“You’re out and about,” she said, obviously pleased. “How’s the leg?”
He downplayed the pins and needles and incessant burning. “On the mend.”
Mel snorted. “You better drink that tea I gave you.”
King cringed at the thought of it. He’d tried one sip and found it tasted like dirt and crushed earthworms.
“Don’t make that face,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Drink it unless you want to walk with a cane.”
“Canes can be cool. I can get one with a skull on top. Black maybe.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You still coming over for dinner?” he asked. “I’ve got everything for the lasagna.”
“I’ll be over at 7:00,” she said. “You better have the drag race show on for me.”
King tipped his imaginary hat and started the slow climb up the steps to his apartment. He held the metal handrail and took them one at a time. He was breathing hard, sweat standing out on his brow by the time he reached his door.
It was dark and quiet when he entered.
He hesitated, listening to the ringing silence, expecting to find her there.
She wasn’t.
Lou had checked on him twice in the three weeks since he returned from the hospital. He’d offered to give her Lucy’s ashes, even though Lucy specified in her will that they were to go to King. Lou refused to accept them. So Lucy’s urn remained on his enormous coffee table during the day, and on his bedside table each night.
He’d also tried to get Lou to talk about what had happened that day at the winery, but she’d brushed him off. She didn’t seem eager to talk about Lucy or Konstantine.
She had promised to come back though, once they’d both healed, and help him get his P.I. business off the ground. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her that the P.I. business would be a front for something else he had in mind. Another, perhaps better, way to help people.
But that conversation would come. If time was on their side.
King placed the sack of beignets on the kitchen island and opened the fridge. He gathered everything he needed for the lasagna from its shelves. The meat and cheeses. The sauce and peppers. He removed a pan from the drawer beneath the stove and threw the meat, chopped garlic and red onion into it. He stirred it while it browned. Once it was cooked and the danger of poisoning was behind him, he would make the layers in a casserole dish and hold it in the fridge until it was time to bake. Then he would take a long nap before Mel came over.
The kitchen already smelled like heaven when the phone rang.
“King.”
“Robbie,” a man said. “I heard you got shot.”
When he recovered from his surprise, King spit out, “Flesh wound.”
“Mm hmm,” Sampson replied. A chair creaked on the other end. “That’s what you said about your shoulder and you were in Quantico for months.”
King added meat to the pan. “You calling to check on me, Sammy? Or do we need to have another chat?”
“No,” he said. “No, that’s all panned out.”
King’s hand faltered in the stirring. “Oh yeah?”
“Turns out that it wasn’t even you who did the digging.”
“Is that right?”
“According the data our IT guys pulled,” Sampson said. “I just wanted you to know so you weren’t worried. The department formally apologizes for accusing you of any wrongdoing.”
“I didn’t realize I was formally accused.”
“All the same. I thought you’d like to know.”
Silence hung in the phone before King choked out a “thank you.”
“Dare I ask how you got shot?”
“Mugger. Here in the Quarter. They’re getting bolder these days.”
“Must be the recession,” Sampson added. “Money makes desperate men.”
King had fabricated that story as soon as his eyes had opened in the hospital room. He wasn’t about to explain to a doctor and his staff that the bullet had come from a shootout in the Tuscan hills. Or they might’ve wheeled his bed right on down to the psych ward.
“You be careful out there, Robbie. You’re attracting a lot of trouble these days.”
King laughed, dumping the sauce from the jar into the sautéed meat and peppers. “It sure does seem to find me, doesn’t it?”
* * *
Konstantine knew she was there before he stepped out of his bathroom and into his bedroom. Something about the pressure in his apartment had changed. A sensation on the back of the neck, like being watched. Premonition or no, the sight of her body silhouetted in the big window, not three feet from his bed, squeezed the air from his chest.
Her lithe form was bathed in moonlight as she gazed out over the night river. So beautiful that he didn’t want to turn on the light and ruin the magic of this moment.
She seemed transfixed by the shimmering waters, by starlight shining on buildings and cobblestone. A boat tread water noiselessly down the center of the Arno river, cutting waves.
