I bite down on another olive, the saltiness distracting me from the flutter in my chest. “You don’t have to compliment me back.”
“Are you censoring me, Cat?”
“No.” My lips twitch. “You do you, Dane Ryder.” I brush hair from my face, deciding I like how this man looks at me. A primal part of me vibrates with the urge to show him everything. All of me.
I shake that thought away. No need to rush when the night’s still so young.
I finish my first martini just as the server brings my second. “This is a work night for me, you know.” As I pull the glass toward me, I pretend to glare at Dane. “I can’t get too hammered.”
“It’s a holiday. Live a little, Cat.” He sips his brandy, and the golden liquid’s reflection warms his skin. “You want to hear more about me or not?”
“Please.”
He inches a little closer, the heat of his body steaming my side. He chats about his parents, how his mother’s love for art influenced his father and then Dane himself. How he’s held jobs since he was a teen to help contribute to his family. About histwo younger siblings, one back home in LA, one here in New York assisting him with his work.
But, frankly, my mind fixates less on Dane’s words and more on the shape of his lips. On the sharpness of his laugh when he mocks a collector he’s had bad run-ins with. How his eyes spark with interest when I push back against his insistence that medieval art is boring.
I drink more than I should, with martini glasses and brandy tumblers soon littering the table. I talk more than I should, too, unable to keep myself from responding to Dane’s barbs and teases.
He’s annoyingly smart, and if I’m honest, I find that even more attractive than his damn face.
As the night progresses, I start to wonder if he’s even real.
But under that near-perfect smile and those come-fuck-me eyes, a whisper of unease prickles beneath my skin. He maintains a smooth, easy charm, but every few seconds, his gaze flicks to the door, always watching the comings and goings of the other patrons. The hand that’s not draped around my shoulder hovers near his waist, his fingers never flat, never relaxed.
The man practically vibrates with leashed energy, reminding me too much of the men I live with.
I rub my neck, convinced I’m just self-sabotaging. Just because the mafia is my life doesn’t mean it’s also the life of every man I come across.
It’s like after you buy a red car and suddenly start seeing red cars everywhere. Or you get swimmer’s shoulder, and suddenly everyone you bump into—swimmer or not—has rotator cuff impingement or bursitis. Or your mother dies, and suddenly everyone…
Bad example.
I have yet to run into someone else who had their mother ripped from their life during their childhood. Dane’s stories suggest that his parents remain together and alive and happy as clams.
I shove all those intrusive thoughts away. I’m having a great time, and that’s that.
Live in the moment, girl.
Later, near midnight, Dane Ryder leans in. “Can I kiss you, Caterina?”
The question steals my breath, so all I can manage is a tiny nod.
As the bar erupts into cheers of “Happy New Year!” Dane’s lips fall on mine. Desire floods me at his sweet, brandy-like taste.
When was the last time someone kissed me? Years ago, at this point. Maybe not since my early college years. And none of those kisses ever burned the way Dane’s does. None sizzled through my blood like lava, shooting sparks straight from my brain down to my core.
His tongue finds mine, coaxing until I’m panting for air. His hands roam my torso through the jacket, heavy and demanding as they caress my back and hips.
My brain spins, fuzzy from the lack of air, from the drinks, from the heat of Dane on and around me. I cling to his arms, my fingers tight on his firm muscles.
I want to rip his shirt off and discover what’s hiding beneath the thin fabric. To trace every line of ink on his skin and memorize the patterns one by one.
Most of all, I want more.
What better way to ring in the new year?
Chapter 3
