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 fucking 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.”
“Then answer one for me,” he said. “And don’t lie.”
“I won’t lie, but I don’t promise to answer.”
“Whatever.” He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Just tell me. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She jerked, like she’d gotten a shock, and tried to yank her hand back. Bruno hung on, grimly. Her fingers squirmed in his.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You tell me. It’s just that something’s off with you. You’re hot, you’re sexy, you’re smart, you’re fascinating, yeah. But something’s wrong. So what’s the problem?”
She retrieved her hand with a yank. “I don’t have a problem.”
“Ding, ding. Gotcha,” he said quietly. “That’s a lie.”
The color faded from her face, making her makeup look even more srtling. Her eyes dropped. She grabbed the napkin, made a fuss over wiping some sweet goop or other off her chin. He waited.
“Have you run away from home?” he asked.
A bitter laugh jerked out of her. “I wish,” she muttered, not looking at him. “At the moment, I don’t have one to run from.”
“Well, that’s a problem all of itself.” He reached for her hand again. She whipped it off the table and hid it in her lap. “Did someone hurt you? Your husband, your ex-boyfriend? Something like that?”
“No. No, it’s . . .” Her throat bobbed. “Really. I’m fine.” Her voice vibrated with tension. “Just stop, please. Or I’ll have to leave.”
He sipped his coffee, giving her a moment to get over her freak-out before he tried again. “Is there something I can do?”
“About what?” she snapped.
“About your problem,” he persisted. “Does somebody’s ass need kicking? I can take care of that for you. I kick good ass.”
Her laughter rang out, sweet and bright and gorgeous. “Wow,” she said. “You’d do that for me? After, what has it been now, a fifteen-minute acquaintance? Twenty, maybe, tops?”
He considered that, and opened his mouth, and the raw, uncut, uncensored truth just plopped right out. “Yeah,” he said. “I would.”
Her mouth hung a little open for a moment, totally flustered. And apparently charmed. “Supposing there were a whole lot of asses?”
He shrugged. “Then I’d just have to kick them all.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s bold. Whiz, bang, and suddenly you’re my champion. That’s really sweet of you. Not smart, but sweet.”
Bruno sipped his coffee and let his
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 fucking 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.”
“Then answer one for me,” he said. “And don’t lie.”
“I won’t lie, but I don’t promise to answer.”
“Whatever.” He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Just tell me. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She jerked, like she’d gotten a shock, and tried to yank her hand back. Bruno hung on, grimly. Her fingers squirmed in his.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You tell me. It’s just that something’s off with you. You’re hot, you’re sexy, you’re smart, you’re fascinating, yeah. But something’s wrong. So what’s the problem?”
She retrieved her hand with a yank. “I don’t have a problem.”
“Ding, ding. Gotcha,” he said quietly. “That’s a lie.”
The color faded from her face, making her makeup look even more srtling. Her eyes dropped. She grabbed the napkin, made a fuss over wiping some sweet goop or other off her chin. He waited.
“Have you run away from home?” he asked.
A bitter laugh jerked out of her. “I wish,” she muttered, not looking at him. “At the moment, I don’t have one to run from.”
“Well, that’s a problem all of itself.” He reached for her hand again. She whipped it off the table and hid it in her lap. “Did someone hurt you? Your husband, your ex-boyfriend? Something like that?”
“No. No, it’s . . .” Her throat bobbed. “Really. I’m fine.” Her voice vibrated with tension. “Just stop, please. Or I’ll have to leave.”
He sipped his coffee, giving her a moment to get over her freak-out before he tried again. “Is there something I can do?”
“About what?” she snapped.
“About your problem,” he persisted. “Does somebody’s ass need kicking? I can take care of that for you. I kick good ass.”
Her laughter rang out, sweet and bright and gorgeous. “Wow,” she said. “You’d do that for me? After, what has it been now, a fifteen-minute acquaintance? Twenty, maybe, tops?”
He considered that, and opened his mouth, and the raw, uncut, uncensored truth just plopped right out. “Yeah,” he said. “I would.”
Her mouth hung a little open for a moment, totally flustered. And apparently charmed. “Supposing there were a whole lot of asses?”
He shrugged. “Then I’d just have to kick them all.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s bold. Whiz, bang, and suddenly you’re my champion. That’s really sweet of you. Not smart, but sweet.”
Bruno sipped his coffee and let his
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