He continued to towel his hair, aware he was bare from the chest up. He’d stepped from the shower and pulled on his sweatpants for sleep. Had he known she would be here to greet him, maybe he would have left them on the hook behind the door.
“They call you the Executioner,” he said softly, as if speaking too loudly might scare her away. “Not only in the Ravengers. Ricci tells me it’s true the world over. You’ve become their boogeyman.”
“A rumor you encourage, I’m sure.” She spoke without turning around, her arms still crossed over her chest. He didn’t mind. He appreciated the view from behind.
But finally she did turn and meet his gaze.
“The world stopped looking for you,” she said. “One minute every agency in the world was hunting you, the next they’re apologizing, calling it a mistake. Running a bullshit story about how a poor Italian farmer was martyred and his family’s vineyard burned.”
Konstantine smiled. “I needed an excuse for the pile of ash and rubble we left behind.”
She turned away from him. He looked at the pale stretch of her neck and longed to kiss it. Those sharp collar bones. He was only a step away from wrapping his hand around her waist, and biting that little notch of bone.
Brick by brick.
“Do you own all the world agencies?” she asked. “Or just the right people in each?”
“Does it matter?” he asked. She had enough truth for now.
He could tell she was still trying to realign her compass. She hadn’t completely given up her father’s position on drugs and the drug trade. On men like himself. But she was starting to see it more clearly, the way good and evil were not so clearly aligned. Not in the world and not even within themselves.
He would never own her. Never tame her. And he didn’t want to.
But he wanted her to understand. He would give her the time she needed.
“And here I thought you were just a rich boy.”
He gazed at her slender neck again. The little space behind her ear that must be as soft as a flower petal. “I’m not without my weaknesses.”
“Yeah, your scar is ugly,” she said.
He laughed, surprised. “I was told that it needs to fully heal before any plastic surgery is done.”
The doctors had accomplished what they could in spite of Nico’s malice, but he’d cut the cheek deep. It had taken four surgeries already just to mend the muscles beneath and save Konstantine from a lopsided expression. He’d gotten lucky. The surgeon had done a good job of restoring him to his former glory, leaving only a jagged line from the bottom of Konstantine’s eye to his chin.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t?” He stared at the river, side by side with her. Their shoulders brushed.
He couldn’t name one feature of the landscape before him. It was only the heat from her shoulder, the shift of her hips he was aware of.
“You were too pretty before,” she said. “Now your men might actually respect you.”
>
He laughed. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“Not that you need your face to get what you want,” she said. She was watching him again. He didn’t dare meet those beautiful eyes, not while his knees felt weak.
“I have something for you.” He was certain she was still pissed about the room, but he was determined to make it up to her, prove to her that he meant her no harm. “Before we burned down the villa, I found this.”
He threw the towel on the back of the chair and crossed to the closet. He pressed on the top two corners of the wall, then the bottom two to release the false wood panel.
Behind it, he pulled out the bulletproof vest and offered it to her. “I had it repaired. The Kevlar was as thin as paper on the right side, along the ribs. The right knife or bullet would’ve punched right through. It isn’t the best protection anymore, you know. They’ve upgraded this model about six times since your father was on the force. But it holds value to you so I thought you’d want to keep it. For luck.”
She took it from his hands and turned it over, inspecting the extra layers that had been sewn in.
“Mario is very good. He kept the thin profile but added all this extra Kevlar here,” he assured her, expecting her to be furious that the vest had been altered.
But then she found the white tag in the inside and the black scrawled Thorne across it. “He tells me that when you put it on, you won’t even notice the—”
A hand seized the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. A hot mouth overtook his, forcing the lips apart with her tongue. Their bodies collided and all Konstantine could feel was every inch of her supple form against his. Full frontal. Thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. Her nipples brushing his.
One of her hands slid up into his damp hair while the other clutched her vest.
When he put his hands on her, he realized she hadn’t brought a gun. She’d come to his dark bedroom, unarmed and now she was kissing him.
