His voice as smooth as silk, Grant started into his standard crowd-pleaser: Sinatra’s ‘My Kind of Town.

Sophie clutched Grant tighter. ‘I don’t know what screwed-up messages from your family are floating around in your head right now, but you’re staying right here.

Um, h-h-hi,” Sophie stammered, closing the door behind her. Meeting her gaze were crystal eyes like blue shards of glass.

I’m glad I went to prison,” Grant rasped in Sophie’s ear, so quietly only she could hear. “Because then I found you.

You’re not like them. You’re my McSailor.”A soft touch made him smile, thinking of Bonnie, before he realized it was Innochka’s hand stroking his face. The touch of a mobster’s girlfriend. He leaped back, still...

Sometimes I feel like a normal person. Sometimes I forget I’m on parole, that I’m not really free.

He pulled her toward him and gathered her in his arms as his hand lovingly cradled the back of her neck. She stopped breathing as he leaned down—ohmigod, the Adonis was about to kiss her—and...

Crude. You’re crude, roomie.