The Marker: Book One in the Bridge Series

by Howes, Ann

  “This a Sig?” I ask.

  Alfie nods.

  “Clean?”

  “Like bleach,” Alfie says. “No serial numbers. Ain’t nobody gonna trace that as long as you keep it clean. No prints, no DNA.”

  The 9mm slide is free of rust and the grip’s rough in my palm. Feels good and not so big it wouldn’t fit in my purse.

  I hand it over to Billy, who does his own careful examination.

  “Good choice.” He nods.

  “Who ya gonna whack with that?” Alfie asks.

  “No whacking,” I answer and hope it’s the truth. “Protection only.”

  Alfie looks at Billy, studies him for a moment, then slides his eyes back to me. “Who’s the son of a bitch who smacked your face?”

  My face burns. “Um…my ex.”

  “Ex got a name?”

  “You’re sweet, Alfie, but I’d rather not say.”

  He grunts and flexes a depleted bicep adorned with what used to be a rose. “Not so strong no more, but I still got it. Anytime you need help.”

  I shake my head and blow out some air. ‘Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

  Damn.

  “Never mind that now. Time to celebrate your new friend.” Alfie pats my knee, pushes himself up and shuffles into the kitchen, returning with three long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of grappa. After pouring he hands one to each of us. “To Joey, your pop, may they rest in peace, and to your safety. Salute

  It’s the good stuff and goes down smoothly. Alfie offers more, I decline, having reached my alcohol limit, but Billy accepts. We watch the last few minutes of Darryl losing his kick-ass bike in the burned forest. When it’s over, Billy pays Alfie in cash, doling out more fifties.

  Jeez, how much cash does he carry? Ten minutes later we’re back in his car, heading home with my new best friend stashed in my purse.

  “Let me pay you back, Uncle Billy.”

  “No,” he states. “Birthday present, take it.”

  “Okay, but…”

  “Be doing me a favor and I’ll sleep better knowing you have protection. You have a problem you call me or Gianni. We’ll come, no questions.”

  He may, but I’m not so sure about Gianni.

  I’m not sure I want to involve anyone else, but he’s right. I may as well get used to my new normal.

  4

  You’re dangerous

  * * *

  Back home, even though finding parking is almost impossible, Billy insists on riding the elevator up with me, ensuring no stalkers are camped at my door. After a quick walk through, he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Call you in the morning, kiddo. Make sure you lock behind me.”

  My cozy little apartment is freezing but no longer stinks of burnt brownies, given we’d left the windows open. I shut them, set the thermostat to seventy-five and search my phone for some music.

  The Black Keys’ “I’ll Be Your Man” pair with my speakers and, still loose from the booze, I sing along while I undress until my phone pings interrupting the music.

  Cass. My BFF and boss. How’s the flu? Need me to bring you chicken soup?

  Crap.

  I hate lying to her but I can’t have her checking on me. Cass disliked Dean and I told you so’s aren’t anything I want to deal with.

  Me: I’m good thanks. Love you for asking.

  Cass: When you coming back to work? Miss you.

  Me: Tuesday xx

  I plug my phone into the charger in an outlet in the kitchen then hit my bathroom. After a shower, I lotion up and slip into my favorite pink flannel pajamas, missing the top button. I don’t care. Not like anyone’s here to see me and I smell like petunias.

  A girl could do worse considering my eye’s improved somewhat. The swelling is down but the color’s a different story. As I’m about to sip some tea and play with my new toy, a knock on my door makes me jump.

  Please not Dean, please not Dean, I chant to myself.

  I have no bullets for my gun yet, but the Sig will inflict enough damage if I have to hit him in the head. When I peer through the peephole, my eyebrows spring up an inch and I lose my breath.

  Good God!

  It’s Gianni, looking intense and dressed like a biker straight off the cover of Born to Ride magazine. A stark contrast to the tailored suit he wore yesterday. I’d forgotten how well he fills out a pair of jeans and tonight the ones he wears mold extra well to certain male parts of his anatomy.

  While he waits, he leans against the wall opposite my door, one leg bent at the knee, cradling a black helmet.

  I wonder if he’s still riding the Harley, because Gianni on that Harley is all kinds of hot. And I mean Habanero pepper kind of hot!

  Cherry Meloni isn’t wrong.

  The man defines male, with the reputation to go along. No doubt a long trail of wet panties and broken hearts flutter in his wake.

  I pull in a shaky breath, put on my game face and open the door, ignoring the way the needle on my hunk-o-meter spikes.

  Hoo boy.

  We stare at each other for several long heartbeats but I refuse to be the first to break eye contact.

  “Well?” he says, straightening and taking a step forward, not letting me win.

  “Well, what?”

  “Hello would be a good start.”

  Asshole.

  “Hello works both ways, Gianni.”

  “You gonna invite me in or stand there staring at me?” That gaze finally drops and does a slow scan of my body, stopping at my pink toenails and leaving me…well, a little flustered. At least my toes match my pajamas and I bite back a smile at my small victory. Wouldn’t do to gloat, especially as I’m going to be stupid and let him in.

  I step aside.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He ignores my question and as he brushes past me flicks my pajama top collar.

