Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’ll give you the courier’s information. I highly recommend them. I’m sure you’ll find they come in quite handy from time to time.”

  There follows another blistering string of curses. It’s long and colorful and revolves primarily around separating my genitals from my body and subjecting them to various unpleasantries.

  When he runs out of steam, I say, “The reason I’m calling is that I’m in love with your daughter.”

  A strange sound comes over the line. A gagging or choking sound. It’s very severe. He could be having a heart attack.

  “Sorry—back up. I neglected to mention that I was the one who saved her from the Serbians. They had her in a hole in the ground underneath an abandoned barn in the middle of the Massachusetts countryside. But obviously I wasn’t going to let that stand, considering she’s going to be my wife.”

  He sputters, “Y-you…you f-fucking…”

  “I know. But if Russia and the United States can make it through the cold war, you and I should be able to work something out.”

  To someone in the background, he shouts, “This fucking guy! Can you believe this fucking guy?”

  He comes back on the line, seething. “Listen, numbnuts. I don’t like crank calls, I don’t put up with assholes, and I sure as hell don’t allow the head of the Irish mafia to disrespect my family with this garbage you’re talking. Consider yourself dead!”

  “That would be inconvenient, since I was hoping we could meet face-to-face sometime in the next few days. I want to do you the respect of asking for your daughter’s hand in person.”

  More silence. More strange sounds. Plus some gasping.

  I don’t think I’m particularly good for his health.

  “Not that she needs your permission, obviously, but I’m old-fashioned. And perhaps we can also come to some agreement about what kind of contact you’ll have with your grandchildren. To be honest, it doesn’t sound like Juliet wants anything to do with you, but maybe I could convince her to let me send along a picture of our kids every once in a while. I can’t promise anything, though, so don’t hold me to it.”

  A loud thud comes over the line, followed by a wheeze.

  “How does Tuesday at ten in the morning sound? I’ll come alone.” I chuckle. “I’ll have to, considering I’ll be parachuting onto the deck of your megayacht.”

  I hear a weak gurgling and take that as an affirmation. “Great. See you then.”

  Just to twist the knife a little deeper, I add solemnly, “Dad.”

  I hang up, feeling pleased with myself. I think that went rather well.

  Then, after wrestling with my conscience for a while, I sit down to write a letter.

  32

  Juliet

  I wake up from a dream where I’m riding a unicorn through billowy rainbow clouds to find a folded letter on the pillow beside me.

  I’m alone in the room. It’s morning. Beyond the penthouse windows, Boston sparkles like a gem.

  I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, and gingerly place my feet onto the floor. I try my weight on them, supporting myself with a hand on the bed, and discover that the pain is manageable.

  The doctor at the hospital probably worked some kind of voodoo magic, knowing Killian would rip off his head on the spot if he didn’t.

  I stand, hobble into the bathroom, use the toilet, and brush my teeth. With my own purple toothbrush, which has somehow magically appeared in a tumbler by the sink. When I happen to glance into the giant closet in passing, I discover all my clothes are in there, too, hanging alongside miles of identical black Armani suits and crisp white dress shirts.

  Apparently, Killian has been busy while I’ve been asleep. It looks like I’ve officially moved in. I’d give him a hard time about not asking me if I wanted to or not, but he’d know I was only bluffing.

  But if I have any say in the matter, we’re redecorating. The Batman didn’t have a wife, but if he did, he’d never have gotten away with having the bat cave be so depressing. The place needs some colorful throw pillows and scented candles, at the very least.

  I remove one of the white dress shirts from its hanger and put it on. The hem hangs down to my knees. I have to fold the sleeves up over and over just to get them past my wrists. This thing could double as a dress for me.

  Then I head back to the bed, sit on the edge of the mattress, and pick up the letter. I unfold it and start to read.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve reread the letter half a dozen times. I’m sitting in the same spot with tears streaming down my cheeks, sobbing.

  Which is how Killian finds me.

  He stops short in the bedroom doorway. He’s barefoot, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His dark hair is unkempt. His eyes are bloodshot. It looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

  But the man is still so gorgeous it takes my breath away.

  He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and looks at his feet. His voice is low and uncharacteristically hesitant. “So. You read it.”

  Sniffling, I nod. It’s about all I can manage.

  He glances up at me, examines my expression in silence, then looks down again, drawing a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know it’s…a lot. I wasn’t sure…Liam suggested…” He trails off, muttering a curse under his breath. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand.”

  “Leave? Are you kidding me?”

  He jerks his head up and stares at me without blinking. It could be hope I see in his eyes, or it could be terror, considering the combo sob-wail that just left my mouth. It sounded frightening, even to me.

  I try to compose myself a little, but fail. More sob-wails are forthcoming.

  “Killian. My god. This letter.” I wave it hysterically around in the air. “This letter ripped my heart out. It burned my soul down. It tore me to pieces!”

  His dark brows draw slowly together. He waits, looking confused.

  I can barely speak, so I just fling open my arms and keep sobbing.

  He’s on me in a flash, taking me into his arms and pressing me back onto the mattress, giving me his full, delicious weight. Then he’s kissing me all over my wet face.

