My pulse hops, skips, jumps.
I scowl, leveling my energy on crushing any glimmer of excitement invading my body. “There’s nothing to renegotiate. What’s done is done. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I’ve got to get back to?—”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. Otherwise your date is going to find himself in a shallow grave.”
The heat filtering through my limbs pools low in my belly.
“It’s strange,” he drawls. “I always feared becoming my father, but watching you share a romantic meal with another man has made me appreciate having the means to make himdisappear. With that in mind, I thought you’d appreciate me reaching out to advise you against letting him touch what’s mine.”
That heat thickens. Intensifies. Burns.
I refuse to take the bait.
This is just more Raffael manipulation at its finest. And although every inch of me is one hundred percent entirely and unequivocally manipulated, my mind still has a few combative cells.
I take a beat. A breath. Then calmly state, “You’re advising me?”
“Mmm.” A deep growl of affirmation carries through the phone. “It seemed appropriate, given my current urge to commit homicide.”
A manic laugh bubbles up my throat. It doesn’t help that I can picture him lazing in a wingback chair, scotch in hand, chin arrogantly high as he articulates the warning.
“I’m glad you find his quickly approaching death funny,” he drawls. “I feared it might scare you.”
“I find your dramatics ridiculous. Move on with your life, Raffael. I have.”
“You haven’t moved anywhere. You’re still as much mine as you’ve ever been. Wewillbe renegotiating terms. I’ll be waiting in my boardroom.”
“I’m not?—”
The line goes dead.
“Everything okay?” Lincoln returns to the table and slides back into his seat.
I place my phone in my clutch and grasp my wineglass, nodding through an unladylike gulp of liquor.
He doesn’t skip a beat before diving straight back into menial chitchat that starts with the current state of interest rates anddevolves into market commentary I would usually enjoy, but right now, the words fade into white noise.
I focus, if only for survival, and use Raffael’s intimidation as motivation to manufacture attraction for the man seated across from me, but the thought of being watched has my skin in a constant state of goose bumps, the thrum just shy of arousal.
Our mains are served, but instead of the sea bass I ordered, what’s placed before me is a rack of lamb. Red wine reduction. Parsnip purée. Charred broccolini.
A sharp jolt cuts through me, the sensation way too similar to excitement for my self-loathing not to increase.
“Is that what you ordered?” Lincoln asks.
I drag in a breath, the scent of roasted lamb and red wine making me salivate.
“No.” I swallow. The meal wasn’t even on the menu.
“You should send it back.” His fork scrapes across the porcelain of his plate as he twirls his pasta. “The kitchen must have made a mistake.”
There’s no mistake.
This meal has Raffael written all over it.
“It’s fine.” I grasp my cutlery, my palms sweating around the silverware as I stare at my food, despising it.Adoringit. “If I send it back they won’t be able to serve it to anyone else anyway, so I might as well eat it.”
Lincoln shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
