Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance

by Watson, Meg

  Gathering my dignity and holding myself as tall as possible, I breezed out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, scooping up my shoes by the straps and refilling my purse.

  “Listen I really have to get going…” I sighed casually as I swept out into the kitchen, then stopped. Kevin was gone. There was a yellow sticky note on the fridge.

  Nice to see you. Doorman will lock up. Take care.

  “Nice to see me,” I echoed quietly, deflating as I looked around at what was intended to be temporary housing: the rustic loft on the bay with the sweeping views. It was supposed to be our weekend getaway, our cosmopolitan, city-hopping, hipster pied-a-terre. It was not supposed to be the far end of a tin can telephone line. It was definitely not supposed to be that.

  I saluted the city view and the exposed beams and slid my feet back into the garish heels that looked so cute when I hopped onto the commuter flight yesterday afternoon, all blooming with possibilities.

  “Over and out,” I muttered under my breath and yanked open the carved mahogany door, letting it close solidly behind me.

  CHAPTER 2

  I HANDED THE cab driver my last twenty and wobbled briskly through the sliding glass doors to the airfield terminal, looking all around for the “buffest mofos you ever saw,” as Bridget had described them to me. After a few aimless turns in a circle, I headed for a small bank of benches and hoped she had given them a more accurate description so they could find me, rather than me standing there like a hooker looking for a ride back to LA.

  My dress was an embarrassing glare of cantaloupe-colored shame and I wished desperately that I had thought to pack an overnight bag before heading up to see Kevin yesterday. What was I thinking? Was not bringing a bag supposed to be somehow demure?

  You didn’t even book a return flight, I reminded myself. That’s just how not-demure you are.

  Sighing, I dumped myself onto an empty bench and reached down to fiddle with the strap of my shoe. Something was wrong with it; it kept coming loose but my head throbbed dangerously every time I tried to get a better look. Finally I gave up and sat up straight, tucking my hair behind my ears with my fingers and grinning apologetically as the man across from me glanced up at me over the screen of his notebook.

  “It’s, uh… broken or something,” I explained pointlessly. He nodded with a small smile, his eyes flickering over my cleavage, disheveled hair, and trashy, half-wrecked shoes. My belly churned with shame. I wanted to swaddle myself in a beach towel or muumuu or something dignified like that.

  “You look like a woman in need of reading material,” he suggested. His blue eyes danced with genuine mirth and I found myself feeling not quite as shy under his gaze. Some voice in the back of my mind reminded me how trampy I looked as I tried to sit in a way that said Yes I dress like this because I’m an artist, not a desperately clingy ex-girlfriend.

  It’s amazing what “artist” will let you get away with.

  “Do I?” I answered, not sure what else to say but curious if he was playing out a comedic bit. For that square jaw and those wide, strong hands I figured I was willing to play his straight man.

  “Well, that’s my guess,” he said affably, snapping his notebook closed and zippering open a beautiful mocha-colored crocodile bag.

  Geez, Hermes, I noted with awe. That bag costs more than my car.

  “OK, I’ve got… let’s see,” he murmured as he rummaged through the bag contents. I watched his eyes crinkle and couldn’t help but smile as well. He was enjoying himself and the feeling was contagious.

  “You like espionage thrillers?” He glanced back at me. I stared at him like a deer in headlights, afraid to shake my head too quickly during the opening gambit of his bit.

  “Pssh. Of course you don’t like espionage thrillers,” he snorted, continuing his search. “True crime?”

  “You have true crime in there?” I asked, curious.

  “Yeah, well… let’s call that a guilty pleasure. Biography? Fiction? Fictionalized biography?”

  “Like who?” I asked. Curiosity overwhelmed me and I switched my seat, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through his belongings. I felt like I was poking through his dresser drawers and politely averted my eyes to his strong, ropy forearms.

  Fitness guru? I wondered. Racecar driver? Longshoreman-and-hair-care-product-heir?

