Of course he had.After all, he also knew my drink.The man is nothing, if not determined.
“Ah.”I let my lips curve, even though my instincts are sharpening.“And what should I be careful about, Mr.…”
I leave the question hanging, an invitation for him to supply his name.Not surprisingly, Mr.Tall, Dark, and Broody doesn’t respond.
I’m not sure how, but he manages to lean in even closer, dominating my space without touching me anywhere but my wrist.
Then slowly, deliberately, he brushes his thumb over my fluttering pulse.
My breath catches in spite of myself.
“Fair warning, Valentina.”He inhales, like he’s tasting me.“I don’t share.”
A slow, delighted laugh spills out of me before I can stop it.Pure sin, my brothers would grumble.“I haven’t agreed to anything with you.”
He quirks his lips, annoyingly, enchantingly.“Yet.”
“That’s confident.”
“Would you bet against me?”His gaze drags down my body and back up, lingering like a physical touch.“Bet against us?”
Us?
I should shut this down.I should roll my eyes, toss out some dismissive line, walk back to my table, and let Santo snap the man’s neck the second he tries to follow me.
Instead, I tighten my fingers on the glass.
“What is it that turns you on, Valentina?”the stranger asks, smoothly plucking the drink from my hand and setting it on the bar, just out of reach.
I give him a slow once-over right back.He’s not the only one cataloguing and assessing.
“Confidence,” I say.“But not arrogance.”
“I’m guessing that’s a fine line?”
“Very.”
The bartender slides a tumbler of Bonds whiskey across to him.Then he takes a drink while looking at me as if he’s already stripped me out of this dress and pinned me to the nearest flat surface.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.That I’m not distracted.That the faint prickle along my spine is just attraction with teeth.
He pulls out his wallet and presents his black credit card, making me bristle.“I can pay for myself,” I tell him.
His free hand comes up, palm out, as if to soothe.“No offense meant.”
I don’t soften.
He holds my gaze, mouth curling in a way designed to reassure.“It would be my pleasure.”
My chin wants to go stubborn on principle, but my father did raise me to recognize a well-played move.And if this man thinks money gives him leverage over me, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.
“In that case,” I say, letting a cool smile unfurl, “thank you.”
“No strings attached.”
Hearing the lie, I laugh.I’ve spent my adulthood sifting truth from bullshit.No man like this, in a place like this, buys the daughter of Fabrizio Russo a drink with no strings attached.
And still, stupidly, recklessly, I want to see what he does next.
