Excerpt of Hers to Tame by Rhenna Morgan

[Aunt Frieda] turned the page and a stack of photos Cassie hadn’t mounted yet slid onto her lap. “Oh, are these new?”

Cassie leaned to one side, but still couldn’t get a good view of them from the couch. “Which ones?”

“The French Quarter at night… Jackson Square ven­dors… Lake Pontchartrain…” she said, studying each one then moving it to the back of the stack. “And…ho, ho, ho…what do we have here?” She angled her head to a considering angle and an appreciative grin crept onto her face.

Cassie scrambled up and tried to grab the stack.

Frieda slid the lot of them out of reach before she could, but angled them so the top picture was in full view. “Who’s this guy? He’s hot.”

Oh. Holy. Hell.

Of all the pictures Frieda absolutely did not need to be looking at right now, it was the one she’d snapped of Kir Vasilek a month ago. “Aunt Frieda, give me that.”

“Why? When a man looks like that, the last thing I need to do is let go. Especially when he’s in a suit, has a mouth that could kiss you stupid and looks like he commands the world with a snap of his fingers. You ask me, suit-wearing men are an endangered species. We should protect them at all costs.”

Lord help her. If Frieda only knew. The man she was advocating protection for was, according to her colleagues, a killer. Too bad Cassie hadn’t known that particular detail before she’d learned he could kiss every bit as good her aunt suspected he could. At least then her libido wouldn’t be at war with her common sense every time her mind went strolling down memory lane—which lately seemed to be too often.

“You’re my aunt. Aunts don’t call men hot. Especially when they’re half their age.”

“Um, this aunt does!” She pulled the picture in for another, closer gander. “And there’s no way he’s half my age. I’m only fifty-six and he’s gotta be at least mid-thirties.”

“He’s thirty-five,” Cassie said, making another grab for the stack and coming away successful.

“See?” Frieda said. “Totally legal. And I betcha he’d appreciate an older woman.” She paused all of a second, watching Cassie stuff the prints back into her portfo­lio. When she spoke again, there was a whole different glint in her eyes. “Then again, I’m guessing from your reaction, he already appreciated you. Do tell!”

“No way. I’ll tell you a lot of things, but dishing about my sex life isn’t in the cards.” With that, she stood and carried the wide leather-covered book to the dinette.

“Um, hate to tell you this, sugar plum, but I’m the woman who gave you detailed dos and don’ts before you ventured out to buy your first battery-operated boyfriend.”

The pillows shuffled and Frieda’s Keds squeaked against the faux wood floors. While she didn’t make a grab for the portfolio, her aunt did pull out a chair, sit and prop her chin on her hand, clearly ready for all the details. “Now, tell me all about Mr. Hottie and why you felt compelled to keep him a secret.”

Cassie let out a tired exhale and dropped into the chair next to Frieda. Beneath her palm the navy-blue leather cover was buttery soft and cool, a welcome re­lief to the heat creeping up her neck. “He was the one who gave me the leg up on all the stories that got me so much good feedback at the station.”

“The ones on that mobster? What’s his name?”

“Stephen Alfonsi. And yes, those.” Cassie opened the book, the pages easily falling open to where the pictures sat wedged against the spine. “If it hadn’t been for Kir, I’m not sure I’d have had such a good run. Or any run at all, for that matter.”

“Kir?”

Cassie plucked the photo off the top and held it be­tween her fingers. The composition of the image was amateur at best, but with Kir as the primary focus, nothing else really mattered. Her aunt wasn’t wrong. The man wore a suit extremely well. Though, with him seated behind the iron and glass patio table, you couldn’t really appreciate how well it fit his six-foot-two frame. But what really captured the attention of pretty much any woman who met him were his fea­tures. Blond hair worn just long enough to show he’d inherited cherub-like curls from someone in his family line, a sharp aristocratic nose and an equally strong jawline. “Kir Vasilek.”

“Mmm. You say his name the way I say Häagen-Dazs. Either you’ve got a doozy of a crush, or you had a taste and are eager for another.”

Oh, she’d had a taste.

Twice.

Now here she was seven months later, and she still hadn’t shaken the impact he’d had on her.

“He’s quite charming,” Cassie said. “Confident and educated. Very well connected. He gave me all the in­formation I needed to start a steady roll of stories when Alfonsi disappeared.”

Frieda snorted. “Girl, everyone knows Alfonsi’s dead. Disappeared is just the politically correct way of avoiding saying he finally pissed off the wrong per­son. And good riddance, if you ask me.” She motioned to the picture. “So, you took this when you met him?”

The same slimy disgust she’d felt the day she’d taken the picture slithered down her spine. “No.” She tucked the picture back in place, closed the book and stood. At the rate she was going at work, she was either going to be out of a job, or working for some smarmy gossip rag. “Have you seen my phone anywhere?”

“Whoa. You just changed the subject on me.”

“I did not.” Cassie shifted the clothes on the couch and checked behind the cushions. “I just need to check the anchor schedule for next week.”

“Bullshit. You were looking at that man like he was the cat’s meow.”

“No one says the cat’s meow anymore.”

“I do. And when I look at a man like that, I keep him.”

Under normal circumstances, she’d agree with her aunt. But Kir wasn’t just any man. Rumor had it he was the right-hand man for another up-and-coming mob boss in New Orleans. A fact she hadn’t known until after she’d had her second toe-curling tussle with him.

Copyright © 2020 by Rhenna Morgan