  “No, wait… wait, I’ve got it,” he said, plunging his hand to the bottom and digging for something. He pulled a tattered paperback copy of Zac Attack from the bag and held it up with a grin.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I chuckled. “You know that’s a biography of Zac Efron?”

  “Precisely.”

  “So you’re really into High School Musical then?”

  “Well…” he sighed. “I read. It’s an addiction. Sometimes I get stuck in airfield terminals and people, you know… they leave things.”

  My mouth dropped open and I gasped in melodramatic horror. “You scavenge for paperbacks in airport terminals?”

  His grin widened even further, creasing his cheeks with long vertical gouges. “I don’t know if scavenge is the right word.”

  “It’s totally the right word,” I assured him. “You’re like a paperback carrion-eater.”

  “Well I can’t just leave them there, now can I? Like orphans? I think I’m probably more of a fiction-avenging Mother Theresa.”

  “No I think I like carrion-eater better. It’s more manly,” I asserted.

  “Carrion-eater, huh,” he chuckled. “But you totally want the book, now don’t you.”

  I pressed my lips together and peered at the homely, tattered paperback in his hands, leaning forward slightly, trying to see if he got cuter as I got closer. Oh, holy hell. He smelled like sex and coffee. My belly gnawed at itself in either desire or hunger, I couldn’t quite tell which. Would it be too much to just lick his jaw to be sure? Probably.

  “I kinda do,” I admitted, but then threw up my hands and shook my head. “But you know what, if you’re all about saving abandoned paperbacks, I don’t want to swoop in and re-orphan the fiction you just heroically rescued.”

  “No, take it… Take it!” he said generously, thrusting it toward me.

  “Are you sure?” I asked timidly. “Really, really sure?”

  “Yes, please do. You’re helping me out. Making room for the next kitchen tool instructions or Japanese manga I find in a men’s room stall.”

  “Gross.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well OK,” I agreed, plucking the book from his hand and flipping it over to check out the back cover. A grinning picture of Zac blared up at me next to the enticing selling point: color photos inside!

  “I’m just doing this for you,” I informed him.

  “Understood.”

  I stared hard at the back cover, trying to make the sentences flow through my addled brain in an orderly fashion, but it was no use. The combination of man, hangover, and hunger had fogged my brain into non-compliance. Nothing was getting through, no matter what.

  Letting my long, dark hair fall over the left side of my face, I took the chance to peek at him through the fringe. Blue eyes. Dark, shiny hair in a thick tousle that swept back from his unlined forehead. Expensive, dark-washed jeans and richly gleaming leather loafers. A simple belt that I could probably undo with my teeth.

  Oh, holy hell, I thought for the hundredth time.

  “Say, you’re not Jackson Burke are you?” I said with a bit of a cringe, wanting him very much to say: “No, I am another totally unrelated art collector that you just happened to bump into and then shamelessly flirt with in a private airfield in the San Francisco Bay. What luck!”

  His face broke into a confused, polite smile.

  I squinted and wrinkled my nose, wishing desperately I’d kept my seat on the other bench and hadn’t just gone all schoolgirl-flirt on this man, the one I was supposed to be professionally ferrying.

  “I didn’t, like, recognize you or anything,” I sa
id, artlessly trying to convey I wasn’t a stalker. “I just sort of figured… Oh never mind. Bridget sent me to escort you to LA? I’m Margo Trask?”

  “Oh!” he said, piecing the information together. “Well, that’s great… That’s great…”

  I nodded politely and tried to reorganize myself into a less trampy position. “Right! It’s great. Well I guess I don’t have to have you paged to the white courtesy telephone now.”

  “Absolutely not. Here I am,” he said plainly, looking at me with his supernova-style smile.

  Not possible, I reminded myself sternly. This man is your client. Keep it in your panties, girl.

  He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and glanced at the face, then reached over and zippered his bag closed.

  “I think they’re ready for us?” he said politely, hesitating for a moment to let me stand first.

  Oh Jesus, check out the manners. I may die before we get airborne.

  “Do you have a bag?”

  I shook my head and grabbed my purse from the seat. “Just me… Have purse, will travel.”