  “Cute. Had these since you were…what, twelve?”

  Yep. I allow myself a mental eye roll. STUPID.

  “Wow. Still a smart ass, huh.”

  He smirks, and shrugs out of his leather jacket. Too bad for me that hard stomach is covered by a tight, light blue tee-shirt. I can see the valleys in between his muscles and if I had underwear on, I’d be needing to change them soon.

  As it is, my stomach quivers and I’m having a hard time breathing. Like his presence sucked out all the oxygen in the room.

  “Why are you here?” I ask again, cursing inwardly as my voice comes out all breathy.

  “Maybe I just want to see you.”

  A girl can wish. However, my flirt-alert flag’s a-flying bright and strong and I need to remind myself he’s taken.

  Off limits.

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  Those gorgeous eyes narrow. “Why would you doubt it?”

  I shrug, and he doesn’t press any further. Instead he digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out my sunglasses.

  “Thought I’d be nice and bring you these.” He places them on my coffee table, slowly and without taking his eyes off me. When he’s upright again, he moves a step closer. That quivery feeling’s grown to a full body shiver.

  “Unless you’re planning on shooting me, De Luca, I suggest you put the gun away.”

  Only, I’m not paying attention to his words, because I’m distracted by how close he is and how good he smells. Clean and manly, but without the spicy aftershave he wore yesterday. Just him. I swallow.

  “Shelley.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the gun.”

  A tiny, evil part of me hopes I’m making him as nervous as he’s making me. “Not sure I want to.” He doesn’t have to know there’re no bullets in the chamber.

  “I’m not your enemy, babe.” He moves forward and I move back, bumping into the barstool carrying his jacket. It tips a little, trapping me between it and his thighs.

  Long fingers wrap around mine. “Let go, Shelley, before one of us gets hurt.”

  I can’t. Though his hands a
re warm, I’m frozen and we stand like that for what seems a really long time.

  “Not going to hurt you.” His breath whispers across my temple. “Relax.”

  I relax, but only because I think I’m melting and not from any conscious action on my part.

  Big, warm hands engulf mine, then pointing the gun away and towards the corner, he uncurls my fingers. My mind can’t seem to process as he leans in, reaching past me to place the Sig on the breakfast bar.

  All of me is pressed against all of him and I can’t help it, but I have to breathe. Which means when I inhale, I inhale him. This stirs me up, but in a really good, yet really bad way.

  “Um…”

  “Yeah?”

  Remember, I remind myself, the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, looking down at me with eyes that aren’t so cool anymore, but nice and warm and all kinds of playful.

  One of us moves. Could’ve been me, but my breasts rub against him, hardening my nipples and shooting bolts of electricity all the way down there. That hard torso tenses as he emits a small grunt and that square, yummy jaw with all that wonderful stubble clenches.

  God, I want to kiss him. Wrap my arms around his neck, grab that thick hair and pull him down and taste his mouth.

  But I can’t. I blink, surprised I’m not spontaneously combusting on the spot, pull my hand from his, put both to that solid wall that’s his chest and push. He moves, but not enough for me to step aside.

  “Move,” I say, perhaps not quite as firmly as I should.

  “I’m kinda liking where I’m at.”

  Indeed he is, if the growing ridge in his pants pressed against me is an indication, and good lord, he’s tempting. Not gonna lie, but so not the point.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  “Testing something.”

  Testing what? How easily I’ll give in to him? If he still has that power I tried desperately to hide, but am sure he knew he always had over me? I force my eyes to get hard and push against him again. “I said step aside.”

  He sighs, looking almost disappointed and moves back, and only when I’m clear, I realize I’m trembling. Not from fear, however. I clear my throat.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately, and I get the feeling that, erection aside, he’s not unaffected by what just happened. Like he needs a moment too.

  At last, he answers. “Billy might have told me.”

  I’m going to kill him.

  “You should’ve called first. You know, good manners and all that stuff.”

  “Maybe.” Seemingly recovered, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “But if I had, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing you in your little-girl pajamas.”

  Dammit, why does he have to smile?

  In all the years I knew him before, I’d seen him smile of course. Always aimed at the women he was with and never at me. Maybe a little upturn of his lips, or a lip twitch indicating he found me funny, (probably of the peculiar kind and not the ha-ha kind), but never so it hit his eyes.

  Except once. And that was the day I fell for him. At a Giants game. I caught a foul ball, beating out both Joey and Gianni. Joey was mildly pissed. However, when I looked at Gianni expecting him to be mad that a girl beat him too, instead he looked really proud and gave me that smile.

  My heart tumbles and skips a beat at the memory. Makes me hate all those women who got to see that side of him. And there were a lot.

  He only breaks eye contact when he picks up my phone from the breakfast bar and pushes some buttons.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask again. It seems my vocabulary is limited to a few phrases around him. I snatch at it but he’s too fast and too tall, holding it above his head.

  “You reading my texts? Give that back to me.”

  “What’s your passcode.”

  “I’m not giving you my passcode.”

  “Either give me your passcode or your phone number. You choose.”

  “Why do want my number?”

