Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) (4 page)

Chris whined a little, but he picked up his end. “Why did you have to get a sleeper sofa? It’s like it’s packed with rocks.”

“For someplace to put your drunk ass when you pass out.” They hefted and got just enough movement for Bev to feel a little hope—and to crash yet again into the door.

This time, it opened, and there her neighbor was, wearing nothing but a pair of plain black track pants and looking absolutely hot as hell. And not pleased. His posture seemed relaxed, but his green eyes flashed fire.

She smiled as brightly as she could. “Hi, Nick. Sorry for the noise.”

She’d never seen him shirtless before. Oh, good lord. His shoulders were—and his abs and—Bev swallowed. There was a thin line of dark hair rising up from his waistband and stopping at his navel and a light dusting of dark hair across his pecs. Realizing that she’d been staring, she shook her head sharply and looked away—and found Chris giving her a deeply sarcastic look. She resisted the urge to flip him the bird.

“If I may ask, what the fuck?” Nick’s voice was deep and smooth, with a rough rumble at the edge. Not hoarse or growly, but almost like he didn’t use it much. Which could well be true. Their few meetings had not been anything in the vicinity of chatty.

“I bought a new sofa. I didn’t want to pay the extra for delivery—they really gouge you with that stuff—and Chris here was nice enough to say he’d help me get it home, but it’s a sleeper and really heavy. We didn’t have any trouble, though, all the way to here. But now it’s stuck in this corner, and we can’t turn it up on its end because of the light, and now it’s getting smudges on it—” Sheesh, she was blathering like a vapid tween. “I’m sorry, Nick. We’ll figure it out, and we’ll try not to bang on your door while we do it.”

Abruptly, he closed his door, and Chris and Bev looked at each other. Chris mouthed
Rude
and squatted to pick up his end again. Then the door opened, and there Nick was again. He looked at Bev.

“Step aside.”

“What?”

“Move out of the way. Your new furniture has me blocked in.”

Confused, she obeyed, taking several steps backward down the hall toward her own door. And then he did something that made her jaw drop open. He grabbed the top of his doorframe in both hands and hoisted himself up like he was doing a pull-up. He had great arms, too. In fact, his whole torso flexed, and Bev thought she might just pass out. He brought his legs up and swung himself over the end of her sofa, landing neatly in the hallway on his bare feet.

He could have climbed over, Bev thought. But she hadn’t minded the show at all.

Then he turned away from her, and she saw his back. A tattoo covered him from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and side to side—black and grey, huge angel’s wings, drawn to appear to be growing out of his shoulder blades, with an elaborate, medieval-looking sword straight down his spine, all of it wrapped in barbed wire. She was going to have a heart attack. Could you die from looking at perfection? Like going blind from looking at the sun?

Chris was still smirking at her, but Nick ignored her and spoke to him. “Here. Pick it up from the bottom and tip it forward about forty-five degrees.” They did so. “Good. Take a few steps to your left. Good. Okay.” He stepped backwards, and Bev did as well, keeping the same distance between them, staying out of his way.

She couldn’t stop staring at his back, the way it flexed as he moved and lifted her sofa. Sweet, swaddled baby Jesus. She had an image of walking up to him and licking him straight up his spine—an image so vivid she took a step forward before she pulled up with a gasp.

They’d gotten the sofa around the corner. Feeling a little seasick from the waves of relief and arousal crashing together inside her, Bev turned and trotted down the hallway, opening her door and yanking in all the cushions before the men got there. With only minimal consideration and discussion, they got the beast into the apartment and placed in the spot she’d made for it, right next to the window wall and her balcony overlooking the pool.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You both rock!” Chris was shaking Nick’s hand. She hugged Chris hard and then turned to Nick, who was already on his way to the door. “Wait. Stay for a beer. I owe you a beer, at least.”

He smiled a little—it was the first smile she’d ever seen on his face in almost a year of hallway and mailroom greetings, and it made him twice as gorgeous. Who’d’ve thought it possible? Even that little turn of his mouth, though, made him look kind and open instead of scary and intense. “No need. I need to get back. Have a good night.”

And he was gone, his perfect back going through her door.

From behind her, Chris snickered. “Shit, girl, why not just wear a sign that says FUCK ME, HOT STUFF? Wouldn’t be any less subtle.”

She turned back to her friend. “Bite me, bitch. Anyway, he has a girlfriend. And I am not his type. He likes blonde model types—tall, skinny, and beautiful. Here, help me get the cushions on and then you can have your beer.”