  He held his arm out. “OK. After you, Margot.”

  I smiled and walked ahead of him, supremely conscious of my butt cheeks jiggling under the flimsy, melon-colored fabric. Keeping my weight on the balls of my toes, I prayed for grace and a barrier-free stroll across the tarmac while I replayed the sound of him saying my name over and over.

  Margot.

  Margot.

  Margot.

  It sounded much cooler when he said it than when Bridget was hissing Maarrrrrrgohhh over the phone line at me.

  The sky was low and close, and a brisk wind gusted across the wide, white concrete. I held my skirt to my thighs and walked quickly to the open door of the cream and burgundy jet that rolled to a stop at the end of the airstrip. Every breeze threatened to either undress me or to chill me to the bone. The rapid weather change highlighted the folly of my impromptu trip and lack of forethought.

  Please try to act like something a little more classy than a bumpkin, I silently begged myself as I climbed the stairs, gripping the railing and counting down the number of steps before I would be safely in a seat and no longer in danger of tripping, falling, or hurling myself into a turbine or something. Not that it was likely; it’s just likely for me. I’ve learned that I have a peculiar talent for heretofore impossible feats of clumsiness. I think I may have been cursed by a gypsy as a child.

  A man in a dark blue turtleneck stood in the cabin patiently, smiling at me as I carefully mounted the stairs to the jet. He nodded politely when I was finally safely inside.

  “Morning, captain!” I said jovially.

  He grinned and winked at me. Taken aback by his rakish attitude, I darted quickly down the aisle to the left, finding a seat and turning to aim my backside at it. It was lower than I anticipated, and I fell into it with a loud whoosh and creak of the leather.

  Jackson ambled in behind me, stowing his bag behind the chair facing mine. He met my gaze as he sat, offering me another brilliant smile. Could he really be interested in me? It seemed a little too good to be true.

  The door closed with a hydraulic clang and the man in the turtleneck walked down the aisle, taking a seat on the long sofa across from me. I squinted at him slightly, wondering what was supposed to happen next. Was Jackson going to give some kind of sign that we were ready?

  “You’re not the captain,” I nodded, realizing that I had just called my other host a worker. I hoped this was the first and last dumb thing I was going to have to admit.

  “The pilot? No,” he grinned. My discomfort seemed to please him inordinately.

  “Pilot, right. Not captain,” I corrected myself.

  Two dumb things in 30 seconds, I thought. That has to be some kind of personal record.

  “You can call me Captain when we get to our boat,” he offered gamely.

  “Our boat?” I asked, unsure if that was on the itinerary or what.

  “Well let’s just see how this goes,” he winked, and I felt my cheeks go all hot in response. Oh, OK, this is the sort of guy who likes to mess with you for fun, I noted. Trip you and then pull you back up. Great. And here I am: a world-class klutz, ripe for falling.

  He stuck his hand out. “Declan Burke.”

  “Margot Trask,” I said, offering my hand and leaning forward just enough that I didn’t flash him too much cleavage.

  “I can see that,” he said with a grin fully as brilliant as his brother’s. His hand slipped against mine and held it firmly, securely. Tiny sparks of electricity jumped all along my arm and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to yank my arm back or just offer it to him to keep. How these two were just walking around on Earth, I could only begin to guess. They didn’t even seem real.

  The sound of the jet engines wound up, temporarily filling the cabin with an impenetrable roar as we began to speed down the runway. I closed my eyes as we took off, allowing the ascent to press me back against the soft, cream-colored leather with no resistance. I always loved the feeling of entering the air, how the earth drags you back, pulling you back to land until the plane commits to a cruising altitude.

  For long moments nobody spoke. I just kept my head down and hid my secret smile behind my hair. Flying on a private jet with (admittedly) the buffest mofos I ever saw… It was just too much.

  Rather than risk any more gaffes, I dragged the biography out of my purse and gingerly cracked the spine. The paper was stained and rigid, and I really didn’t want to think too hard about that.

