Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
The smile he offers me is so warm and unguarded it not only makes me feel as if the sun is shining on my face but also that I’m special. To him.
“I’m sorry for mistaking you for a waitress,” he says. “I should’ve asked instead of assumed.”
“Quits?”
“Quits,” he agrees, his dark gaze piercing mine.
My blood heats under the intensity of his stare. No one has ever looked at me with so much possession. No man has ever smiled at me as if I’m valuable and important.
Slowly, something serious replaces the warmth of his expression, something predatory and carnal. I know he’s aware of how close we’re standing, invading each other’s personal space. I’m out of my depth, unequipped for what’s passing through his eyes, but I can’t make myself move.
He acts first, not stepping away but closer still, so close that the box is pressed between us. Raising his arm, he brushes his fingertips over my temple and hooks my hair behind my ear. The touch is so gentle it’s barely there, but it jolts me. It ripples over my entire body, covering every inch of my skin in goosebumps.
“Happy birthday, cara,” he says in that deep, low voice with a hint of an accent.
A beat passes in which I hold my breath, although I’m not sure for what.
And then he backs off, putting space between us.
It physically hurts. Whether it’s the distance or his proximity, it aches with the same intensity, leaving a hollow sensation in my stomach and a fluttering in my temples. My heart thumps and my knees are wobbly. It’s confusing. I both want to burrow against his chest and run away from the fiercely wonderful and scary feelings.
Worried that he’ll notice my weakness, I flee inside the house, miraculously managing an unwavering smile from over my shoulder, but he’s already strolling away with his hands shoved in his pockets and his gaze trained on the horizon. Just when my heart is about to sink, he looks back. I’m so ecstatic, I don’t care he caught me staring, because I caught him too.
For the first time in my life, I hurry to make myself pretty.
CHAPTER
THREE
Angelo
Possession flows in my veins when I leave Sabella to dress and walk back to the party. The heady cocktail of ownership and responsibility sends a thrill through my body and rushes like a drug to my brain.
The sentiments are foreign and unexpected. I’ve taken care of our pets since a young age, but a human has never been dependent on me. Up to yesterday, Sabella Edwards was an abstract concept. I gambled with the element of surprise, and it’s not shock that won. Far from it. What I saw pleased me. A lot. Seeing her triggered something in me. Marrying her is no longer a blurry picture with intangible edges. The prospect is real. She’s not an image of a person with indistinguishable features. She’s a young woman of flesh and blood, and a stunning one at that.
The knowledge that this beautiful girl is mine fills me not only with pride but also with a heavy dose of jealousy. She’s a looker, and she doesn’t know it. Not yet. Soon, however, she’ll grow aware of her beauty and the power she can hold over men.
Take me, for example. Not even five minutes into meeting her, I’ve already broken my promise to myself. I’ve touched her when I knew better. She’s an innocent girl with the curves of a woman. Only a dead man wouldn’t notice those firm breasts, tight ass, and long legs. Her body is like a succulent fruit on the verge of ripening, soon to be ready for the picking.
The thought alone is enough to make me see green when I think about the distance I’ll be putting between us tomorrow and how many horny boys may show up on her doorstep while I’m fighting this war with her father.
I’ll have to send a man to keep an eye on her. Our most loyal and trusted man. The decision eases my worry, although only marginally.
Back on the front lawn, I look for my father among the throng of people. Finally, I spot him sitting on a bench in a secluded corner of the veranda. His face is as white as chalk, and he’s coughing into his handkerchief.
Alarm triples my pulse. I make it to him in a few long strides and pour a glass of water from the nearest pitcher. Shoving the glass into his hand, I block him from potentially curious spectators with my body.
“Drink,” I say, glancing around to gauge if anyone is looking, but no one takes notice.
He manages to swallow a sip, which helps to calm the coughing, and hands the glass back while resting his head on the wall and breathing through his mouth.
“Come.” I put the glass on the table and take his arm, helping him to his feet. “Don’t let them see you like this.”