As they got the sofa set up, Chris said, “You are beautiful, Bev.”

“I wasn’t looking for affirmation, pal. I’m comfortable the way I am, finally. But I’m not six feet tall and a hundred-ten pounds.”

“True. But that’s such a cliché. So is he. But he is a fine specimen, even I can see that. That parkour thing he did, though, that was just being a showoff. Who is he?”

She shrugged and went into the kitchen to get Chris a beer. “Just my neighbor. Nick Pagano.”

Chris had been in the act of sitting on the new sofa. He stopped and reversed, standing straight again. “Pagano? No shit? Bev, you know who they are, right?”

“Of course I do. But it’s not like Tony Soprano and Sonny Corleone are hanging out in the hallway every day. From what I can tell, I think all the stories are mostly that—stories. He just goes to work and comes home, like everybody else.” She handed Chris his beer.

“You’re deluded. He’s bad news. I’m glad you’re not his type.” He took a drink and then scowled at the bottle. “And what the fuck is this? You said beer. This is IPA. IPA tastes like fermented yak piss.”

Bev had chosen it because it came from the Quiet Cove Brewery and had a cool label. She didn’t know from beers, really. She preferred wine. Or vodka, or rum. In her opinion, all beer was pretty gross. “I thought beer was beer. Plus, look—lighthouse on the label. Pretty.”

He set the bottle on the chrome and glass table in front of the new sofa. “You are such a girl sometimes. Saying beer is beer is like saying soda is soda. Or sex is sex. Actually, that last one is true. Never mind.” He kissed her cheek. “But I still love you. I’m gonna head out. We’re still on for Neon tomorrow, though, right?”

“Yep. Bought a new dress and everything.” Neon was a high-end club in Providence. A guy Chris knew from college was head of security there and had invited them, otherwise they would very much not have been on the list.

“Okay. Make sure Sky and what’s-his-name are here by eight.”

“Romeo. His name is Romeo, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but I can’t say it. No grown man should have that name.”

Sky’s boyfriend weighed about three hundred pounds, and it wasn’t fat. Chris weighed not much more than half that. “You should be careful.”

He grinned and went out, singing “Sky and Romeo sitting in a tree, sounding like a porn movie.”

Alone with her new sofa, Bev laughed and picked up his barely-touched beer from the coffee table. Not beer—IPA. Whatever the difference was, and whatever IPA meant. She took a sip. It actually wasn’t too bad. Not really her taste, but better than most beers she’d had. She had most of a six-pack in her fridge.

She wondered whether Nick liked IPA. Maybe she’d see. Just to be neighborly.

~ 3 ~

Nick went back to his apartment and took a look at his door. No damage from the sofa. He went in, washed his hands in the bathroom, and returned to his kitchen, picking up the bottle of Glenfiddich and resuming the act of pouring himself a glass.

He was on his own tonight. Vanessa, apparently more hurt about being dismissed yesterday than he’d realized, had returned his call last evening with a terse text:
Busy, will call soon
. There had been no further contact.

Standing out on his balcony the morning before, he’d understood that his time with Vanessa was winding down. If she was going to play passive-aggressive games, then the end was much closer than he’d realized. Romance was not Nick’s thing. Appeasing the fragile sensibilities of flighty women was not his thing. He was not a misogynist, at least he didn’t think so. He loved his mother fiercely. His cousin Carmen was his favorite among all the Paganos in his generation. He respected women and treated them well. And there was little he enjoyed more than the feel of a female body in his hands.

But he had no such powerful need of their company that he would cater to whim or fancy, and he would not, ever, be dragged into the ‘if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you’ bullshit that women, in his experience, seemed to favor as a means of manipulation and control. Or the hotter kind of war his parents had often engaged in.

He would not tolerate pouting, and he most certainly would not reward it. If Vanessa was pouting, then they were over.

For the best, really. He’d been feeling her hands on him, grasping, for weeks now—since his father’s death, in fact. She’d wanted to comfort him, and he had not wanted her comfort. The only comfort he’d wanted or needed was revenge, which he had wrought. But his distance then, he thought now, had made her feel how tenuous her hold on him was. It was nonexistent. He enjoyed her; he didn’t love her. He desired her; he didn’t need her.

