He picks up the bracelet next, and this time I don’t resist when he takes my other wrist. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he works the delicate clasp, like he’s handling something precious.
Like he’s handlingmelike something precious.
Which is completely insane, because I’m a liability he’s managing, not a girlfriend he’s spoiling.
“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Beautiful.”
I look down at the jewelry. Itisbeautiful. Elegant. The kind of accessories I used to stare at in magazines and dream about owning someday, when I had money and a life that made sense.
Now I’m wearing them, and they feel like the most expensive shackles ever made.
“These probably cost more than I make in a year,” I say.
“Two years,” he corrects. “But who’s counting?”
The casual display of wealth should intimidate me. Instead, it does something weird to my chest. Like he’s showing off. Like he wants to impress me.
Which is ridiculous. He’s not trying to impress me. He’s tracking me.
Right?
“We should go,” he says, checking his own watch; black, masculine, probably worth a small fortune.
He’s still standing close. Too close. I can see the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the hint of muscle beneath expensive fabric. I notice how broad his shoulders are, how his body seems to take up all the available space.
And then—God help me—my eyes drift lower.
I can’t help it. The memory hits me like a freight train: my drunk hands on his jeans that night, the hard length of him beneath the denim. The way he’d gone perfectly still, like he was fighting not to react.
Heat floods my cheeks as my gaze drops to his belt, and lower, where the fabric of his pants hints at exactly what I remember touching.
Stop it, Mary. Stop looking.
But I can’t. He’s right there, all heat and hard edges and dangerous masculinity, and my body is remembering things my brain wishes it could forget.
“Don’t want to be late on your first day back,” he says, and his voice is deeper now. Rougher.
I snap my eyes up, heart hammering. He’s watching me, and there’s something dark and knowing in his expression. Like he caught me looking. Like he knows exactly what I was thinking about.
God, he’s beautiful. Unfairly, devastatingly beautiful in the way that dangerous men always are. Hard angles and lethal grace combine, like he was carved from stone and brought to life specifically to ruin women’s common sense.
Jesus, Mary. Get it together. He’s a killer. A mafia enforcer. Don’t be stupid.
First day back. Right. Back to pretending Dave didn’t die in front of me. Back to acting like my life didn’t implode into a mafia thriller overnight.
“Anton?”
He pauses, jacket halfway on.
“Can I speak to my grandma?”
He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a phone. Not my phone; this one is sleek, black, clearly the latest model. Way out of my price range.
“Where’s my phone?” I ask.
“This is your phone now.” His voice carries that bossy, possessive edge that makes my skin prickle. “All yourcontacts have been transferred. Your grandmother’s number is programmed in.”
I take the phone, noting how warm it is from being against his chest. “This is…”