  I throw my arms around his big shoulders and cry into his neck.

  His chuckle is low and husky. “Does this mean you’re okay with being in love with a spy?”

  “Yes. Are you okay with being in love with a thief?”

  He raises his head and looks at me with warm, shining eyes, framing my face in his big hands. He says softly, “Aye, lass. More than okay. It’s better than I could’ve dreamed.”

  The way he’s looking at me makes me burst into a fresh round of tears.

  He rolls over to his back, taking me with him, and holds me tightly against his body. He rubs a hand slowly up and down my spine until the wails taper off and I’m only gulping breaths instead of impersonating a banshee.

  Against his shoulder, I whisper, “I can’t believe it. All these years…all the danger…how did you survive?”

  “I’m me.”

  I hear the shrug in his voice and want to pound a fist on his arrogant chest. Instead, I start weakly laughing.

  “That’s better.” He kisses the top of my head. “For a minute there, I thought I’d have to call my friend at the psych ward at Boston Medical and tell him to bring over a straightjacket.”

  “I mean, can you blame me?”

  His chest expands with his slowly drawn breath. “No. But…”

  I lift my head and stare down at him, horrified. “But what? Oh god. What else could you possibly have to tell me?”

  “I spoke to your father.” He winces at my expression. “That’s not the worst part.”

  I say slowly, “What’s the worst part?”

  “I might have told him I’d send him pictures of our kids. You know. When we have them.”

  I can feel myself blinking like an owl, but I can’t stop it. Maybe we’re going to need that straightjacket a
fter all.

  Killian says quickly, “Or I could just send him photos I cut out of a magazine. He won’t know the difference.” He pauses. “Sorry, are you going to say anything soon?”

  “I’m still processing the kids part.”

  He gently brushes the hair off my face. “I’d like a big family,” he murmurs. “But if you don’t want kids, that’s okay, too. I want you more than I want children. I want you more than anything.”

  I feel a sob working its way up my throat. I have to swallow several times to choke it down. I drop my head onto his chest and listen to the slow, steady beat of his beautiful heart.

  He says, “I’m meeting with him Tuesday at ten o’clock.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure if I should laugh or start crying again. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

  “I’m telling you because I don’t want there to be any lies between us. By omission or otherwise.”

  “I feel like a white lie or two would be okay. Like if I say, ‘Does my ass look fat in these jeans?’ you should say, ‘No. Your ass always looks amazing.’ Even if my ass looks like an elephant’s backside.”

  “Your ass would look amazing, even if it was the size of an elephant’s backside.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re afraid I’m about to poke out your eyeballs for meeting with my father.”

  When he chuckles, I lift my head and stare at him. “It’s not necessary. Plus, it’s dangerous. He’ll try to put a bullet in your chest the second he sets eyes on you.”

  “Aye. No doubt of that. But I’ve got a few things on the agenda besides asking for your hand in marriage.”

  When I lift my brows, he says, “Like how he shouldn’t try to expand his operations into Boston when I retire, or I’ll give my contacts at the FBI enough evidence of his smuggling, racketeering, and drug trafficking activities to send him to prison for life.”

  I shove myself up onto my palms and lock my elbows, staring down at him in shock. He misinterprets my expression.

  “I know. I’m conflicted about it. He really should be behind bars, but he’s going to be family. It feels weird that I’d be the one to put him away. How can we tell the kids that dad ratted out grandpa?”

  This entire conversation is making my head spin. “That’s not what I’m freaking out about.”

  “What are you freaking out about?”

  I say deliberately, “Retire?”

  “From the gangster business,” he says, nodding. “I don’t think I’ll have time for it anymore, considering I’m taking on some new responsibilities. Looking after you is a full-time job.” He gives me a squeeze, smiling. “You do have a tendency to get into trouble.”

  I give up.

  I collapse onto his chest. He rolls me to my back, throws a leg over both of mine, and kisses me deeply, his hand around my throat so he can feel my pulse go haywire.

  When we come up for air, I whisper, “You’re impossible.”

  “If ‘impossible’ is code for ‘amazing,’ I agree.”

  “It’s not code for amazing. Please kiss me again before you say something that pisses me off.”

  He chuckles. “I see a lot of kissing in my future.”

  I pull his head down, laughing softly against his lips. “One can only hope.”

  We kiss again, this time even more deeply. When I start to squirm impatiently beneath him, he knows what I want. He murmurs, “You’re hurt, love.”

  Love. I will never, ever get tired of hearing him call me that.

  But I can’t tell him that, because his head is far too big already.

  Tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, I grouse, “I’m not the only one about to be hurt here. If you’re not naked in five seconds, I’m liable to do something drastic.”

  He pretends to be shocked. “You? Drastic? Never.”

  “C’mon. Off with all of it. Hurry.”

  He fights himself for about two seconds, then gives in with a grin. He rises to his knees, pulls his T-shirt over his head and tosses it away, and yanks open the fly on his jeans.

  Gazing at his beautiful tattooed bare chest and abs, I sigh happily. I’m sure I’ve got little sparkly red hearts for eyes.

