“I’ll find you later, Raven,” he rumbles. Not a question. A certainty.
“You do that,” I murmur. “Feel free to watch me walk away.”
As I leave him, I sway my hips more than usual. It takes everything in me not to look back and see if he’s watching me. Oh, who am I kidding… of course he is. My ass is phenomenal, and I know it.
The party exhales its last breath around twelve-thirty, guests trickling out the door with handshakes and air kisses. I’ve spent the last hour putting out miniature fires. The champagne was running dangerously low, and a client’s daughter was taking almost-nude photos in restricted areas.
Through it all, I’ve felthimwatching. A constant prickle at the back of my neck, a heat signature I can’t ignore. So, I’m not surprised when I finish thanking the string quartet and turn to find him leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner, waiting.
“Successful evening?” he asks as I approach, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
“By every metric.” I slip off my heels, dangling them from two fingers. My feet ache after hours of perfect posture. “Though the night’s not over yet.”
His gaze traces the movement, lingering on my bare feet, then traveling slowly up my legs. “That sounds like an invitation.”
“It sounds like a fact,” I counter, though we both know what I’m implying. “The best nights don’t end when the party does.”
We’ve migrated to an alcove, partially concealed by heavy velvet drapes. The hotel staff bustle around, breaking down tables, but here we exist in our own pocket of space. The string lights above cast his scars in sharp relief, making the burn marks look almost beautiful in their asymmetry.
“What does a woman like you do for fun in a city like Cleveland?” he asks, voice dipping just enough to feel intimate. The sleeve of his jacket brushes my bare arm.
I laugh, the sound is genuine. “A woman like me? And what kind of woman do you think I am?”
“The kind who likes adventures,” he says, unbothered by my teasing. “Am I wrong?”
“Not even close.” I tip my glass, letting the bubbles tickle my lips before lowering it again. “I collect experiences and memories.”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing. “I’m a good experience.”
I arch a brow. “I only go for great ones,” I clarify.
“Well played,” he breathes.
A silver lighter appears in his hand. He flicks it open, thumb dragging over the wheel until a flame jumps to life. The glow cuts across his features, catching the sharp edge of his jaw, then he shuts it with a soft snap and pockets it again—like he only needed the spark to make his point.
“What was your latest adventure?” he asks.
“Not counting coming here?” I tease.
“Humor me.”
“Fine.” I swirl what’s left of my champagne. “Two years in Paris. Where I learned to fake a French accent, drink too much wine, and talk my way out of a handful of speeding tickets.”
“Useful skills.” His eyes trace my mouth, lingering. “Got any random ones?”
“Random?” I echo. “Like what? Blow bubbles with my gum?”
He lets out a deep rumble of a laugh. “Sure. That counts.”
“Your turn,” I say, grinning. “What’s your most random skill?”
Matteo leans closer and rasps, “Nothing I’m good at is random.”
I shiver, and the hairs on my arms rise. Oh, God. The way he just said that, I believe him. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then what’s the most random thing you know?”
He hums, tilting his head as if weighing his next words. “I know at least eighty ways to kill someone.”
My smile falters on my lips. “That’s… not random.”
