Blood and Fire by Shannon McKenna Page A

mysterious half-mast. “Um, no thanks. I’m sure you’re very good at it.”
    Her provocative tone was gone. Her voice was quiet.
    Bruno folded his arms over his chest, flipping the order pad nervously against his arm. She backed down, but too soon. He hadn’t worked his mad out yet. “What the hell did you mean by that, anyway?”
    She blinked, innocently. “Mean by what?”
    “A guy like me,” he repeated. “What kind of guy is that? What do you think you know about me? You have no clue who I am.”
    It was like she’d taken off a mask. She looked completeldifferent. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. I made assumptions based on your looks, which is really shallow, and I hate it when guys do that to me. I don’t know anything about you. Except for what you tell me.”
    Wow. He ran a flash analysis to decide what conversational road to travel next. Time to shift gears. A peace offering, maybe. “What do you want to know?” he asked, rashly. “I’ll tell you anything.”
    Something flickered in her eyes. Her chin went back up. Her gaze raked over his body, assessing him. “For starters, tell me how you can make banana cream pie and chocolate brownies in industrial quantities and still look like that. And don’t tell me about the thirty hours a week in the gym, because I don’t want to hear it.”
    So it was back to brittle flirting. Whatever. “OK, I won’t tell you that,” he said easily. “I’ve just got one of those metabolisms. I can eat anything, anytime, as much as I want, with extra whipped cream on it. I know girls hate that, but we all have our gifts.”
    He headed for the dessert counter, where he proceeded to dish up a big bowl of rice pudding, dusting it with cinnamon. Then a huge, quivering slice of banana cream pie. He poured them both some coffee, buzzed and jittery though he already was. He needed something to do with his hands, if she was actually ready to acknowledge his existence.
    Or he’d find himself panting. Wagging. Or worse, babbling.
    He laid the desserts on the table. Her crooked smile faltered a little when he boldly slid into the seat facing her, the better to hide his hard-on. None of the other customers needed attention. Just as well. He would have ignored them if they had.
    The silence stretched out taut as she sipped her coffee. Strong, fresh French roast, with a shot of real cream, no sugar. She liked it just the way he liked it.
    Strange, to be sitting here quietly with a woman who turned him on so much and not be trying to show her how interesting or fascinating or unique or solvent he was. That’s what he would’ve done in the old days. He’d cooled down on that, after his recent notoriety following his adopted brother Kev’s mortal duel with the evil zombie masters, the gun battles, the bombs. Tony’s death. All that shit.
    That whole crazy goatfuck had culminated in Bruno doing a perp walk along with Kev and Kev’s newly discovered biological brothers, in handcuffs in front of local news crews. They were found to be innocent of wrongdoing, but they’d had an uncomfortable time of it for a while.
    That had put a big crimp in his social schedule. No more of that “Portland’s Most Eligible Bachelor” hoo-hah. Just as well. That shit got old. He’d tried to convince Zia Rosa to take down that cover of the Portland Monthly she’d put up in the diner after the mag had done that “most eligible” article about him. It embarrassed him now. But Zia Rosa liked his dimples in that picture, and Zia Rosa could not be reasoned with.
    Something about the zombie duels, Tony’s death, had changed him. He wasn’t sure what, but he’d started to shut up occasionally. Not all the time, and not for too long, but he was now capable of keeping his yap trap shut for a few minutes at a time.
    So if this woman wanted to know something about him, she could ask. He wasn’t going to run the Bruno Ranieri promo spiel anymore.
    He gestured toward the rice pudding.