  He says in a husky voice, “Ah, lass. You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

  “You’re only saying that because I’m ogling your muscles.”

  “Aye.” He chuckles again. “It’s honestly one of my favorite things.”

  Staring into my eyes, he slides his palms up my thighs, bunching his white dress shirt up until it’s crumpled around my waist. He looks down at me, exposed underneath him, and licks his lips.

  “All right then, little thief. What’s it to be first? My tongue or my cock?”

  Lord. Dear lord. Chris Hemsworth is staring with naked lust at my body.

  I whisper, “Either. But no accent. I just want you, honey. Only you. Forever.”

  Killian’s gaze flashes back up to mine. His eyes are dark and heated. He executes some kind of Ninja moves to get out of his jeans and briefs with lightning-fast speed, rips open the buttons on the dress shirt so my breasts are exposed, then lowers himself between my spread thighs.

  When I laugh, he says, “What?”

  “You’re going to need to buy me a sewing machine with all the buttons that get torn off around here.”

  “Anything you want,” he says softly, pushing between my legs. He slides deep inside me as I arch, gasping. He whispers, “Anything you ever want, all you have to do is tell me.”

  He fits his mouth to mine and starts to thrust into me. I wrap my legs around his waist and rock my hips, matching his pace. It’s slow and steady, building, just like the pressure building inside my chest.

  No one ever told me it could be like this. No one ever says that falling is the wrong word for what happens when you’re in love.

  I’m not falling. I’m flying. I’m soaring. I’m up in the rainbow clouds on the back of my unicorn pony, shooting far into the brilliant blue sky.

  When Killian groans, shuddering, I whisper, “Is this a bad time to tell you that just because you’re retiring doesn’t mean I want to? There are so many more bad guys on our list. Fin and Max would be really disappointed if I wanted to break up the band, if you know what I mean.”

  He stares down at me in disbelief. “Aye, it’s a bad time!”

  I make a zipper motion over my lips. “Got it. Sorry. Proceed.”

  He stares at me for a moment longer, then dissolves into laughter, dropping his forehead to my chest. His whole body shakes.

  After a moment, I grumble, “It’s not that funny.”

  He rolls over, keeping his hands on my hips and his hard cock buried deep inside me. Smiling his signature hot, smug smile, he presses his thumb to my clit.

  “Be quiet, woman,” he commands. “And ride me.”

  I smile down at him, for once grateful that he’s so bossy.

  My beautiful, bossy, dominant gangster, who turned out to be something so much more.

  Not who but what, indeed.

  Epilogue

  Two months later

  “Come away from the window. You’ve been standing there for almost an hour.”

  “I want to see them as soon as they drive up.”

  Chuckling, Killian wraps his arms around my waist and kisses the side of my neck. “You just can’t wait to meet that baby, can you?”

  Peering out the big living room window of Estancia Los Dos Hermanos, Liam and Tru’s ranch in the countryside near Buenos Aires, I’m all nervous excitement. I don’t know exactly why, because I’m not one of those girls who go gaga over babies. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age.

  Or maybe it’s because Tru and Liam gave little Maribel the middle name Elizabeth. The first name after Tru’s mother, the middle name after mine.

  When Tru told me that’s what they wanted to do and asked if it was okay with me, I ugly cried. I can’t think of anything sweeter or more thoughtful than that. But that’s Tru in
a nutshell: sweet and thoughtful.

  When she’s not being feisty, that is. She comes off as reserved and ladylike at first, but she can give me a run for my money in the sass department, that’s for sure.

  A black limo crests the hill of the long gravel driveway and drives toward the house.

  “Oh! Here they come!” I jump a little, clapping.

  Killian gives me a squeeze. “C’mon. Let’s meet them on the porch.”

  He takes me by the hand and leads me to the front door. When I run out onto the porch in front of him, he laughs. I stand on the top step, waving madly at the approaching limo. He stands beside me, slings an arm around my shoulders, and kisses me on top of my head.

  He loves it that Tru and I have grown so close. In the three weeks we’ve been staying with them, Tru and I have been inseparable. She’s the only pregnant girlfriend I’ve ever had. I bombarded her with questions as her due date grew nearer.

  Not that I’m ready for my own babies yet. I’ve still got sticky fingers. As soon as Killian and I get back to Boston, the girls and I are going to start planning our next job.

  With the help of Mr. Superspy, maybe we’ll even have a backup plan for if something goes wrong.

  When something goes wrong. Let’s be realistic.

  The limo pulls to a stop. Liam bounds out one of the back doors, grinning like a lunatic. He rounds the trunk and pulls open the other back door. Leaning inside, he gathers Tru into his arms and walks toward us.

  He’s carrying her, and she’s carrying the baby. A tiny bundle of pink blankets with a pink knitted hat and a pink face scrunched into a fierce scowl.

  Killian snorts. “Looks like little Maribel takes after her daddy.”

  I whisper, “Oh, stop! She was recently squeezed out of an opening that’s normally the size of a dime. She probably has a headache, the poor thing.”

  Then they’re on the porch with us and everyone’s smiling. Not the baby, though. She looks like she thinks this is a bunch of shit.

  “You guys, she’s so beautiful!”