Yet, I’ve never felt safer.
Without a word, I slip my hand inside his, and willingly let him lead me wherever he chooses to.
Probably into damnation. But do I care?
Not one bit.
We cross the street to where a black Maserati is parked, and he opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and breathe in the faint scent of leather and the spice of his cologne that lingers in the air.
When he gets in and fires up the engine, I can only stare at his hands, one on the steering wheel, one on the gearshift.
What would those large, lethal hands feel like on my skin? Would they be gentle? Would they be rough and controlling?
And why is there a pulse between my legs?
I squirm in the seat, the leather is cool on my bare legs, and more goosebumps erupt.
“You’re cold.”
I canfeelhis gaze travel up my bare thighs, all the way up to my tight nipples that are apparent through my thin white shirt and the lacy bra I wear underneath.
When his piercing, beautiful eyes lift to mine, I’m suddenly flushed with heat. The desire and hunger in his gaze sets me on fire. I caught glimpses of it last night, but now, there’s no restraint in his look.
My breath catches in my throat when his hand lifts to cup my chin. His touch on my skin is gentle. A caress without even moving.
I swallow and lick my lips. Desperate for him to do something more.
The moment is shattered when a car honks in the distance. He smiles, his thumb moving along the line of my jaw, then he returns his hand to the gearshift.
His movements are skilled and smooth as he drives the manual car with flawless transition between the gears.
Somehow, I find my voice in the swirling fog of desire that’s taking over my body and mind. “I wanted to go for a walk.”
“We will.” His profile is beautiful and strong, powerful and confident.
“Why not here?” I press. Even though he’s Don of this territory, and I know my place—or at least, Ishould—I question him.
It seems to please him, though.
“I want to take you to some of my favorite spots in the city. We’ll start with grabbing an espresso and a cornetto.”
“I’d prefer a cannoncino,” I say without a second thought about voicing my preferences about the pastry that’s shaped like a horn and filled with custard cream. My etiquette teachers would be dying right now if they were here.
He grins, turning to me as we stop at a light. “Thenil mio soleshall have a cannoncino.”
“Your sun?” I squeak, heat erupting all over my body as I stare at him. Then, I gather my wits about me and shake my head. “Awfully presumptuous of you, Don Santoro.”
He half-grunts, half-laughs before he starts driving again.
Not sure if it’s the jetlag fog, or if he’s frying my brain, but I ask a question I should’ve asked before I got into his car. “What were you doing at my house at six in the morning?”
“Waiting for you.”
A little thrill zips through me, making me feel all jittery inside. “Stalker?”
He laughs, and I love the sound. “I guess you could say that.”
I shift in my seat, turning more toward him. “You could’ve come to the house.”
