“You look beautiful,” I say, as if we’re the only two in the room.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“No,” I correct her, “It brings out your beauty.”
She blushes, finally meeting my gaze. I feel my heart beating in my throat. This woman turns me inside out. I offer her a hand, and she takes it without even asking where we’re going.
“The band is playing in the ballroom,” I say.
Frankie frowns, as if I’m trying to steal his toy. I shut him up with a stern look, softening instantly when I return my gaze to Marlena. She caught the interaction, but doesn’t comment on it. I guide her out of the billiard room and down the hall to where a string quartet is entertaining the crowd.
I spin her out onto the dance floor, pressing one hand into the small of her back. She’s so perfectly designed, fitting against me as if we were made for each other. She touches my shoulder, her hand so light against the fabric of my jacket, I barely feel it. She turns her head down, showing off that beautiful mane of chocolate brown hair.
I wonder what I’m doing. I’m falling for her. That much is clear. I’ve been so careful to keep my feelings professional when it comes to women. Having sex is one thing, but getting attached is dangerous. If any of my rivals were to see us here tonight, they might get the wrong idea. I realize I might be in over my head, but I don’t care. There are ways of handling things.
I feel the tension slowly begin to abate from Marlena’s body. She’s allowing herself to respond to the music, to relax againstme. I feel a stirring down below and do my best to contain it. She’s so close, she must feel it too, but she doesn’t say anything.
We sway with the music, enjoying each other’s company. It’s been forever since I’ve allowed myself to enjoy this kind of intimate contact with another person. I don’t know what it is about Marlena that makes me want to shower her with affection. I have a desperate desire to appeal to her. I want her to see past my rough exterior and recognize that I’m a man. I want her to ignore the wealth and privilege this party represents, to understand that I’m offering something more. But am I? Do I really want a romantic relationship? I’m not sure.
When the song ends, I’m torn. Should we keep dancing, reveling in the closeness it affords us? Or should we go our separate ways and pretend that nothing is happening between us? I look to her for guidance. If she’s not into it, then I can walk away. I am nothing if not capable of controlling myself. I’ve made an empire out of ignoring my baser instincts, playing the game the way it’s meant to be played, and greasing all the right palms.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I reach up to tilt her chin up to look at me, but the raw emotion in her gaze takes my breath away. Not only is she not afraid, but she seems on the verge of saying something important.
I fight the urge to kiss her right there on the dance floor, pulling her close once again. We continue moving to the rhythm, losing ourselves in the delicate pattern of notes. I let myself enjoy the moment, not knowing what will come next. I have a few ideas, but I’m not sure if it’s the right time.
She looks so beautiful, but also a little intimidated. I have to admit that I would find myself out of sorts if I were the one walking into the Corello family den. I’m sure she knows what’sgoing on. She might not have pegged me for any of the specific crimes I’ve committed, but she’s aware that I’m in charge. With her chest pressed to mine, I feel her little heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.
I want to soothe her, to make her understand that I’m not a threat to her. But how? My only experience with women has been composed of one serious relationship, and the rest consisted of the professional variety. I’m unsure how to approach someone I genuinely care for.
I put my feelings aside for the time being and just hold her. She feels so good pressed against me. I imagine all kinds of dirty things I’d like to do with her, but there’s an equal number of sweet activities I’d like to engage in, like walking hand in hand and visiting the Italian countryside.
Maybe someday I’ll get my wish. But for the moment, this dance is enough. I press my palm to the back of her head and revel in the silky smoothness of her hair. She’s an angel who’s walked into my life, and there’s no way I’m going to let her go.
CHAPTER 13
MARLENA
My heart’s beating out of control, and I’m having a hard time holding onto my sanity. Francisco is so close. I can smell his aftershave like it’s a living thing, snaking in through my nostrils and down into my soul. It’s the perfect combination of recklessness and wealth.
The fabric of his jacket is butter soft, and the sheer wealth that radiates from him is heart-stopping. Good God, what in the hell am I doing? I didn’t want to come to this party in the first place. I allowed myself to be swayed by the exorbitant amount Francisco spent on my dress. And now I’m falling in lust with him over his cologne and his suit jacket. I have to stop.
There’s only one place we can go from here, and that’s not somewhere I want to visit. I try to tell myself that he’s too old. He’s clearly dangerous, and he’s the father of my client. All good reasons for me to make my escape. But I cling to his muscular form like a woman drowning.
We stand in the center of the ballroom, gliding together as if we are a couple. I easily imagine myself as the queen of the gala, the one woman who everyone else envies. I can have it all. I cango home with the most eligible bachelor in the room, securing a spot for myself in the family album. Curiously, it’s the thought of success that drives me away.
I know too much about Francisco already. No, I don’t know where the bodies are buried, but I’m one hundred percent sure there are literal skeletons in his closet. Maybe skeletons of past lovers.
That thought stops me cold. I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous. He hasn’t asked me to bed yet, and there’s no indication that he will. I’m an employee in his home, and he’s nothing if not impeccable. But we’re both warm-blooded adults, and I can sense his attraction. I’m not dead yet.
I tell myself he’s not a danger to the women in his life, just the men. People like Francisco have a code I know only too well that they live by. He’s just like my father, which is another reason I should turn tail and run. I’ve had my fill of mafia soldiers. They aren’t like the actors in the movies. They’re rough and ugly. They hurt people for a living, and their personal lives are full of ruined dreams. Francisco is neither rough nor ugly, but I do get the impression he has been unsuccessful in love. It’s a pity, because I wouldn’t mind giving it a try. But there are so many reasons to keep my distance.
I push away, summoning my courage to look him in the eye. “I have to go.”
He doesn’t argue. I half expect him to give me some command, to pull me back into the dance and refuse to allow me to leave. But to his credit, he lets me go. He follows me silently out of the ballroom, catching hold of my wrist just outside the door.
“Thank you for coming,” he says simply. Though the words are gentle, their implication is clear. He knows I’m on the fence. He knows I struggled with myself before arriving, that I’m not sure if I even belong here.
“Of course,” I say, tossing it out as if there were no conflict.
