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Dante catches my gaze and shakes his head, caution etched into his face. In complete agreement, I clear my throat. “I’m really fucking aching over here. Any chance Nurse Nancy can see to me now?”
Dante’s relief is clear as he blows out a breath. “Good idea,” he murmurs.
“Nancy?” she spits out. “My name is Isla. Who the fuck are you?”
“Sebastian Christchurch,” I grunt. “Nice to meet you.”
“Go to hell,” she mutters but holds a hand out to help me up.
I clasp it and feel like I’ve been hit with a high-voltage surge of electricity that nearly stops my heart.
Using none of her strength to haul myself up, I don’t let go of her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. She snatches it back with fury and clenches her fists. Turning on her heel, she marches out of the office, and I follow with a glare at Gideon.
“We are nowhere near done here,” I hiss.
“You got that right,” he snarls back under his breath.
It seems that having Isla here has made us all a bit more civil. Had she not been, blood and guts would be everywhere by now, with at least one of us dead, if not all three. We are on our best behaviour, which is just odd. Whatever power this woman has over Gideon, I know they aren’t together. She confirmed that, but they are definitely brewing in that department. It makes her very enticing to me. However, I can also say with absolute certainty that she has captured my full attention anyway.
“Keep up,” she snaps as she strides across the entrance hall.
Grimacing at the pain, I rush to her side, and she casts me a side-long glance. “Go in the dining room, over there.” She points to an open door. “I saw a first aid box in the kitchen. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Go and wait in the dining room,” she orders, and I chuckle.
With a mock salute, I murmur, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Humph,” she mutters rudely and stalks off while I take a detour to where she pointed.
The dining room is significantly over the top. It seats twenty, which makes no sense. It’s not like the Don has been having grandiose dinner parties while he has been holed up here. Someone would’ve mentioned it. So why all the pomp and splendour? To remind himself of who he is and what his life could be like if he weren’t at the top of everyone’s most wanted list. And that’s not even in the assassination sense. If members of Solitaire got a whiff of where he was, he would be hounded night and day for this or that favour, and it would become a serious pain in the arse. As much as I loathe him, I get why he has locked himself away.
Shrugging off my coat with a pained expression and a slight curse, I let it drop to the floor and sit at the head, waiting for Isla to join me.
When she enters the room a few moments later, she gives the fallen coat a scathing glare. “You are a slob as well as a psycho?” she asks, bending down to pick it up.
“Sorry, not usually. It was the only way to get it off, and then I couldn’t bend to pick it up.”
“That bad, huh?” Her look of sympathy seems to be genuine.
Nodding slowly, I might be making it out to be worse than it actually is. Sort of. It hurts like fuck, but I’m a grown-ass man, and I can take it. However, if she wants to play nursemaid, who am I to stop her?
She kneels at my feet with a big box next to her, and all I can think about is those luscious lips wrapped around my cock. Stifling my groan as I shift uncomfortably in the chair, I watch as her eyes go straight to the squished bullet embedded in the Kevlar vest. Slowly, she reaches out and touches it, fighting against a deep emotion that I know has fuck all to do with me, but is pleasant to see anyway.
She purses her lips and lowers her hand to rip at the Velcro holding the vest together and pulls it up over my head and lowers it off my arm to drop on top of the coat on the chair where she placed it.
“You’re lucky you came prepared.”
“Always, sweetheart.”
She avoids my gaze and murmurs, “Unbutton your shirt, please.”
“Can’t you do it? It hurts.”
“You managed to get your coat off.”
“Barely.”
