Page 7

She grabs her purse off the desk then winces slightly, her hand drifting to her temple. Alarmed, I start to circle around to her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She steps back. “Just tired.”

I follow her out of her office and down the hall. The earthy red tones in her dark brown hair catch the light. My eyes drift down to the sway of her hips, the curve of her backside beneath her dress. Blood pumps through my veins as desire stirs.

Five months. Five months of waking up with my body hard and the memory of throaty moans echoing in my ears. Even after learning who Alessandra was and realizing that she had most likely been in Santorini on Lucifer’s orders hadn’t dimmed my lust.

We walk into the lobby of Kingston Estate Law: white walls, gray wood floors glinting beneath the lights of a domed ceiling. Donnie sits off to the side at a curved desk in front of a bank of monitors. He glares at me before his eyes dart to Alessandra.

“I’m headed out, Donnie.”

“Don’t know if you saw on the metro app, Miss Wright, but your subway line is down.”

Alessandra stops so quickly I nearly run into her.

“What?” Her voice pitches up.

“Mechanical issue.”

“I see.”

Her tight tone has me biting back a smile.

“I’ll splurge on a taxi.”

My eyes narrow on her back.

“Good idea,” Donnie says with an encouraging nod to her and another scowl in my direction. “You have a good night now.”

I follow her into the elevator, ignoring her pointed movement to the farthest side of the car. Donnie’s staring daggers at me. I waggle my fingers at him as the doors close.

Alessandra sighs. “You do like to needle people.”

“I perfected it in elementary school.”

Neither one of us speaks for the next ten floors. It doesn’t bother me. During my time in NYPD’s Special Crimes Division, I spent countless nights on stakeouts, in interrogations waiting for a criminal to crack under the weight of silence.

What does bother me, however, is her scent. I’d forgotten it. But now, enclosed in this tight space, the faint traces of her perfume are stirring memories I’ve been trying to suppress and setting my blood on fire. Jasmine, rich and sweet, reminds me of how her fingers tangled in my hair as I slid into her wet heat. Rose, gentle and floral, reminds me of how she woke me with a kiss when the moon was full in the sky before moving down my body and taking me in her mouth. And that faint whisper of amber reminds me of holding her in my arms, tracing my fingers up and down the curve of her back, as we both shared small pieces of the pains that had driven us to Santorini.

Focus. My brain listens to the order, but other parts of my anatomy are slower to respond.

“My car’s right outside. We can talk on the way back to your house.”

“Pointless since there’s nothing to talk about.”

I face her, wait until she’s looking at me so she can see my determination, feel the weight of my intention.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I meant what I said before. If it’s mine, I will be involved. If you try to keep my child from me, I’ll take you to court. I will win.”

She holds my gaze even as her pulse pounds at the base of her neck. I don’t want her to be afraid. But if that’s what it takes to get her to accept that I’m not going anywhere, so be it.

“I won’t have my son or daughter growing up thinking their father didn’t want them.”

She’s so still it’s as if she’s turned to stone. Then, at last, she exhales.

“It’s a boy.”