Damn patience.
Konstantine’s arms slid under her thighs and lifted her off her feet. For a moment, all her weight sat on the cradle of his hips. He only made it three steps—only needed three steps—before he hit the side of the bed and collapsed. They went down, hitting the mattress like stones, her body pinned beneath his.
His mouth moved to find hers again but brushed only cool cotton. Her hard body was gone. Her heat evaporated.
He was left with only moonlit sheets and pillows.
He collapsed onto the mattress and laughed. He rolled onto his back and groaned at the ceiling. “I suppose I deserved that.”
Fine. Let her go.
She wasn’t the only one who enjoyed a hunt.
Did you enjoy this book? You can make a BIG difference.
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I don’t have the same power as big New York publishers who can buy full spread ads in magazines and you won’t see my covers on the side of a bus anytime soon, but what I *do* have are wonderful readers like you.
And honest reviews from readers garner more attention for my books and help my career more than anything else I could possibly do—and I can’t get a review without you!
So if you would be so kind, I’d be very grateful if you would post a review for this book. It only takes a minute or so of your time and yet you can’t imagine how much it helps me.
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If you would be so kind, please find your preferred retailer here and leave a review for this book today.
Eternally grateful,
Kory
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Acknowledgments
It’s always best to begin with the wife, Kim. Because really, she puts up with me more than anyone. And it’s lucky for me that she happens to be such a great reader herself, and she is able to make wonderful suggestions every time. My books are better because of her, but more importantly, my life is worth living because she’s in it.
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My love goes to my sweet pug Josephine, who passed on while I was writing this book. This is the last book I will have written with her nestled beside me on my office couch. Her companionship will be sorely missed. And love to Charlemagne “Charley” the newest pug addition to the family, who kept my feet warm while I did the last read through.
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Thank you to my critique group, The Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse: Kathrine Pendleton, Angela Roquet, and Monica La Porta. You guys give every story the critical eye it deserves and because of that, you make the books better—and me a better writer. Let’s ride!
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Special shout-out to Diana Hutchings, nurse extraordinaire, for patiently answering my questions about gunshot wounds. Monica La Porta and Alison Carminke for their help with the Italian—giving Konstantine and Nico some authenticity. And the dozens of Street Team proofreaders who helped me catch those last minute errors. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
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Thank you to my street team who are always eager to jump in line for ARCs. You guys are incredibly supportive and helpful about catching those last minute typos. If you’re interested in joining my street team, and receiving advanced copies of my work, you can let me know at [email protected]
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Thank you to the incredibly talented Christian Bentulan for the beautiful cover.
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Thank you to every person who took the time to say hello online. To everyone who took the time to write me a sweet, thoughtful email, Facebook or Twitter message, blog comment, or leave a review for this book. By doing so, you are letting me know that you enjoy my work and want it to continue.
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And for me, that’s a dream come true.
About the Author
Kory M. Shrum is an award-winning and USA TODAY bestselling author of fantasy and thrillers--and something else that's a bit of each. She's an active member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Horror Writers of America, and the Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse, where she's known as Conquest.
When not reading, writing, or battling her pug for the covers, she loves to plan her next adventure. She lives in Michigan with her equally bookish wife, Kim, and their rescue pug, Charley.
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She’d love to hear from you!
www.korymshrum.com
Also by Kory M. Shrum
Dying for a Living series (Complete)
Dying for a Living
Dying by the Hour
Dying for Her: A Companion Novel
Dying Light
Worth Dying For
Dying Breath
Dying Day
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Shadows in the Water: Lou Thorne Thrillers (ongoing)
Shadows in the Water
Under the Bones
Danse Macabre
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Design Your Destiny Castle Cove Series (ongoing)
Welcome to Castle Cove
Night Tide
Into the Wayward Woods
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Standalone
Badass and the Beast: 10 “Tails” about Kickass Heroines and the Beasts That Love Them
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Learn more about Kory’s work at her website: www.korymshrum.com
Under the Bones Page 26