  “So you’re a fan of the ‘Zefron’ are you?”

  I looked up and met Declan’s bemused smile with a defiant quirk of my eyebrow.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Oh no, no problem, certainly. I love a woman who reads. Tell me… where does a person procure such a fascinating tome?”

  He looked accusingly at Jackson, who just shrugged.

  “Never seen it before in my life,” he said innocently.

  “Huh,” Declan continued. “Well I guess you should consider yourself lucky you got your hands on it then, Margot. Jackson has read pretty much everything there is.”

  “Oh, you know… I’ve got the whole High School Musical and Hansen brothers collection now, so I’m considering it a bit of a win.”

  I crossed my legs at the knee, causing my heel to come unstrapped and dangle precariously off my toe.

  “Oh, my stupid shoe,” I gasped, reaching for it.

  “Let me,” Declan insisted. In an instant he was kneeling in front of me. One hand held my ankle and the other fit the shoe back on. His fingers deftly worked the straps closed and I sucked in my breath, unsure what to do.

  “It’s just the buckle,” he murmured, his eyes meeting mine. With a gentle pressure, he pushed my ankle slightly higher and I could feel my thighs separate. If he just glanced, I was sure he could see all the way up my skirt if he wanted to. But he didn’t look. He just kept his eyes trained on mine as my heart raced and my mouth went suddenly dry.

  “Th-- thanks…” I stammered as he set my foot down. Was that my imagination or did his fingers trace the back of my calf before he sat back on the sofa?

  “Coffee?” Jackson asked.

  “Wh-- what?”

  Please get your head together! I begged myself.

  “Coffee, miss?” a woman in a powder blue uniform asked as she set a silver tray service on the white-clothed table between us. I nodded gratefully at her and inhaled the thick, fragrant scent. My stomach burbled loudly, making me happy for the engine noise.

  “Here, let me…” Jackson charitably, preparing a tall mug of coffee with cream and sugar, just how I like it. He pushed it toward me and I smiled sheepishly, silently scolding myself for letting his brother fondle my foot. I knew it was ridiculous, but I felt a little immoral about the way my body had responded to Declan’s delicate touch right there in front of his brother.

  The first sip of coffee filled my sinuses with a deep warmth and perfume. I hadn’t
even realized how desperately I craved it until that moment, and I drank deeply, as quickly as I could without scalding myself.

  “Oh my god, this is so good,” I murmured, delighting in every sip, hoping there was a lot more on board.

  “Thanks. We have a little rainforest in Panama that farms this for us,” Declan said as he accepted a cup from his brother.

  A little rainforest, I repeated to myself. I’ll just bet that means like 40,000 acres or something.

  “Oh is that what you do? Coffee?”

  “Do?” Jackson repeated. “Coffee? No that’s more of a passing interest. It’s good though, right?”

  “It’s awesome,” I agreed, finishing my mug and sheepishly replacing it on the table cloth. Jackson refilled it without hesitation.

  “And what do you do?” Declan asked politely.

  “Me? I’m an artist.”

  “Yes, Bridget told us that, of course. I mean what do you do. What kind? What interests you?”

  “Ah… I’m a painter,” I began, drawing myself up and trying to seem at least passably confident. I felt myself wither under their light, wanting desperately to change the subject but knowing Bridget would kick my ass all the way to Baja if I let the moment slip away.

  Make it good, I could hear her voice say. It’s showtime.

  “I’m a contemporary realist. I work in oils on linen, but with a more modern sensibility.”

  That should do it.

  Declan cut his eyes toward Jackson. Some silent communication passed between them and I wondered for a moment just how close they were. They looked a lot alike, and I assumed they could be no more than a year apart in age. Tall, fit and lithe, they probably played on the same sports teams growing up. Though Declan had slightly lighter hair than Jackson’s shiny, dark tousle, they both had the same sky-blue gaze that fluttered my heart each time they looked at me.

  “OK, so what does that really mean,” Jackson persisted gently. “Without the artspeak. Just, you know… what are you trying to accomplish?”