Page 4 of Heaven Help Me

“Son, meet your new girlfriend, Landry Greer.”

Every thought in my brain screeches to a halt. Son?

Oh, hell no.

I lift my head and glare incredulously at Deuce St. Legare, the boy I thought at one time was my friend. He took my virginity at seventeen and then bragged about the intimate details to my new bodyguard, Fazio, embarrassing the shit out of me.

He deserved the knife to the ribs.

Calm down. I’d been careful in my placement of the blade. I knew I wouldn’t hit any vital organs.

Except this is no boy standing before me.

Deuce St. Legare has grown into a man since I saw him last, bloody and whimpering like a fucking baby at the door to my bedroom.

He’s a man with an impeccable three-piece suit that he fills out to perfection, dark skin that highlights startling green eyes, and the kind of hair you’d find on James Dean or a young Elvis. Just looking at him I feel like I got sucker punched in the gut. And I don’t fucking like it.

“What the fuck?” I snap.

The shock on Deuce’s face fades within seconds. His jaw clenches and I’d be shocked if that sharp jawline didn’t cut glass. His eyes smolder, but not with sexual attraction. More like unbridled hatred, and he doesn’t care if I see it.

I spin to Bettina. I don’t care who she is, she owes me an explanation. And then a plan B because plan A is utter horseshit.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bettina takes a sip of her coffee like she’s having tea with the fucking queen of England and doesn’t want to rush it. She sets down the cup with a soft clink and waves her bejeweled hand through the air.

“They’ll never find you in this small town in Mississippi. I need to know you’re safe so I can stabilize the situation and find a proper successor. Since you failed on that front.” Bettina turns a sharp eye toward me, pinning me in place.

She’s right, my successor failed spectacularly. A tiny bit of wind gets knocked out of my sail at the reminder.

I dip my head toward Deuce, unable to say his name out loud. “Fazio will surely protect me better than this…” I finally glance at him again, if only to grimace during my scathing once-over. “…this suit salesman playboy.”

Deuce chuckles, surprising me. I know it’s fake, but it’s still a pleasant sound. His haughty voice isn’t, however. “This is the first and last time I’ll ever agree with you.”

Bettina carries on with her plan like the hatred between us isn’t filling the room with a foul scent. “Until we know who’s behind this coup, we can’t trust anyone. Fazio included. Deuce is your best bet.”

I snort. “I’d be better off on my own in Los Angeles or Denver, not some backwoods town in Mississippi with Barney Fife over here.”

Bettina snaps to her feet, her nose in the air, looking six feet tall when she only tops out at five foot three. “Too bad. This is where you’ll stay and Deuce will keep you safe and, more importantly, keep you a secret.”

I’m not proud of it, but my words come out on a sputter. “He spills the beans more than a hillbilly coming off the Jim Beam habit, Bettina. He’s no more trustworthy than the Kazarovs.” Referring, of course, to the Russians who’ve always had it out for the Barzettis.

Deuce takes a step forward, that jawline back to sharp granite. “I may not be part of your little mafia family”—he does finger air quotes which sets my teeth on edge—“but I know how to keep a secret. I also know how not to fly off the handle unlike some people here.”

I gape at him, irritated that he looks like he stepped off the pages of GQ magazine, completely at odds with the homey framed picture of a small-town row of boutiques on the wall behind him.

“I know for a fact that you’re a fucking tattletale, not exactly a ringing endorsement for someone man enough to protect me. I doubt you’ve grown up much since I saw you last.”

He takes another step toward me, so close I get a whiff of his spicy cologne. That’s new. And not unpleasant. “And I know for a fact that you react without getting the facts first, not exactly the type of woman I feel comfortable aiding and abetting.”

“You’re a fucking piece of work, Deuce St. Legare,” I spit back, now suddenly right in his face thanks to the three-inch heels that put me almost nose to nose with him. He peers down at me, purposely tilting his head to view me from the slope of his haughty nose, those eyes drilling into my skull. His shoulders are wide enough to block out the sunshine streaming in through the windows behind him.

“You better clean up your language, Landry, or you’ll never fit in here.”

“You’re telling me what to do, you incompetent cockwaffle? I hope your tight pants cut off your circulation so you can’t procreate.”

Deuce’s jaw pops open just enough to show his disdain.