Bad Behavior(30)

I thought of Lincoln, the way his deep voice rumbled dark commands. "Yes, Jonesy is fair game." 

Trish gave me a wink and led me to the table. Jonesy stood as I approached, then waited for me to be seated before settling along with me. Manners from the guy who'd tried to grope me in public?

"What can I get for you?"

"You have any more of that Malbec from last time?"

"We do. I won't tell Pop you're drinking that. He might go . . ." She whirled her finger around her ear in the universal symbol for "crazy." "You know how he gets about certain wines that aren't from Italy, or at least Europe. I have to stock the Malbec and a few others on the down low."

I laughed. She was right. Sal might cut me, literally, if he discovered my tastes. "Just keep it under wraps for me. And I'll have whatever Sal is cooking up on the side tonight."

"Last I saw he was working on a chicken parm but with a béchamel sauce."

My mouth watered. Sal's cooking was his second-best talent, right behind busting skulls. "Sounds good."

"I'll have the same." Jonesy passed his menu to Trish, who stared at him unabashedly.

She kicked my foot.

"Oh. Oh, Jonesy this is Trish Deluca. Her father is Sal, who owns the place."

Trish held her hand out, and Jonesy took it with a light shake. "Pleased to meet you."

"Same here, sugar. I'll be back with your drinks." She gave him a long look before she moved away. With any luck, Trish and Jonesy would be between the sheets right after her shift was over tonight.

"I knew you liked the place. I didn't know you were so well acquainted with everyone," Jonesy said, studying me. "It's almost as if they were your friends."

I shrugged. For some reason, the implication that I had absolutely zero friends-though pretty much true-rankled. "They're good people. Sal's a client of mine."

"Oh, business. I see." He nodded as if it had all become clear.

The implication that I only liked the Delucas because they were clients rankled even more.

"We genuinely like each other." It sounded defensive. I didn't care.

"But they pay you, right?" he asked.

"Are you trying to goad me into a fight? I know you said I only have two settings. Sorry, but fight is the only one you'll be getting tonight."

He ran a hand through his hair, about to respond, but Trish reappeared with our wineglasses, sans bottle. There would be no South American wine label to give us away. When she'd gone again, he resumed.

"I didn't come to fight. This is about Lincoln."

"What about him?" I perked up. Any information was good information as far as he was concerned.

"You shouldn't trust him."

"The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and water is wet." I took a large swallow of the Malbec. Delicious. It had the rich flavor of blackberry and some other notes I wasn't sophisticated enough to recognize.

"Let me back up."

"Okay," I agreed.

"First, I want to apologize for the things I said to Lincoln the other night. I'm sure he's already told you about them."

I looked at him, expression blank. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but I wanted him to continue, so I gave a slight nod.

"I didn't mean any of it. I was just drunk." He loosened his tie a bit.

Now I really wanted to know what he'd said about me, but I needed to let him talk it out, to get to the big reveal that was supposedly worth my while.

I shrugged. "I've said plenty of terrible things when I've been drunk."



       
         
       
        

He let out a pent-up breath. "Thanks, Evan. Really, thank you. I was worried you were going to take my head off."

Maybe later, once I found out what he'd said about me.

"So was that what was so important?" I asked.

"No. Lincoln. He's dangerous. I told you that from day one, but you didn't listen."

"What about him is so dangerous?"

Jonesy's jealousy seemed to be verging on paranoid.

Trish strutted up and set our plates before us. It was indeed a version of chicken parm with a rich cream sauce instead of the usual red. It smelled hot and heavenly. Sal's cooking was singing tonight.

I took a taste. The chicken melted in my mouth, the breading giving a perfect bite and the sauce a creamy complement. I hoped whatever Jonesy had to tell me would give me even more to chew on.

"He's working you."

"Yes." I agreed with his assessment. But our "working" arrangement had been beneficial so far, very much so. I wanted to put the flashes of Lincoln out of my mind. The way his chest flexed when he manhandled me, the dark tones of his voice when he told me what I could and couldn't have, the way that fortune had truly favored him in line with the Latin motto enshrined on his body.