All Things Pretty
Page 8

Lance smiles in that tolerant way he has, the way that says I’m like a wayward child who exasperates him. All he needs to do is cluck his tongue and say Tommi, Tommi, Tommi in a disapproving parent way.
“I don’t mind that you’re a helpless female. I don’t want you taking chances or having to work hard or get dirty. That’s not who you are.”
Not true. That’s not who he wants me to be, but it is who I am, actually. The fact that he can’t see it just assures me that I’m a good actress. A good liar. But I already knew that.
“I won’t. I promise to call if I ever need a hand. Then you can send someone right over.”
“Now you won’t have to call. The new guy’s sole purpose in life is to protect you, to be there when I can’t be.”
My lips wobble with the effort I’m putting into maintaining my pleasant smile. “Wh-when do I get to meet him then? I hope he isn’t too scary.” I widen my eyes, like a good little helpless girl would, and resist the urge to vomit.
Lance kisses my shoulder. “There’s no reason for you to ever fear one of my men, baby. If one ever laid a hand on you or endangered you in any way, he’d be dead within the hour.”
A bit of an exaggeration, I’m sure, but still Lance makes his point. Unfortunately for this guy, whoever he is, when Lance finally finds out what’s been going on, what the new babysitter has failed to catch on to, he’s probably going to be in deep trouble.
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
“Good. He should be here any minute.”
I try not to toy nervously with my hair or my fingers. I strive to appear outwardly calm at all times, even when my insides are on fire. Which they often are in Lance’s presence. “Where did you find him?” I make my question casual, even though I’m interested. I need to learn as much as I can about this man. It will only better serve my purposes if I know him better than he knows me.
“He’s Finch’s cousin. They worked together on the west coast. He used to enforce for a crew out there, so he can handle himself. Should be good security for you.”
“And did you check this guy out?”
Lance’s head snaps up and his suddenly-harsh eyes meet mine. “Of course I did. What the hell kind of fool do you take me for?”
“You’re not a fool. I’m just nervous.”
Lance releases me and I can breathe again. I squelch the shiver that tempts my nerve ends.
“Don’t ever second guess me.”
“I didn’t. I mean, I won’t.”
He says nothing, simply turns away and types something into his phone. Less than three minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and his trusted “Number Two,” Barber walks in. It’s who is following close on his heels that makes my mouth drop open for a second before I can snap it shut. Walking in, big as life, is none other than Sig. My Sig.
I stand, paralyzed, in the center of the room, trying to control my erratic breathing. I feel fear. Of course I feel fear. If he lets on that we know each other or, heaven forbid, has mentioned what happened three weeks ago on the side of the highway, I’m in for it. Lance will be furious. Furious that I lied to him, furious that I let another man take me dress shopping, furious that I went to such lengths to keep it form him.
But I feel something besides fear, too. I feel breathless, but in a completely different way than what Lance makes me feel. I also feel warm and dewy, like my skin has been misted with hot water. And I feel attracted. Oh god! Over the last three weeks, I’ve managed to convince myself that my memory of him had to be embellished, but now I can plainly see that it was not. He. Is. Gorgeous.
He seems taller than he was that day, all dressed in black from his perfectly fitted jeans to his perfectly fitted tee and blazer, his presence filling the room. He looks like a model for mob-wear or something. His sable eyes twinkle when they meet mine, but he says nothing. Neither do I.
“Randall, this is my lady, Tommi. Tommi, this is Slade Randall.”
I’m not surprised by Sig’s first words. It’s not unusual for men in this community of felons to adopt a nickname.
“I go by Sig. Like the gun,” Sig says, nodding curtly, his deep voice stroking the flesh of my face and chest from all the way across the room. “I don’t tell many people my name, much less go by it.”
Although he is speaking to me, I know the comment was meant for Lance. I almost gasp at his audacity, my eyes flitting to Lance. I see his jaw harden and I brace for his wrath. But it never comes. He merely responds with equal curtness. “Sig then. I don’t give a shit what you call yourself, just as long as you do your job.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Good because you start now. Tommi has a friend’s baby shower to attend. You’ll be taking her. You can drive the Maserati. You go where she goes. No questions. No excuses. She doesn’t leave your sight.”
Oh crap! “That’s not necessary,” I pipe up hurriedly. “I’m sure Sig,” I say, purposely pausing over the name, as though I’m not familiar with it, “would much rather wait in the car than to stand in the shadows, watching a bunch of girls swoon over baby clothes and play games that involve diapering a doll.” I put on my purr face, as I like to call it, and walk to Lance, draping one arm over his shoulder and running my finger down his jawline. “But if you don’t believe me and you’d like to come along, I’d be more than happy to show you.”
The black dot of Lance’s pupil swells inside his blue eyes and my belly crumples in on itself. If we were alone, I know exactly what that look would mean. Been there, done that. That’s why I don’t taunt him. I’ve done a great job of finding other ways to keep him happy. No need to change that. Right now, though, we aren’t alone so I know I’m safe.
“Not this time. But if you want him to stay in the car, that’s fine. Just keep your cell turned on.” The last is said with a warning note. Once, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned in passing that I’d left my phone in the car that day it was towed. He still hasn’t gotten over the thought of even possibly not being able to reach me for a few hours.
“Of course,” I say, moving away to grab my purse. “See you tonight.” I give him a chaste peck on the cheek and turn to priss off, hoping that the sight of my wiggling butt in the pencil skirt that he loves best will give him things to think about other than what I’m doing and where I’m going.