding. My knees knock together so loudly, he can probably hear them.

Despite all that, I’m not scared.

Jacked up on adrenaline, yes. But deep down, not really scared.

But we’ve already established that I’m a moron, so this shouldn’t be news.

I say breathlessly, “But you’re not a danger to me.”

“Not to you, no.”

The way he says “you” confirms my suspicions.

Malek isn’t a danger to me, but he is a danger to other people.

People, for instance, like my future brother-in-law, the head of the Irish Mob.

I close my eyes and moisten my lips. When I open my eyes, Malek is staring with intense focus at my mouth.

I whisper, “Declan.”

His lashes lift. His fierce gaze drills into mine. He says nothing.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came for Declan. But then you saw me and got distracted from killing him by trying to help me.”

The expression on his face is indescribable, but it does tell me one thing for certain: I’m right.

I put together the trail of crumbs, made a stretch even bigger than the one he made about me being a prostitute, and I’m right.

Starting to shake, I say, “Please don’t kill him.”

He replies vehemently, “You don’t know what you’re asking. And why do you care if he lives or dies? Who are you?”

“His future sister-in-law.”

Malek’s reaction is so stunned, I might as well have slapped him across the face.

His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate. He jerks back abruptly, like you’d recoil from a snake, and stares at me with black eyes filled with revulsion.

A man calls out, “Riley?”

It’s Spider.

From the sound of his voice, I know he’s close. He’ll walk around the corner of the aisle any second. And when he does, one of two things will happen.

He’ll shoot Malek, or Malek will shoot him.

The thought of it makes me lose my senses.

I jump off the ladder, grab my laptop from the floor, and turn back to Malek. “I’m begging you. Please don’t hurt Declan. I believe you could, and if you did, it would kill my sister. I could never live with myself if that happened.”

I turn and run down the aisle, rounding the corner just as Spider’s walking up.

He stops. Holding a cup of coffee in each hand, he peers at me suspiciously. “Why such a hurry?”

“We need to go. Now.”

I brush past him, walking fast, not looking back. Within seconds, Spider’s right by my side.

Like I knew he would be.

“What is it, lass?” he demands.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

I burst through the front door of the bookstore and make a beeline for the SUV, clutching my laptop to my chest like a shield. Following on my heels, Spider tosses the coffee cups to the sidewalk and jogs ahead of me, opening my door. I hop in, he slams the door behind me, then runs around to get into the driver’s seat.

We pull out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

As we’re taking a corner at warp speed, Spider commands, “Talk to me.”

“A man followed me into the bookstore. The same man who followed me into the ladies room at the restaurant the other night. He’s here to kill Declan.”

Spider takes all that in stride. He simply drives faster, glancing into the rearview mirror. It isn’t until I add, “He’s Russian. His name is Malek,” that he almost drives off the road and up onto the curb.