Chapter 8
SAINT
My brother is having the time of his life, which is exactly what I want for him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Priest looking so damn at ease and carefree, a constant smile on his face as he lives it up with his beautiful bride.
The dance floor is a swirl of writhing bodies and flashing lights.
The drinks are flowing, the music is banging, and all the guests are having a fantastic time celebrating the bride and groom.
Even Zia Maria is out there on the floor, happily doing the Macarena to a song that sounds nothing at all like the nineties dance hit.
I’m embarrassed I even know what that shit looks like, but this isn’t my first rodeo.
This wedding’s a little different because we’re in the islands and Priest and Luna kept the guest list shorter and more private.
But I’ve seen way too many Electric Slides and other reception line dances to ever truly consider myself normal again.
And I proved as much earlier when I ambushed Isla in the restroom and ground my cock against her ass.
Not one of my finer moments, but in my defense, she looked fucking irresistible standing there in that pale-blue dress, her hair falling in loose waves down her back.
I was still pissed over finding out who she really was, pissed over the implications hooking up with her had for my relationship with Priest, and just generally pissed that I couldn’t hook up with her one more time.
I was a complete jackass to her.
Oh well. I am a jackass, most of the time. It comes with the line of work. So much death and destruction surrounds us at all times that I can’t afford to be soft. It’s my job to be ready for anything, regardless of how fucked up it is, and no matter how dangerous and deadly.
Priest throws back his head and laughs, dancing with Luna as a new song starts to play.
Everything went down perfectly. Despite the fact that I managed to fuck the maid of honor, no one else knows.
No one will ever know. I’ve played it cool.
Every second of the ceremony went off without a hitch.
Luna got her pictures. I even fucking smiled.
Dinner was delicious, I managed to return from the restroom in time to catch the cutting of the cake, and now we’re in the cruise-control portion of the evening.
I should be happy.
I should be drinking the Macallan in my hand and forgetting about everything waiting for me back home, toasting my brother and sister-in-law. Maybe even joining in on the dance floor.
But I’m not.
Isla’s on the floor. Dancing with an Andriani cousin. But if Fabiano doesn’t stop moving in too close, I’m going to have to step in. And I really, really don’t want to have to do that.
The lights flash, and I catch a glimpse of Fabiano’s hand on her ass.
Damn it.
That’s my ass.
I want to roar it. I want to tear across the dance floor and stake my claim.
I’m not stupid, so I’m not going to do that, and she doesn’t belong to me even if part of me wishes she did.
Still, this disrespect can’t go unanswered.
I’m not going to let him stand there groping the maid of honor at our don’s wedding reception.
I set down my untouched glass and stride into the throng. The crowd parts for me like the sea. We might be at a wedding reception thousands of miles from home, but I’m still the consigliere for the most powerful don on the East Coast.
I don’t even say a word when I reach Fabiano, just grab his arm and haul him away from Isla.
“The fuck,” he sputters, until he turns and realizes it’s me. “Saint. Sorry. You took me by surprise.”
“What were you doing?” I grind out, not bothering to accept his apology.
His expression goes wary. “Dancing.”
“Not anymore. Go get a coffee.”
He looks like he’s about to protest, so I give him a hard look. One that his him wilting like a rose in the sun. Fabiano nods.
“You got it. Want one for yourself?”
“Sure,” I tell him, even though I have no intention of drinking a coffee.
I make a dismissive gesture, and he scoots away like a scolded dog. Satisfied, I move through the dancers as “Mr. Brightside” starts playing. I don’t get far before I have a little chihuahua nipping at my heels.
Isla jumps in front of me, looking peeved.
“What was all that about?” she demands, as if she has the right.
“None of your concern,” I tell her and move to step around her and get the hell off this dance floor.
It’s too damn loud.
She grips my arm. “Wait.”
I stop and give her an annoyed look. “What’s the problem now, Jane?”
I know she doesn’t like it when I call her by the wrong name, which is why I do it as often as possible. She’s sexy as hell when she’s mad, and I need to keep her angry with me. It’ll be easier that way.
“What did Fabiano do wrong?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“You two certainly are cozy, aren’t you?” I can’t keep the edge from my voice.
Fabiano’s a decent-enough kid, but he’s twenty-one and thinking with his dick, and there’s no way I’m allowing him anywhere near Isla for the rest of the night.
“We were dancing together.”
“His hand was on your ass.”
