“But fair warning, you’ll have to ditch that gun. Regardless of how attractive you are, I’m not going to an Albanian prison,” she continued with a spark of challenge dancing in her eyes as she extended her hand, but all my brain could focus on was that she found me attractive. “Now I can’t wait to learn more about you, Mr. Cortes.”
“Call me Kian,” I corrected her automatically. “After all, I’m your husband.”
She chuckled.
“You’re right. Mr. Cortes is too formal.” She tapped her chin pensively. “You did just have your tongue inside my mouth.”
Jesus H. Christ.
Kristoff Baldwin hadn’t mentioned this reckless side of his cousin.
And as every instinct I had sounded the alarm, I chose to ignore them all.
Chapter 11
Sophie
Kian towered above me, my head only coming up to his shoulder, as he guided me out of the bar with his hand around my waist.
The air in his car was electric and my heart was pumping hard and fast.
It took all of five minutes to drive to a cozy restaurant tucked among a copse of pine trees. Its ambiance felt like stepping back in time. The large marble tiles, Greek statue accents, and furniture that had clearly been built to last made the space feel intimate and beachy at the same time.
The air smelled faintly of the sea, smoke, and citrus—comforting rather than stale—and the muted hum of conversation gave the place a lived-in warmth. It wasn’t stylish in a modern sense, but it felt like somewhere meant to be lingered in.
He pulled out a chair for me and I took a seat as I hooked my purse over the back.
“So,” Kian started as he sat across from me. “You have my time and attention, Sophie. What are you going to do with it?”
I leaned back, tilting my head with a grin.
“Well, first I’m buying you dinner—to thank you forsaving me not once, but twice. After that,” I added lightly, “you’re going to indulge my curiosity and tell me why you walk around with security and carry a weapon.”
He chuckled, low and amused. “Only if you’re willing to share why you’re roaming Europe solo.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping back in my chair. “I’m getting the sense you’re a tough negotiator.”
“Very,” he admitted.
“And apparently very dangerous, per your own admission.”
He didn’t answer.
My eyes flicked over him, cataloging the faint lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.
“How old are you?” I questioned.
“Fifty.”
His body defied the number entirely. Broad shoulders carried well-defined muscle, the kind that spoke of discipline rather than youth. He dressed as though he’d just stepped off a runway, shaving a decade off his years without trying. His wardrobe was immaculate all the way down to the gleam of expensive cufflinks, but it wasn’t the luxury that set him apart. It was the bodyguard constantly at his side, the measured confidence in his presence.
I quickly shoved aside the thought that it should mean something to me that he was attractive. Clearly, I was lonelier than I’d realized if I was mentally undressing a man almost twice my age.
“Well, I’ll give you one thing,” I continued when the silence stretched. “You’re an equal opportunity employer, considering you hired a female driver. I appreciate that in a man.”
“Thank you,” he retorted dryly. “I think.”
“Are there many women drivers here?” I asked curiously.