  “Don’t be dense, De Luca.”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  God, he makes me act like I’m sixteen again. If I want it, I’m going to have to move close and I’m thinking this isn’t such a smart idea. So, I back off, choose the safest option and give him my passcode. It’s not like he’s going to remember it after tonight anyway.

  He thumbs some digits, hits the green button and a moment later his phone in the back pocket of his jeans rings before he disconnects.

  “You think I want to call you?”

  He shrugs. “You’re gonna need me at some point. May as well get this outta the way.”

  My eyes roll a little but not with any vigor. “What could I possibly need you for?”

  “I can think of several good reasons, but shit happens in our world. And when it does, you’ll need me. Or call me even if shit doesn’t happen. I’m open either way.”

  Was he implying I should be his booty-call fuck buddy? Very, very tempting, but I’m not heading down that path.

  Noop.

  “I’m not in your world anymore. Give me my phone.” I hold out my hand, but he ignores me and finishes entering his information. When he hands it back to me, I'm careful to avoid his fingers.

  “Under G for Gianni,” he says.

  “Not A for Asshole?”

  He doesn’t laugh, but his lips quirk, making the muscles between my legs do a little quirking of their own.

  “Speaking of manners, De Luca, where are yours? Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

  Since I don’t trust my voice, I simply stare.

  “You should be offering me something to drink for bringing back your sunglasses.”

  Shit.

  “I only have wine.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Of course it will, he’s Sicilian. I let out a big sigh and drop to my haunches to select a bottle of my best red from the rack under the breakfast bar. Ironically a gift from Dean, but it’s delicious and if I’m going to be drinking more alcohol, it may as well be primo.

  When I rise, he’s wandered to the chest of drawers, which holds a photo of myself and my parents, taken when I was sixteen. The last family picture before my dad died.

  While he studies it, his face is grave. “Your dad was a good man. You must miss him.”

  I nod and keep my eyes on him, watching as he works his throat. Next, he moves on to the amber necklace I left next to the photo.

  He turns it over, and the way he runs a thumb over the letters that spell my name scrolled into the silver on the back seems almost tender. The hair on my arms rise, like they did when I first picked it up. Like Joey was suddenly in the room with us again.

  Gianni stills and holds it for so long I wonder if he feels it too. I expect him to ask me about it. When he doesn’t, I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  After returning the heart to its place on the dresser, he saunters back to me but something’s definitely shifted. The air’s thicker, full of that same crackly vibe I sensed yesterday at the funeral. His expression is pensive, but gives me no clue as to what he’s thinking.

  Confused, I push the wine over the granite towards him, along with my corkscrew. He catches it mid slide and examines the label while I reach up to grab two glasses hanging from underneath the cabinet. Thanks to the missing button, my pajama top gapes open and suddenly my naked boob is pointing straight at his face.

  Crud.

  It was subtle, but I heard it. The hiss that passed across his lips, but what affected me more was the way his body went taut, how he stilled.

  My belly tightens in response and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I liked how he closed his eyes in a slow blink. And that it took longer than it should before he resumed twisting the cork out of the bottle.

  My face flushes, but I manage to adjust my top without making too much of a big deal out of it. After all, it’s not my fault he showed up unannounced catching me in my oldest and
least sexy pajamas. And I’m sure he’s seen more than his fair share of boobs. My meager C cups won’t be starting any wars or launching a thousand dirty fantasies any time soon. Not when he has access to a pair of double Ds.

  He’s silent while he uncorks the wine. On the surface he looks relaxed, but something about the way he pours suggests he’s not. As he passes me a glass our fingers touch and a tingle shoots up my arm. When that tingle passes over my nipples and hits my center, my teeth dig into my lip. It’s a defensive move, not a flirtatious one. Supposed to suppress the little gasp threatening to escape. But that isn’t how he reads it.

  His gaze lifts from my lip and when our eyes lock, his have gone steely.

  “Are you fucking with me, Shelley?” His words, though spoken mildly, carry a hint of danger.

  “Uh…excuse me?”

  “You should know by now, I’m not a man you fuck with.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, only because I don’t know what else to say, before it occurs to me to find my lady balls. The man is in my house and being a jerk, even if it is standard behavior with him. “Except you don’t get to do that here.”

  “Do what?”

  “Drink wine and be a jerk in my house.”

  The silence stretches while he holds my eyes, searching them for what, I couldn’t say. Then, in typical bi-polar Gianni fashion he does a one-eighty.

  “You’re right,” he capitulates. “That was rude. I’d hate for you to have a reason to want to use your Sig on me. How about we toast to Joey instead?”

  I nod but avoid his gaze when we tap glasses, though I feel the weight of his.

  “Rest, little brother,” he murmurs. “I hope you find some peace.”

  Those words send a chill down my spine and I wonder if perhaps he had felt Joey in the room the way I did a few minutes ago when he was touching my necklace.

  “You said you talked to him?” he asks.

  “I did.”

  “And…?”

  “And nothing.”

  “This isn’t pulling teeth, De Luca.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, Gianni, there’s really not much to say. We talked on the phone and he asked me to dinner. That’s it. What I’m wondering is why this surprises you.”