He was forty-five. The pressure from Uncle Ben to marry, heavy in the years since he’d been made capo, had become constant since his father’s death. The pressure from his mother, who wanted grandchildren, had been heavy for his entire adult life. He’d always resisted, even ignored it. But he was beginning to wonder if he really did want to live his life as he was spending this night. Alone, unattached, unbonded.

He looked around his apartment—tasteful and comfortable—and tried to imagine the touch of a woman on his things. His taste in color was earthy and neutral: browns, greys, blacks. The designer who’d done the work had persuaded him to add orange to the living room for ‘punch.’ Nick looked over the counter peninsula at his living room and tried to picture some flouncy cushion, or a vase full of cut flowers, in the space—or fucking magenta paint, like his neighbor had done on the wall they’d put her sofa against. Magenta. On the wall. Just the one wall, but still.

He shuddered and drank down his scotch, refilling the glass immediately. No. He simply could not imagine sharing his life. He was sorry not to give his mother grandchildren, especially now, when she was alone in that house, but she’d just have to spend more time with his cousins’ kids.

As he put his refilled glass to his lips, Jimmy rapped on the door with his distinctive knock, and Nick set the glass down and glanced at the clock on the range. Nine—Jimmy was checking out. He went to the door and checked the peephole, which was filled by his guard and driver’s chest. Not bothering this time with his gun, he opened the door.

“You out, Jimmy?”

“Yeah, boss. Nose is on. Unless you need me?”

As a rule, Nick had not spent his life being guarded around the clock. As a rule, the Pagano Brothers’ business had been mainly calm and well-ordered. But the rules didn’t apply these days. Even before his father’s murder, security had been increased since Church had started thumping his chest. Now it was practically Secret Service level.

“No, Jim. I’m good. Tell Nose I’m in for the night.”

Jimmy nodded his massive head and turned toward the elevator. A sound down the hallway made him turn back suspiciously. Nick looked, too, and saw his neighbor, she of the bright smile, rogue furniture, and magenta wall, coming toward them, a six-pack of something or other in her hands. Jimmy made himself broad—and at six-nine and three-sixty, his breadth was considerable.

Nick almost laughed. “It’s okay, Jimmy.”

The neighbor—Evelyn? Was her name Evelyn?—faltered at Jimmy’s glower, stopping about six feet from Nick’s door. “Um, hi.”

“Jimmy, go on. Give Tina my regards.”

Nick’s most constant companion hesitated one more second and then nodded. “I will. G’night, boss.” He finally headed for the elevator, and Nick turned to his neighbor.

“Having another furniture disaster?”

She smiled—it was an amazing smile, as if it actually had light. Her eyes were good, too. He’d not really noticed before the depths of their blue. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a black, v-neck t-shirt. The shirt showed just enough of her excellent cleavage to get his attention.

“No. I just couldn’t stand not thanking you better for rescuing us tonight. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably still be jammed up right here.”

“Blocking me in. I’d say I rescued myself more than anything.”

That made her laugh; the sound was pleasing and gentle. “Maybe so. Anyway, I thought I’d bring this down, at least.” She lifted the six-pack as an offer, and he noticed that one bottle was missing.

“Part of a six-pack?”

Now she was blushing. He liked that, and his interest interested him. “Yeah, well, um…Chris didn’t like it. It’s IPA, whatever that means.”

“India Pale Ale. So you brought me your boyfriend’s rejects, then. As a thank you.”

She blushed so hard at that, her face lit up like a warning beacon. She was really glowing now. He’d been teasing, so he let up and smiled. His expression eased hers, cooled her cheeks and widened her eyes, and she made that gentle chuckle again. “When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound all that grateful, huh? I guess I didn’t think it through. He’s not my boyfriend, but he is apparently pickier about beer than I thought. Okay, then. I’ll just slink back to my door in shame.”

Nick wasn’t sure what had piqued his interest, but it was piqued—at least, he wasn’t quite done with their little banter. His eyes kept returning to her mouth. “I’m not sure I remember your name. Is it Evelyn?”

“Beverly. Everybody calls me Bev.”

He’d been close. A name from the past. “Not many young women with that name, I’d guess.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never known another one personally, old or young.” She fidgeted, shifting the box in her hands, and Nick made a decision and stepped back out of his doorway, into his apartment. He’d lived here five years without getting to know a neighbor personally, but this one charmed him a little.

“Well, come in, and let’s try some of your boyfriend’s rejects.” He’d heard her correct him about the ‘boyfriend,’ and he’d repeated it intentionally to see if she’d correct him again.

