Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I peer over the edge of the balcony at the busy strip below. “A quick crazy fling with Nico Tacone is one thing, but dating him? It’s a bad idea.”
“Agreed,” Corey says. “So cancel the date.”
“I don’t even have his phone number. I have to wait until he shows up.”
“What are you really worried about? Just say it, even if you think it sounds stupid.”
Corey knows me so well.
“I have nothing to wear,” I blurt. That’s not really what this is about, but it seems to symbolize my dilemma. I’m not prepared to handle Nico Tacone and everything it might mean to go on a date with him.
I’m not even remotely prepared to be the girlfriend of a mafia boss. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be screwing one.
This is a man who carries a gun in a holster under his arm. A man involved with crime and the underworld. A killer.
A knock sounds on the door.
Shit!
I’m still in my bra and underwear, fifteen outfits donned and discarded around the room.
“He’s here,” I whisper urgently into the phone.
“Tell him you don’t feel good.”
“But I’m a terrible liar.”
“Just tell him—”
The keycard slides in the lock and the door swings open. Right. Because he has a key and he owns me now. And I’ve let this happen. Been giddy about it, actually.
Tacone takes in my lack of dress and shuts the door quickly behind him. His eyes glitter, dark and serious. He’s in the same suit as this morning, finely tailored to fit over his large, powerful frame.
“You’re not ready.” He sounds disappointed, like I’m an errant employee who didn’t follow instructions.
“I-I—I don’t have anything to wear.” I opt for the truth, sweeping my hand around the destroyed room where my discarded clothes hang from every surface.
His mouth twitches. He strolls slowly around the room, like he owns the place. Which makes sense because he does. He picks up a jean skirt and tosses it to me. “This and”—He finds a sleeveless blouse on the bed—“This.”
“Listen,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding hard. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
His eyes narrow. “Too late.” He lifts his chin. “Put on the clothes, I have a surprise for you.”
When I still hesitate, he comes and takes the blouse and pulls it over my head. “Come on. You’ll like it, I promise.”
I’m almost relieved to have the decision taken out of my hands. He’s not giving me a choice, is he?
Except deep down, I’m pretty sure he’d let me off the hook if I were sincere. He knows when I’m bullshitting.
I pull on the jean skirt and my platform sandals, which make Nico give my legs an approving up and down look. He gives my ass a smack when I walk past him to the door. The burn and tingle has me blushing.
“What’s the surprise?” I ask.
He smiles. “Dinner first. Then the surprise.” He escorts me to the rooftop restaurant, the casino’s fine dining establishment. I tug on my skirt as we enter, feeling underdressed.
“Stop it.” He leans down and murmurs in my ear. ”You look beautiful.”
The staff scrambles to find us the best table in the house, one that overlooks the entire strip and yet is tucked away in a corner for privacy. He orders some Yamazaki whiskey I’ve never heard of and I ask for the house red. He shakes his head. “Bring her the 2003 Bannockburn Pinot.”
“Of course, Mr. Tacone.”
When I raise a brow, he winks. “It’s good.”
“You know your wines.”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “I make it my business to know everything that’s served, spoken or happens in this casino.”
A tingle of awareness pricks the base of my spine. The refrain that always returns plays in my head. This is a dangerous man. Never forget it.
I look at him, then survey the room. I don’t even know what kind of conversation to make. Asking about his business probably isn’t cool, considering the way he shook me down the day we met.
The next time my gaze flicks to his, it locks. He’s staring at me with that burning intensity that makes my stomach somersault. “Tell me everything, Sondra Simonson. I want to know what makes you tick.”
I’m not falling for flattery today. “You first,” I dare. “I know nothing about you except you have a lot to hide and a thing for cleaning girls.”
His lips twitch. “Not girls. Just you. And you’re not a fucking cleaning girl.”
“What am I then?”
I’m expecting some definition of our relationship, but he scowls.
“You’re an art history professor who somehow fell down the trap door into my little corner of hell.”
If he’s trying to scare me again, it doesn’t work. I’ve moved past his threats. I’m still here. I want to know the real Tacone now. “Tell me something real. Not about business. About you.”
His eyebrows fly up. “Okay…I’ve got a brother visiting from Chicago who busts my balls. I’m counting the minutes until he leaves.” He rubs a hand across his face. “That’s just between you and me, of course.”