Sparrow

I’d hit a dead-end with my Kill Bill list, still not sure who sent Crupti to kill my father, and I wanted to play. Dealing with Rowan might take off the edge.

“Find out how to contact his second wife.” I ignored Brock’s question.

“What crawled up your ass? Got a new beef with Rowan all of a sudden? He’s rotting of cancer, you know. Leave him alone. You’re beating a dead horse.”

“Not dead enough for me,” I countered, picking up my own cell and punching the touch screen furiously. “I’m going to pay him a visit in Miami.”

“Are you sure? I’m not feeling comfortable about you harassing a guy who is dying of cancer.”

“I’m not paying you to feel comfortable, Brock. I’m paying you to follow orders.”

He stood up with thunder in his eyes, about to storm out of the room, when he stopped in his tracks. “Is he the guy who sent Crupti?” His voice cracked as he half turned.

Brock knew I was after the anonymous motherfucker, even had helped me seek him out.

“Just do as I asked. By the way…” I cleared my throat, avoiding the stream of hellos coming from my phone and watching Brock intently. “I hired my wife to work at Rouge Bis. Get whatever paperwork you need together for her. She’s starting next week. Make sure she and the chef don’t stab each other’s eyes out with a spatula.”

He turned back to face me. There was something unsettling underneath those gray eyes, and I wanted to rip them out of their sockets just to find out what.

“She’s going to work? Right here?” He glanced sideways, like there were hidden cameras watching him.

I nodded slowly. He knew that we had an arranged marriage, or marriage of inconvenience, or whatever the fuck Sparrow and I were.

He also knew why Sparrow was so important to my father.

I shrugged into my Armani suit jacket, looking bored with the topic. “She was nagging. Who the fuck cares anyway. If she wants to bust her ass instead of living a life of luxury, it’s her grave.”

“Mmm.” Brock scanned me, searching my face. “So, the tension is high between you two?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We’re fine.”

“And Pierre? He gave her trouble?”

“Who?” I didn’t even bother to pretend to recall the name, then remembered I still had my travel agent on the line. I swiveled the chair so my back was to Brock and waved him off, dismissing him like he was an average-looking day-shift stripper ogling me for tips. “Yes, I’d like to purchase two first class tickets to Miami…”

SPARROW

THE SUN WAS shining on Monday morning when I arrived at Quincy Market, but the improved weather tense did little to improve my mood.

I had no idea what made me do what I did with Brennan on Friday night.

Lapse of judgment on my part, but who could blame me? He was basically the only guy who’d tried to touch me in God knows how long, and let’s face it, he was so hot the temperature in the penthouse soared every time he entered the room. True, he was also cruel—a savage in a tailored suit—but at the same time, he’d never hurt me.

Not physically, anyway.

My fear radar, sharpened by a tough neighborhood, had impeccable instincts when it came to danger. With Troy, I felt safe.

Nonetheless, the pressure between my legs was a constant reminder that my husband was an asshole. Who did a thing like that? Was it even allowed? Shouldn’t it be illegal in a modern Western society to stop someone from climaxing after getting her to a point where everything was tingling with pain, pleasure and lust?

The weird sensation lingered throughout the weekend. My unfinished business left me craving more, and the nagging feeling I had down there made a small part of me want to beg Troy like he had asked. Luckily, the bigger, saner part of me remembered he still had a lot of questions to answer before we’d be on good terms.

There was one thing he was right about, though. Regardless of what I thought about him as a person, I craved him like a crackhead.

Troy Brennan was the devil, but sometimes, even good girls wanted a healthy dose of evil in their lives.

He’d spent Saturday and Sunday mostly holed up in his office, but this morning I’d hoped to try and make him breakfast again. Stupid, I knew, but feigning emotional attachment made what we did together seem less dirty. More real. But by the time I woke up after another night of tossing and turning, he'd already left for work.

Whatever work meant in his world.

I was almost glad I’d rescheduled my plans to meet Lucy and Daisy, my childhood (and essentially only) friends, and agreed to join them for late morning coffee. Anything was better than another day in the empty apartment. Well, empty except for Connor, that is.