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“White mocha!” the barista calls out.
She smiles, and it’s charming as hell. “Now we both have our drinks.”
My lips curve. “I guess we do.”
I offer her my hand and my brother’s name. “Rafael Ramos,” I say, using my brother’s stage name, the lie told by necessity, not choice. I’m trying to stay alive, and I may be the person who keeps her alive. Or not. That’s still to be determined.
She accepts my hand and the charge between us is back and instant. She feels it too, her lashes lowering, as if she’s trying to hide her response, her gaze slowly lifting. “Priscilla Miller,” she says, and when I reluctantly, and I do mean reluctantly, release her hand, she adds, “but call me Pri. It’s not much better than Priscilla, but then everything is better than Priscilla.”
“Nice to meet you, Pri. You hate the name that much, huh?”
“Oh yes,” she confirms. “My mother had a thing for Priscilla Presley, as in Elvis’s ex.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t ask. I don’t understand either.”
“What do you do, Pri?”
“I’m an attorney. What about you?”
“Private security,” I say because the truth is, I’m going to face her as the real me, sooner than later. I’d prefer to do so with as few lies between us as possible. “What kind of law do you practice?”
“Criminal. I’m an Assistant DA.” Her brows dip with an obvious thought. “Rafael. There’s a singer named Rafael. You look like him. You’re not—”
“No,” I say, cursing my brother, who makes me proud as hell, but his newly escalated popularity in the states is not in my favor right about now. “But,” I add, “I get that a lot.”
“Priscilla!”
At the shout of her name, Pri turns away and then rotates right back to me, literally grabbing my arm, which is a surprisingly intimate gesture, not that I’m complaining. In fact, color me intrigued. “My God,” she whispers urgently, “it’s my mother. I can’t be alone with her. Please help. Pretend to be my date?”
I arch a brow. “Pretend to be your date?”
“Please?”
Oh, how I’d like her to say please again, and for many other reasons. “What do I get in return?”
“Priscilla, honey.”
Pri’s eyes plead with me and she says, “Name your price—later.”
She turns and her mother wraps her in a hug. “God, I’m so worried about you.” She pulls back to study Pri. “You look horrible.”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Mom.” She grimaces and she even does that pretty. “I just went running,” she adds. “I have on no make-up.”
Her mother’s eyes find mine and there is no question Pri is her mother’s daughter, her eyes just as blue, her skin just as porcelain. Mother Pri gives me a once over, taking in my sweats and T-shirt, lingering on the ink on my arms, a tight inspection before she says, “Oh. My. You do pretty well for no make-up, honey. Muscles. Tattoos. Tall, dark, and good looking. Who is this?”
Pri face palms and amused, I say, “Rafael, and I don’t have on any make-up either.”
She laughs. “You’re funny. I’m Amanda, Pri’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, but she’s already dismissed me to scowl at Pri. “I like him. Does he know he’s in danger just being near you?”
Pri’s cheeks flush, her hands going up. “Okay stop, Mom,” she bites out, low but tight. “Please. Rafael doesn’t need you to scare him off. I can do just fine myself.” She motions to her face. “I look horrible, remember?”
“You look great,” she says. “Always. I’m critical right now because I’m worried about you. I’m looking for signs of stress.” She pauses for effect. “I’m sorry. Please come back to the firm. Drop this case.”
“No,” Pri says, and I can sense the strain between them, as if they were once close, but there’s now a wall between them. “And you should be happy,” she adds. “I’ve given you an excuse to go hide out in Paris for a couple of months. Why are you still here?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” her mother assures her. “Come with us.”
“No, Mother,” Pri bites out, prim but firm. “I have a case. An important case and right now, I’m with Rafael.”
I sip my coffee and arch a brow.
“Right,” Amanda says, glancing in my direction. “Please protect her.”
The plea hits a nerve, about ten, actually, that all tie back to my failure to kill the King Devil. Now people who didn’t have to die are dead. “I will,” I promise and I mean it—if she’s one of the good guys.
Amanda motions to Pri. “Can we talk?”
“So you can tell me why dad and I should talk and why I should drop this case and come back to the firm?”
“Yes, actually.”
“No to all of those things,” Pri says, “but I still love you. Text me your flight info and I’ll see you off.”
