The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

And we need to be careful.

4

BEAU

* * *

I take off my arm protector and start unraveling the wrap that James so carefully applied around my stomach, naturally tense. And not just because of my wound.

Dinner.

And not just dinner, but dinner with The Brit. I’m literally having dinner with a ghost, a man thought to be dead. And his wife. What the hell are we supposed to talk about?

I drop the wrap in the sink and sigh. We’ll probably talk about how many lives our men have taken between them. I can only imagine what kind of woman she is to be married to a man like Danny Black.

But then, if Rose Black is fucked up, I’m right there with her. Ex-cop turned gangster’s mol. “Jesus,” I breathe, glancing at the mirror. I look empty. Hollow. What would my mother say to me? What would she think? And yet I can’t help but hope she would be egging me on. Encouraging me. Giving me a pep talk like no other, willing me to find the bastard who took her from me and end him. I’ve long accepted that I can’t do that on my own. Her death goes way past a cover-up. It’s led me into the deepest depths of the Miami underworld. It led me to James.

And James has led me to the truth. It’s irony at its best. Or worst.

Mom wasn’t only a talented cop, something she passed down to me. She was an intuitive woman. Strong. Determined. She never gave up on finding out who The Bear was. Or who James was, for that matter. The former had her blown up. The latter tried to save her. He failed, but he saved me, and in the process nearly burned himself alive.

I look down at my scars. Some might think from the mess of my arm that he didn’t save me from the explosion. Nothing could have saved me from that destruction. But he did save me from self-destruction. From the moment James called me under false pretenses to paint his office, I was enamored. Mesmerized. Intrigued. Curious. Attracted.

I laugh under my breath. Fucked up really doesn’t cover it. So perhaps Rose Black and I will find some common ground.

But what the hell am I going to wear?

I rub some face cream in as I go to the closet and scan the limited options. Sun dresses. Sarongs. Shorts. My shoulders slump, and I back up to the bed, dropping to the edge. I have nothing. My days in Miami were spent in ripped jeans and oversized shirts with long sleeves that covered my damaged skin. The only dress I own these days is the dress James bought for our first date to the opera—where he assassinated a corrupt judge while I was handcuffed to a chair after he’d gone down on me.

I fall to my back, exasperated. Rose Black has nothing on me.

The door to the bedroom opens, and James appears in his boxers. We’ve only been here a few days and he’s already sun-kissed. Bronzed. At least, the front of him. Not his back, which, like my arm, is constantly smothered in sunscreen. His hair is lighter, his blue eyes bluer. I pout at the Adonis before me. Soon, he’ll get dressed. Probably put on a divine suit. Muss his hair. Spray himself with a cologne that’ll send me delirious with pleasure.

And I can’t even jump him.

My hand goes to my stomach, feeling at the white gauze. “I have nothing to wear,” I grumble. “This was a terrible idea.”

“Cover up,” he orders, nodding to the sheets.

I frown and pull them in around me, concealing my naked form, as James stands back, opening the way. A man scuttles in with arms full of clothes and some strappy shoes dangling from his fingers. “What’s this?” I ask, sitting up slowly.

“Miss Rose sent them,” the man declares, stopping in the middle of the room, waiting for instruction. I’m stumped, so James directs him to the closet, where he hangs up various dresses while I look on. Once he’s done, he nods and backs out of the room.

“Problem solved,” James says, flicking through the vast selection.

I get up and pull the sheets in, approaching behind him. “Why would she send me clothes?”

“You can ask her at dinner.” James pulls out a pretty cream dress that’s decorated with gold stitching. “This one?”

I blindly take the hanger, lost for words. “I thought you wanted to see my scars?” I remind him, looking down at the long sleeves.

“I want you to be comfortable and relaxed.” He drops a kiss on my cheek and goes to the bathroom, leaving me alone. Relaxed? That’s laughable. We might be out of Miami right now, away from blood and death, but I’m under no illusion that it will remain this easy. We’re here for me to recuperate. And for James to plot his next move.