Her mouth falls open. “It was not.”
“Don’t tell me I didn’t see it with my own two eyes.”
“We were dancing. That’s all. He’s not in trouble, is he?”
Jesus, does she think I’m going to clip my own cousin at my brother’s wedding because he copped a feel? I stare down at her and realize that, yes, that’s exactly what she’s worrying about.
“The only trouble he’s in is the kind he’ll make for himself if he doesn’t listen to me,” I tell her, which is a hell of a lot more than I have to tell her.
Then I walk away again.
She follows me.
Of course she does.
“What does that mean?” she asks, struggling to keep up with my long strides in her silk dress and strappy sandals.
“It means what you think it does.”
“So now I’m not allowed to dance with fellow guests at the reception?”
We reach the table I left, my Macallan still waiting for me. We’re far enough from the music that I can hear her without her having to yell. But the music is still loud, and we’re off to the side, in the shadows not illuminated by the multicolored dance floor lights.
“You’re not allowed to grind on my little cousin while he grabs your ass, no,” I snap. “Is that all? I’ve got some scotch to drink.”
She crosses her arms over her chest again, which is a shame because it blocks my view of her hard nipples. “I wasn’t grinding on him. For one thing, he’s too young for me. I don’t date college kids—my ex did enough of that for both of us. For another, he was just being friendly.”
“Any friendlier, and he would have had you up against the wall.” I lift my drink to her in mock salute and then down a mouthful, relishing the smooth burn.
“At least Fabiano didn’t follow me into a bathroom.”
“If he even thinks about it, I’ll tie an anchor to him and throw him into the fucking ocean.”
Her lips part, but nothing emerges. I kind of like that I’ve managed to render her speechless. For the second time.
“Cat got your tongue, Jane?” I lean closer, inhaling orange and pineapple and everything I want so badly but absolutely cannot fucking have. “Better be careful. Leave your pretty mouth hanging open like that for too long, and I’ll be tempted to stick my dick back in it.”
“You’re a real prick, you know that?”
I drain some more of my Macallan. “I do my job. That’s all.”
“So it’s your job to police the wedding guests, insult the maid of honor, and threaten to kill one of the groom’s cousins?” She sounds horrified.
“I never said I’d kill Fabiano.” I shrug a shoulder. “I just said I’d throw him into the ocean with an anchor attached to him. You inferred the rest.”
“You’re a psycho, you know that?”
My lip curls. “I think you better watch what you say to me. That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble, Jane.”
“Stop calling me Jane. You know what my name is.”
“Yeah, but pissing you off is my new favorite sport.”
“Find a different one.”
I give her a feral grin. “Nah. Don’t think I will.”
We trade glares. I’m impassive, a fucking rock. Nothing she can do or say will get to me. This is a battle Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Writing Professor is never going to win.
Fabiano shows up then, a hesitant air about him, holding two cups of coffee on saucers.
He extends one to me. “Um, I guess here’s the coffee you wanted, Saint?”
I raise my glass to him. “I’m having Macallan right now. Maybe go and serve it to Zia Maria instead.”
His forehead wrinkles. “But you said…”
He catches the expression on my face, and his words trail off. He’s probably had one too many drinks. He’s not usually this dense, but at least he’s catching on.
“Right.” He nods so emphatically that some of the coffee sloshes onto the saucer. “Of course. I’ll just…go, then.”
He sends a longing look in Isla’s direction. And I get it. She’s hot as fuck. But she’s not for him. Not in this century.
“Good idea,” I tell him. “But go and clean up those saucers first. You can’t go around offering Zia Maria sloppy, half-full coffees that are fucking dripping all over the place. Show some respect, stronzo.”
“I will. I’ll clean it up.” He nods again, poor kid, and more coffee spills.
I’d feel bad for him if his hand hadn’t been on Isla’s luscious ass. He’s lucky I don’t chop it off at the damn wrist.
“I’ll go with you,” Isla volunteers, giving me the look of death.
Fabiano takes one look at me and realizes what a terrible idea that is.
“No,” he blurts so loudly that an older Andriani couple a few tables down looks at us. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He forces a smile, and I wonder if it’s as painful as it looks. “See you around.”
“See you,” she says, frowning as she watches him go back to the coffee bar to fix the saucers and refill the cups at my directive. Then she turns to me, her irritation even more obvious. “Did you really have to intimidate him like that?”