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“The Queen of Hearts is detrimental. You could have all the success in the world, but she’ll bring you to your knees.”
“You sure are persistent for a man that isn’t interested.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I’m interested.”
“I’d rather shut my dick in a car door than do this again some time, Penelope.”
“It feels like your heart is walking outside of your body.” Her gaze finds Angelo’s again, and I watch in fascination as a pink flush creeps from underneath her necklace. “My heart now wears Armani and has a Glock for every day of the week.”
“What does it feel like?” Penny asked Rory.
How am I meant to be good when I’m obsessed with something so bad?
“You’re a dog, Penelope,” he says breezily over his shoulder. “I should look into putting you down.” “They already tried.” His footsteps slow to a stop and he glances back at me. “And?” “I bit the vet.”
This girl isn’t the Queen of Hearts, but the Devil in disguise. Unfortunately, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t follow her into hell.
I open my mouth to protest, then something cold and smooth slides into it. At first, I think it’s another playing card, but when I pull it out, I realize it’s a Black Amex. My eyes clash with Raphael’s. “Pin is four, eight, four, two,” he says quietly.
I melt into his chest—a storm to his calm, fire to his ice—to catch my breath back.
But then a firm, hot hand slides under the blazer and rests on my thigh. I glance up at Raphael, but he’s focusing on the gap between the whooshing wipers, steering the car with the palm of his other hand. “Strip for another man again, and he’ll die crossing the road.”
Then I lean back, close my eyes, and let Penelope’s silly ramblings soak into my skin like an ointment. If I’m sinking to the bottom, at least her voice will keep me company on the way down.
“Why do you care if I cry?” He tracks his thumb as it trails further down, across my bottom lip and along my chin. He grips me there for a moment, regret coating his features. “Because last night, I saw you laugh.”
“Go to sleep.” “But—” “But nothing, Penelope. Forget about Martin O’Hare; he’s my problem now.”
“Where are we going?” she murmurs. My hand slides off the steering wheel and finds her knee. “Home, Queenie.”
