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4
QUINN
For the billionth time I rub my hand where we touched. It still tingles. I’ve killed, lied, done things that have permanently stained my soul and I’m not even thirty. Yet all that pales in comparison to the unexpected reaction to touching the untouchable.
Hellena O’Brian.
I look at her and I see something I want to protect. Hold close.
Something I’m not going to ever do.
She stands behind me in a simple black dress, looking like she’s going to a funeral. Maybe that’s what this all feels like to her. A funeral of everything she could have been but laid to rest because of obligation and expectation.
We’re in the kitchen and I go through the pantry, finally pulling out a can of soup. “It’s not much, but…”
“Who owns this?” she asks.
“Third party.”
I can almost hear her nod. There’s a scrape of the kitchen counter’s stool over the stone floor. I turn toward the stove and heat the soup.
“Third party.” She pauses. “You’re not mafia.”
“Yes and no. It’s…complicated.”
“I’ve got time for complicated. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Turning to her, my fucking chest catches and contracts. All those dark red curls, the soft curve of her cheeks, the full mouth and those long, toned legs.
It’s like I know her, like she’s invaded my dreams.
Fuck, even a stint in a cushy prison can screw a man up. She’s a pretty girl, nothing more and I need to do my job, wash my hands of both her father and the asshole she’s marrying, the asshole whose track record with women isn’t—
I clench the handle of the pot.
Any of my business.
I lean against the counter next to the stove. “My stories aren’t for innocent ears.”
“I’m not innocent.” Hellena—Hellie—frowns in a way that tells me precisely how innocent she is.
“Yeah, you are.”
She gets up and goes to the fridge. She pulls out a bottle of white wine, studies the label a moment, then twists off the cap. “Glasses?” she asks.
Silently, I open a cabinet and hand her two glasses. She fill them and hands one to me.
The organization that owns this place is one I’ve done work for. It’s faceless—to me, nameless and powerful and I’m trusted enough to use some of their safehouses.
I don’t think I need one to get her to Dowd. But my diligence and making sure all possibilities are taken into consideration are one reason mafia like using me.
My one reason for them to use me…the situation that got me into the mess, into prison, into the here and now and having favors owed me…well, that situation is dead.
Hellie takes a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving my face. “I’m not innocent.”
“Not talking about your virginity or lack thereof, kid.”
“Kid?” She huffs. “You’re what? A few years older than me? And I’m not a virgin.”