“Are you sure? I’m happy to just give them to you. I wasn’t angling for an invite.” She got a look in her eye—it flashed quickly and was gone—and added, “Maybe your girlfriend would like it.” Nick read that she had not expected to be invited in, but now that she was, she was digging a little into his availability. He’d make sure to control that line of interest before it got going.

“I never say anything unless I’m sure, Beverly.” He stretched his arm out toward the interior of his home, and she walked through the doorway.

As she came in, she headed straight for the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “Well, I won’t say I’m not glad, because I didn’t want to be a loser and drink all alone.” She set the six-pack on the counter and then stared at his single glass of scotch. When she looked up, her blue eyes were wide.

Nick was enjoying this. She was so easy to read, she wasn’t just an open book, she was an IMAX movie in 3D. In most of his life, people tried to hide things from him. Even his friends and associates controlled their feelings. He found it refreshing to talk with someone this open.

“If you need an opener, it’s in the drawer next to the fridge.” He walked down the hallway into his bedroom and grabbed a clean t-shirt out of a drawer, then returned to the kitchen as he pulled it on. In the space of those few seconds, she had opened two bottles and was putting the remaining three in his refrigerator. As she closed the door, she looked at his chest, now covered with a t-shirt, and he saw her disappointment. He chuckled to himself as he picked up one of the open bottles from the counter and took a swig. The Pagano Brothers were investors in the Quiet Cove Brewery, so he’d had their IPA before. It was decent.

“So…what do you do, Nick?”

He turned and leaned against the counter, surprised and disappointed by her question. People knew him. They at least knew his last name, and considering that he normally got around in a blacked-out SUV with a huge
cumpà
for a driver, people made assumptions. Correct assumptions, in his case. So the question was stupid, for a lot of reasons.

“I work.” Wanting to turn the conversation over, he thought of the morning before, watching her on the beach. “You’re a yoga instructor.”

“Yes…that’s a thing I do.” Her smile around those words was wry. She was being coy with him, too. She had another job as well, but she was holding it back, retaliating for his vague answer to her question. Sassy. He liked it. He’d even forgive her for asking the stupid question in the first place.

He’d think through his interest in this woman later; for now, he decided to poke at her a little and take her measure. “I’ve seen you on the beach doing your thing. I’m surprised.”

“Why?” She took a long drink from her bottle. She hadn’t fussed about needing a glass.

“You’re not a skinny vegan type.”

She didn’t take offense at all. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, but again he could read her clearly, and she wasn’t one of those women who collapsed into a puddle of needy insecurity at any kind of comment that wasn’t an affirmation of their perfection.

Her answer was clear and confident. “Health and strength isn’t about being thin. It took me a long time to believe that, but now I more than believe it. I know it’s true. So, no, I’m not skinny. I’m a hundred times healthier now than when I was skinny. Or when I was fat. I’m strong and fit.” She gave him a smirk—more sass. “Limber, too.”

It was a good answer. And she wasn’t fat. She was—he didn’t know how to describe it. He’d say ‘average,’ but that didn’t feel right. Her shape was somehow better than average in a way he could see but not explain. She fit her clothes really well—that was as close as he could get.

He had an impulse to take hold of her ass. He could get there, too. But he wouldn’t.

When he cocked his head at her, conceding her point, she misread him and thought he was humoring her. “What, you want to arm wrestle?” She made a fist and flexed her bicep. Her muscle tone was obvious. And she had a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist—two feathers, light and delicate.

“No need.” He finished his ale. “I believe you.”

“Good.” She walked past him, around the dividing counter, and into his living room. “Your place is nice. Bigger than mine.” She gestured with her half-empty bottle toward the interior wall of glass, separating the living room from his office. “I like that—did you take the wall down, or was it an option when you bought?”

It was one thing to chat as a means to get a read on someone, but Nick had no use for purposeless chatter, and it seemed to him now that she was simply stalling. She wore her interest in him like a flashing red sign over her head. He was attracted, too, surprisingly so. He had two choices here: exploit that and fuck her, or send her on her way.

Though he wanted to get his hands on those tits, that ass, he hadn’t cut ties with Vanessa yet, and cheating was some messy bullshit that he did not need in his life. He’d cleaned up many a mess for Pagano Brothers men whose wives and
comares
had crashed together. He had only a mistress, no wife, but he didn’t need the drama. And Beverly lived across the hall. That was drama with a bonus package.