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“Don’t tell me you’re scared to ride.”

“I once fell off a scooter,” I mumble.

Even through my blurred vision, I can see the corner of his mouth curve. He reaches into one of the compartments on the bike, pulls out a pair of black leather gloves, and slides them on one at a time.

“Get on, little stripper.”

The engine comes alive beneath him with a deep vibration that travels through the floor and into the soles of my shoes, and the fear inside me is drowned underneath the sound. I step closer, place one hand on Antonio’s shoulder, and swing my leg over the seat. My foot catches against the edge briefly before I manage to settle behind him, and immediately realize just how little space there is between us. My thighs bracket his hips, and my chest hovers only a few inches from his back. I reach behind me and grip the edge of the seat.

Antonio reaches back without looking, closes his hands around my wrists, and pulls my arms forward until they are wrapped around his waist. Then he crosses my hands over his stomach and presses my palms flat against him. I can feel the movement of his breathing through my arms and chest and the heat of his body even through his clothes,

“Don’t let go,” he says.

The first turn out of the parking garage nearly makes me shout, and my arms tighten around Antonio so quickly that my forearms lock across his abdomen. Cold air strikes the visor the moment we emerge into the city, streetlights stretching into blurred streaks of gold through my imperfect vision and the buildings around us lose their individual shapes until there is little left but color, movement, and the rush of traffic passing on either side.

The engine vibrates constantly beneath me, the sensation traveling through the seat and into my bones, and whenever Antonio shifts to guide the motorcycle around a corner, my body has no choice but to move with his. For the first several minutes, I resent every second of the ride, but then the traffic thins, the road opens ahead of us, and Antonio accelerates.

The city begins sliding past in long streams of light, and my fear turns into exhilaration. My mind, which has spent most of the last several days moving relentlessly between rent, deadlines, my mother’s medication, money, and the dangerous mafia heir currently positioned between my thighs, finally goes silent because there is no room left to think about anything except present.

We leave the city behind gradually, tall buildings giving way to rows of dark houses, then low industrial streets, and finally long stretches of road bordered by trees and fields that blur together beyond the reach of the headlights.

I have absolutely no idea where he is taking me.

Nearly an hour later, the air begins to change, and even through the helmet I catch the smell of salt followed by the damp mineral scent of open water. The road starts descending, and scattered lights appear below us along a dark curve of coastline.

Antonio slows as we pass white-painted houses, closed cafés, and narrow streets still shining from recent rain, then turns toward a quiet promenade where the sea moves beneath the moon in dark, restless waves. He stops beside a low stone wall, and when the engine cuts out, I remain wrapped around him for several seconds, my hands still locked across his stomach, and my chest is resting against his back.

Antonio looks down at my hands. “You may release me.”

I open my hands, already feeling the loss of warmth as soon as I pull away. When I dismount, my knees nearly fold beneath me but Antonio catches me easily. He removes his helmet first and then mine, wind whipping my hair and brushing across my face. Davide appears beside us with my glasses in his hand, and I take them from him gratefully.

“Does he follow you everywhere?”

“He’s my bodyguard.”

The beach is small and curved between two dark headlands, with pale stones covering the shore and an old wooden pier stretching over the water. Waves break against the beach with a deep, steady sound, then retreat across the pebbles with a soft hiss before the next one rolls in.

It’s beautiful.

“How did you find this place?” I ask as I follow Antonio toward the pier. “I’ve never heard of this beach before.”

He reaches a small metal gate, takes a key from his pocket, and unlocks it.

“Do you own the beach?” I ask, my voice climbing slightly.

Antonio pushes the gate open.“My mom did.”

The gate swings open, and we step onto the pier, the old wooden boards creaking beneath our shoes and the black water shifting through the narrow gaps below. The wind is stronger out here, working its way beneath my coat, and I am halfway through pulling the fabric closer around myself when Antonio grips the front where I have allowed the zipper to hang too low and drags it all the way up to my throat impatiently.

Antonio keeps walking until we reach a small wooden shelter painted a faded blue. Inside, most of the wind is blocked, and a narrow bench faces the sea through the open front. Antonio sits, but I remain standing. For several seconds, I pretend I am looking at the water, although I am really trying to gather enough courage to ask the question that has been bouncing around in my head.

I mean, I almost became a stripper because I needed money badly, and if I had actually gotten the job, I had already accepted that private dances would probably become part of it because Logan said that was where a lot of the real money came from. I had been willing to do that, or at least willing to convince myself that I could.

I draw in a slow breath, square my shoulders, and try to arrange my face into something that might pass for confidence. “I need you to tell me exactly what you need from me.”

Chapter

Ten