My belly which, if I allowed myself to think about it, I was the tiniest bit annoyed everyone so easily believed to be the belly of a pregnant woman. Really? I could perhaps include more Pilates into my exercise regime—or, you know, any—but did I really look pregnant? The truth was, I kind of felt pregnant, surrounded by scantily-clad prostitutes, every one of woman was sporting a belly ring in a belly that, obviously, no one would believe to be a pregnant belly.
But now was not the time for body issues.
“This baby was made with love,” I told Madame Asia in as sickly-sweet a voice as I could mention, complete with a wide, scary smile. “Jack’s love.”
Next to me, Jack winced. Madame Asia’s impressive brows inched up her forehead.
“Oh, no,” she murmured. “And she’s a lunatic. You certainly do know how to pick them, Jack.” She looked over her shoulder and frowned at the ladies still clustered in the doorway, all of them showing entirely too much skin. “Back to work, please. This isn’t movie night.”
Which made me wonder if brothels had movie nights. And if they did, what movies would they show? Presumably not Pretty Woman.
I was obviously succumbing to hysteria.
The pack of prostitutes dispersed—Tabitha closing the door behind them. Madame Asia waited a beat, and then, abruptly, dropped the act.
“The VIPs in question are major players,” she said matter-of-factly to Jack. He nodded, and busied himself with the fascinating chore of stripping off his tuxedo pants and stepping into the jeans. I checked a sigh.
“From where?” he asked.
“New Jersey.” Madame Asia shook her head. “You do not want to be here, buddy. And more importantly, I don’t want you here, because wherever you go, the shitstorm follows.”
Jack looked up and grinned. It was a devil-may-care grin. It was the kind of grin that caused instant heartbreak, and I felt my own heart clutch in my chest.
“Admit it,” he said to Madame Asia. “You kinda missed the shitstorm.”
“I suggest you come up with one of your insane plans,” she replied, but her lips were twitching. “Like, right now.” She pulled herself up straight, and gave me a regal nod. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a brothel to run, and the rest of my outfit to plan. A lady can never be too well-dressed.”
Did I detect the slightest bit of pointedness there? Of course not.
The door closed behind the madame, and Jack finished buttoning up his jeans. He tossed the tuxedo jacket on the bed, then loosed his bow tie and unhooked his cummberbundt. He let the dress shirt hang over the jeans, holster out loud and proud, and stuffed his feet back into his dress shoes. He looked hot and dangerous, and I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
“This is all a little much for me,” I babbled. “I mean, I really appreciate this opportunity to have an intimate look into the life of, say, a fugitive, but I—”
Jack closed the distance between us and cupped my cheek with his hand. I made a very undignified squeaking noise, but I was quiet.
His dark eyes searched mine for a moment, his mouth hard and serious. I felt my lungs constrict. Suddenly, everything around us faded, and the moment seemed alive with something I couldn’t quite identify.
“Okay,” he said, like we’d discussed something and come to a difficult conclusion. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” I echoed. “What do you mean, go? I thought we couldn’t go anywhere, which is why we came here!”
“That was before the real life, less cuddly version of the Sopranos showed up,” Jack said.
“Which begs the question—what rational person would leave their hiding place with Tony Soprano roaming the halls?” I pointed at my chest. “Not this one.”
“Beth.” His eyes connected with mine, hard. I felt myself freeze, unable to look away. “It’s time to get the hell out of here,” he said.
“Okay,” I heard myself reply. Because now, apparently, in addition to his numerous other offenses, he could hypnotize me.
“But first,” he said, conversationally, grinning at me, “we have to do one tiny little thing.”
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