“I’m a lawyer,” she advises a short time later, her voice huskier than normal.
A whistle parts my lips. “A lawyer, eh? Sounds fancy.”
Her grimace causes her brows to join. “Not really. I file acquisitions and takeovers all day long. It’s quite boring, actually.”
The honesty in her tone surprises me. I always envisioned the life of a mafia lawyer would be more dangerous than the monotony Regan described. Maybe Theresa's intel is wrong? Perhaps Regan isn't Isaac's full-time lawyer?
Feeding off newfound hope, I remove the last traces of blood from Regan's brow, then toss the stained washcloth into the sink. "How's the throb now?"
“Better,” Regan approves with a gentle nod.
She intakes a sharp breath when my fingers skim her uninjured brow before drifting down her cheek. I tuck a stray hair behind her ear, making out it was the reason for my impromptu touch. It isn’t. I just couldn’t wait a moment longer to see if her skin is as soft as it looks. For future reference, it’s even silkier than I expected.
Regan has classic, unmarked beauty, but in an almost too perfect way. Her big green eyes are prominent on her porcelain skin, and her lips are a little large, but when you place them in perfect symmetry on her elongated face, she is beyond perfection. I think that is why I was so taken with her five years ago. She has such unique, soul-stealing features, you can't help but look again and again and again. It is fortunate I have her under surveillance, or the number of times I've scanned her photos the past six weeks would have me facing stalker charges.
I grow wary I said my last comment out loud when Regan asks, “Have we met before?” Her tone is high with guarded skepticism.
“I don’t think so,” I lie through twisted lips. “Are you from around here?”
Her eyes drift over my face, cheeks, and lips before shaking her head. “I’m a relatively new resident to Ravenshoe. You?”
“I arrived a few months ago. Not sure what I think about the place yet.” Because my statement is honest, it comes out sounding that way. “What about you? Lifelong plans or a fly-in, fly-out visitor?”
“I don’t know.” The indecisiveness in her eyes weakens her laidback response. “The town has a lot of potential. Who knows what will come from it.”
She isn't referring to Ravenshoe's landmarks. She has her sights set on something not made out of glass and steel. Something human. Someone whose ego shouldn't be inflating from the insinuation in her tone.
Before I can get our conversation back on respectable grounds, Regan tugs on the clump of hair on my chin. “This is new, isn’t it?”
I swallow numerous times in a row. I was cleanly shaven the last time we interacted, but with every covert operation arriving with a new shaving routine, my facial hair is too unkempt for my liking. I feel like I’m vying for a part onVikings. I just need to grow my hair a few inches longer, and I’d be set.
My throat feels like the Sahara in the middle of summer when Regan adds on, “You didn’t have even a shadow the first time I spotted you. Your face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
My brain screams for me to reply, but I’m at a loss. I have no words.
I snap my eyes to Regan faster than a rocket when she asks, “Did you ever accept the waitresses’ advances? They seemed pretty eager.”
My heart rate shifts from guaranteed coronary failure status when I secure my first breath in over a minute. I try to play it cool. “You dine at Taste?”
Regan mistakes the relief in my voice as surprise. She huffs under her breath before folding her arms across her chest. If she’s hoping her prima donna routine will backhand my ego into submission, she is sadly mistaken. I like my women with backbones. It makes the switch of power in the bedroom even more rewarding.
Her tough stance relaxes when I say, “I saw you at Taste—many times. I just didn’t want you to think I was one of the creepers you mentioned earlier.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I still think you’re a creeper. You’ve got the whole creeper vibe down pat.”
When I arch a brow, demanding proof of my supposed “creeper ways,” she adds on, “No man with a jaw as firm as yours goes the messy beard route. Your aftershave costs in excess of a thousand dollars. Your suit, on the other hand, screams JC Penney.”
Since she is directly on the target, I remain quiet. My aftershave was a gift from a childhood friend. She has acquired tastes. The suit is as far as my agent salary can extend. Unlike Isaac, I earn everything I have. I don’t steal, cheat, and lie to better myself. I work for it.
Regan remains silent. Her demands don’t need to be voiced to be heard. I end her silent interrogation by saying, “They say the smell makes the man. I was testing out the theory—”
“By sitting in a restaurant that charges one hundred dollars for two poached eggs and a sliver of salmon?”
I smile. She didn’t justnoticeme at Taste; she monitored me as closely as I watched her. That’s precisely what I ate for breakfast every morning while tailing Isaac.
"You forgot the rye toast. It's baked fresh every day. That alone is worth the expense." Nothing but pure cheekiness resonates in my tone.
Regan shakes her head, barely concealing her curling lips.
