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Of course, I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her in any case. Problem solved.
If I hadn’t seen her fight, I would never have believed it. No temp receptionist had combat reflexes like that, or was so lucid in the face of heavy gunfire. She was a career fighter of some kind. I just had to figure out who she fought for. And if she was a danger to my family.
It was good that Holly was off at Freya’s place in Seattle, with Jed and a cohort of Unredeemables. Amos, Remy, and Darius Drake were with them, keeping them safe.
I pulled on some jeans, and a warm navy sweatshirt. Splashed on some aftershave, sprayed on some deodorant. Brushed my teeth, as if I were hoping to get close enough for her to smell my breath. A guy could hope. Whether or not he should.
When I got to the dining room, the smells were mouthwatering. The Polvanera was chilling in a bucket of ice. Trays of grilled peppers, artichokes, eggplant, and zucchini were dressed with olive oil and chopped parsley. Plump olives were sprinkled with red pepper flakes. There was sliced bread, chunks of seasoned cheese. Little mozzarella knots.
Angela had outdone herself. As always.
She appeared, at the entrance of the kitchen. “I went all out,” she said smugly. “I mean, a gun battle, and then being dragged off into a helicopter? The poor girl. That kind of stress calls for some serious overcompensation.”
“This is not a joke, Angela,” I said.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not.”
“It does look awesome, though,” I conceded.
“I have the pasta all ready to boil whenever your lady friend comes out.”
I winced. “She’s not my lady friend, Angela.”
“Well, that’s for damn sure.”
We spun around at the crisp, low voice from the dining room entrance.
Kat looked great in my sister’s loungewear. The blue thing clung lovingly to her stunning figure. Her gaze was bold, unflinching. That stark hairstyle showed off all her perfect bone structure. I wondered if she’d done it on purpose.
“Welcome,” I said, nonplussed. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am, thanks. And I appreciate the fresh clothes. Whose are they? Your exes?”
“They belong to my sister,” I said.
She grunted thoughtfully. “I hope she won’t mind.”
“She won’t,” I said. “I guarantee it.”
“I’ll go dump the pasta.” Angela turned to go to the kitchen, and winked at me.
“Ah, yeah,” I said, flustered. “Kat, this is my chef and housekeeper, Angela.”
Angela shook hands with Kat. “I hope you like Italian food,” she said.
“I love Italian,” Kat said. “Great to meet you.”
“Pour out some of the Polvanera for Kat, Ethan,” Angela reminded me.
Of course. The Prosecco. My duty as host. I’d gotten hypnotized by the shape of her collarbone, that mysterious little hollow at the base of her throat.
A diamond and sapphire pendant would look really good nestled in there.
I got the wineglasses, just to give my hands something to do. I was feeling the urge to shove them into my pockets. For fuck’s sake, we had fended off death together. Now here I was, sweaty-palmed like a teenager. Nervous about talking to a girl.
She was giving me that what-planet-are-you-from stare. “The hell, Masters?’’ she said. “Are you trying to impress me? The fortress, the helipad, the private chef?”
“No, not really,” I admitted. “That’s just how my life looks.”
