Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(213)

Better to keep your mouth shut so people wonder if you’re dumb, rather than talk and remove any doubt, my dad used to say.

“Eh, this is business,” Winsor said dismissively and waved his hand. But Auger couldn’t take his eyes off the flush that was creeping up the side of Callie’s exposed neck. By the fluttering skin under her jaw, he could tell her heartbeat was racing and for some reason, it made him want to rip something apart with his bare hands.

OK. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all.

“Coffee?” Winsor asked.

Auger nodded stubbornly. Callie crinkled her cheeks when she smiled and Winsor gestured toward the open wrought iron gate. Auger stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked behind them up the stone path and stoop toward the stained-glass door.

The gate shut with a deep clang that echoed in his mind. Carefully, he kept his pace easy and his posture loose. He felt like an animal being stalked who didn’t want his predator to know he was aware.

Winsor grinned confidently and leaned behind Callie’s back, pressing his palm against a flat grey panel that looked like an intercom. With a click, the door swung open an inch.

“After you,” Winsor purred.

She walked into the front hall, and Auger followed close behind. As he entered the darkened hallway, he waited a few seconds to adjust to the light. Gradually, everything came into focus and his eyes darted over every piece of plaster and wood, cataloguing them.

OK, not a marble palace, he thought sourly. Actually it looks like this guy has taste, or something. Just a little.

The room smelled like sandalwood and oil soap, and every surface gleamed with the reflections cast by the blue and green stained glass. Auger turned in a slow circle, his eyes cast toward the crown moulding and stained glass oculus.

“Just have a seat. I’ll ask Jamie to make us some coffee,” Winsor said matter-of-factly and walked casually down the long hallway next to the curving staircase. As soon as he was out of sight, Callie spun on Auger, her hair flung out wildly from her head.

“OK, just what is your plan here?” she hissed at him. He started back like she had pinched him and held his hands out like it was obvious.

“I’m just getting my money!”

Her eyes flew wide. “Really?” she whispered. He began to wonder if he was missing something. “You think you’re just going to waltz in here and demand twenty thousand dollars from this guy?”

He shrugged. “What. It’s my money, isn’t it?”

“Oh my god!” she moaned, turning around in place.

“He’s not even going to miss it!” Auger protested, but he heard the weakness in his voice. She crossed her arms and kept her back to him, pretending to look at the bookshelves.

Fine. I can do that too. Let’s look at the books, then.

The greystone had been expertly restored, and Auger peered at every detail around with mounting envy. Growing up, his father brought him on jobs fixing up farm houses for early-retirement tech-execs who thought the country life was the pace they wanted. He’d watched his father restore and upgrade a dozen farmhouses he’d bought from your usual old aunties and grandpas, turning them from little shacks into quaint but sleek palaces that didn’t look anything like real country life. Not at all.

And that was how it worked out. The tech-execs almost always abandoned the Millslake lifestyle they quickly found out was deadly boring, leaving behind some very nice homes that could never be resold to anyone with Fox county money. Most of them just sat vacant, their trendy rock gardens and boxwood hedges gradually growing wild. The main town just hunkered down at the cross of two county roads, stubborn and poor, unchanging.

Grinning unconsciously to himself, he walked slowly around the room, appreciating the seamless integration of technology with the hundred-twenty-year-old elegance of plaster medallions and converted gas light fixtures. He understood the workmanship and attention to detail that went into having the mirror above the fireplace re-silvered and all the tiny English tiles restored.

Vaguely, he found himself wondering if he could sneak back to see what had been done with the kitchen. He turned toward the hallway, startled to see Winsor leaning on the wide oak archway, smirking.

“You approve?” he asked, carrying a broad silver tray to the six-leg walnut table by the front window.

Auger nodded gruffly and scowled. “Pocket doors?” he asked clumsily.

“Of course. Cream, Callie?”

“Black is fine,” she said, coming up behind him. She looked at Auger again like she was trying to figure something out or give him a warning. Her eyebrows knitted tight together and her lips parted in helpless confusion.