I gape at him in disbelief. A thank you? Clearly, that guy and his friends are this dude’s employees or whatever. Which means this is the one who’s responsible for them being here in the first place. Which means, really, that he’s the one who’s been disrupting my class.
And this asshole wants me to thank him?
Maybe when hell freezes over.
2
Carlo
The only reason I’m here is to check in with Nario about the possibility of the Irish showing up. We could easily have these classes at my mansion, or one of my clubs. But Nario—ever the strategist—suggested that we hold them publicly, on the off chance that we could tempt the Irish out into the open. I was hoping for a fight. Something to get my blood pumping.
But now I’ve found something else to get me going instead.
The woman isn’t my normal type. Her hair is fire-red, and she has a light smattering of freckles around her cheeks. Her face is thin and her cheekbones are set high like a princess. Her body is lithe, fit, tempting. The kind of body you go to war with. Bedding her would be a fight in its own right—a fight I couldn’t possibly lose.
She is clearly not Italian. Her skin is far too pale, like snow. Fire-red hair and snow-white skin, this woman, tempting me.
“You want me to thank you?” She shakes her head, loosening more strands of hair. “You’re crazy.”
I can’t help but smile. I feel Nario watching me, but I ignore him. For the time being, the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I haven’t felt desire like this in … ever, perhaps. The base of my manhood throbs.
I incline my head. “Yes, thank me. Isn’t that what helpless maidens usually offer up to their rescuers? Among other things?”
“Helpless maiden?” she snaps. “I was—”
“Handling it, yes. You mentioned that.”
She seems surprised when I walk closer to her. She smells of strawberries and perfume and chalk and, faintly, a smell that is all her own. Perversely, it’s the last that draws me in: her distinctive odor. I want to smell more of her. I want to taste her. “But you must know something. That man, had I not arrived, would have done whatever he wanted with you. What is your name?”
“Hazel,” she answers, and then furrows her eyebrows as though annoyed at herself for saying anything. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
We are close now. Her breath is coming quickly. “My name is Carlo,” I tell her. “It is a mutual pleasure, I am sure. What are your plans for this evening, Hazel?”
“Home, bed, just generally being done with jerks for the night, really.”
She pushes past me. I feel the contour of her hip graze against my side. “I was hoping you’d join me for a drink,” I say, not moving.
She pauses. I have her, I realize. She should have kept walking, not revealed her desires so brazenly. Does she want me as badly as I want her? Her ass is a tempting curve in those tight jeans, just begging me to peel the material away and reveal the gift beneath.
“Now why would I do that? Especially considering you’re the asshole who’s responsible for messing up my class these past two weeks.”
“Because you want to,” I say. “And, in life, I have found there is no better reason.”
“So if I, like, want to dropkick an elderly lady because she’s taking too long at the checkout, I should just go ahead and do it?”
My own laughter hits me like a slap. How long since I have laughed with anybody but Mother or Emily?
The red-haired woman—Hazel, she said—smiles despite herself, half-turned toward me, a silhouette of sin in the night.
But, just as quickly, the smile is gone. “I don’t know you. We just met. You’re clearly in charge of these animals. There you go: three reasons not to go for a drink with you.”
Slowly, I move up behind her. She doesn’t turn, but her body gets stiff.
“Desire,” I say. “There is nothing more important in this world.”
“Save the bullshit philosophy,” she whispers, but it comes out in a strained voice that says the exact opposite. “And back the fuck up.”
“One drink, Snow White. Or rather, Fire and Snow White. What can it hurt?”
“Fire and snow?” she snaps. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk?”
I point to her hair. “Fire.” And then I grab her wrist and flip it upside down, exposing her pale forearm to the moonlight. “Snow.” She’s still facing away from me, her back flush against my chest, so I can’t read her expression. But I sense a shiver coursing through her. “Not to mention,” I add, “you seem to pinwheel from feisty to submissive and back again. ‘Hot and cold’ might be the more common iteration of what I’m saying.”
“Are you in the habit of making up little nicknames for women you just met?” she asks quietly.
“No,” I tell her honestly.
“Then why me?”
“Because I can’t help myself.”
She glances at me then, and the fire in her hair spreads to her green eyes. “One drink,” she says. “But only because I’ve had a long, long day, and considering you pulled up in a limo and I got here in a jacked-up Civic, I think it’s safe to assume that you’ll be paying.”
I’m still holding her wrist. She’s hot to the touch. Her fingertips shake, too, as though her heartbeat is outrunning her ability to think clearly. I know the feeling.
As if she can sense what I’m sensing is happening inside of her and she doesn’t like the transparency, she abruptly yanks her arm out of my grasp, takes two steps away and pivots to face me.
“Shall we go, then?” I ask her, amused.
“I drink top shelf only,” she says with the bluster of someone who never, ever drinks top shelf.
But I say nothing. I just nod and point towards the limousine, waiting for us with the door yawning open like the mouth of a cave.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she says as the limo glides lazily through the city. The lights get brighter as we reach the high-class area where Sole Nero, the club I own, is situated.
“We haven’t done anything yet.”
“‘Yet’?” She laughs. “Don’t get any ideas, big fella. We’re just going for a drink.”
Just then, the car veers wildly to the right. The tires screech, and the unexpected jolt sends Hazel tumbling into my lap. I catch her.
For the briefest of moments, I marvel at how light and weightless she feels in my hand. Like a snowflake that might melt away at any moment. My hand is on her thigh, keeping her steady, tracing each corded muscle. She must be a runner, or a weightlifter. She feels thin but strong, like braided wire. She’s all woman.
“Sorry, boss,” the driver calls back to us. “Accident.”
I glance out the window to see a delivery truck flipped on its side, smoke emanating from the hood. We slide past it and leave it behind.
Again, Hazel seems to be on the precipice of falling over the cliff’s edge of emotion before she collects her thoughts and thrusts herself away from me. I let her go. My cock throbs again.