Those long, thick fingers worked deftly to pluck the dress away from the thorns. I was still breathing hard. Closing my eyes, I made a conscious effort to fight back the panic. Nothing bad happened. I was safe—my son was safe. It was just a terrible experience. Everything was fine.
“Ssshhh, little flower,” the creature from the underworld soothed. The rough voice was impossibly gentle. “You’re shivering. I’ll set you free, just another minute.”
It was how my cousins talked to the animals on the ranch. Soft, but firm. It set me at ease.
“There.” He pulled me forward, fingers lingering for another heartbeat before releasing me. “Are your arms alright?”
I couldn’t look away. Didn’t look down at them. “Fine, yes.” I swallowed past the heartbeat in my throat. “I’m all good.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. It was hard to place his age when he smiled like this. He was undoubtedly older than me, but the roguish look on his face made the man seem timeless.
“Thank you, Ivan,” I added. “That wasn’t…. That wasn’t fun.”
Those keen black eyes hardened a fraction. “You’d better run inside and put something on those.”
He gestured to my scrapes.
“Okay.” His words didn’t quite register. “I can do that.”
“Poppy! Oh, good grief, there you are! I’ve been looking ever—what! What happened?” Penelope burst into the rose garden. Her gaze swiveled between us. The queen of the famiglia sharpened her focus on the man in front of me.
I didn’t want her to think this was his fault. “I tripped into the bushes,” I said in a rush. “I didn’t want to call out. So embarrassing! Ivan was around and helped me.”
If my cousin bought the story, she didn’t say. It wasn’t like it was a lie. I just omitted the part where one of her catering staff was too handsy.
I extracted myself from the vicinity of the monster and hurried to my cousin. “Help me change quick. There’s time before dinner, right?”
Penelope shot one last glance at Ivan. “Yes, there’s time.”
As we trailed back into the house, I felt those eyes, the black gaze fixed on me with an intensity I was wholly unfamiliar with.
Chapter 3 – Ivan
Rayko:How’s it going?
Me:My suit is too tight.
Rayko:It’s custom made. Quit whining.
Rayko:Have you signed the contracts?
Me:Tonight is a meet and greet. No contracts yet.
Rayko:Fucking waste of time.
The bright little flower rushed away, pulling her cousin with her. Intoxicating, that was the word. Something about her struck me, and I couldn’t look away. Those soft brown eyes set in her smooth, suntanned face made my blood hum. There was a delicate balance about her, as if the first strong gust of wind would tip her over. But the more I touched her, the more we came into contact, I realized that was an unfair description.Behind the shy demeanor, Poppy was strong. Hardy. Able to grow and thrive—just like her namesake. I watched the ladies go until they disappeared into the house. My blood ran hot, coursing through my veins.
Ebasi!She was beautiful.
That was why I went to find her, just to talk to her again.
Only to find someone else was trying to pluck my flower. My fingers twitched at my side. The slim blade I kept in my jacket pocket howled, begging to be used. I swept a look over the backyard of Don Mancini’s house. The shit stain was gone. I shifted my shoulders, rolling out some of the tension, and reached under the breast lapel of my suit. The hard steel was reassuring. Soon, I promised myself, soon I would hunt that waiter down and introduce him to the wicked-sharp weapon.
It wasn’t the risk of spilling blood on the don’s property that stayed my hand. No, it was almost time to eat. And hunting the waiter down to play would take a long time to satisfy the bubbling rage in my chest. I wasn’t missing dinner—and a chance to spend time near the flower—and I sure as hell wasn’t letting the waiter’s end be a fast one.
I made my way back to the gathering. Commissioner Dallas was deep in conversation with a commercial developer. They were the two men I’d come here to shmooze. The commissioner belched a laugh, chin bobbing at the broken cord sound. He was a man who looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts. Button nose, watery eyes that never quite focused on whoever he was talking to, and a suit that strained against his considerable girth. But appearances aside, Commissioner Dallas controlled the zoning board with an iron fist.
I straightened my tie and approached, catching the tail end of a joke about golf handicaps. The developer—Harrington or Harrison, something with an H—spotted me first, his smile tightening at the corners.
