“I can take it from here, Bishop.” A voice etched with smooth superiority and graveled confidence brushes the back of my neck.
I swallow, my pulse thunderous.
There’s no threat in the newcomer’s tone. It’s far less abrasive than his colleague’s. Maybe it even holds a hint of humor. But since my father’s schemes ruined my life, I’m not easily fooled by cadence and timbre.
Bishop glances from me to the unseen guy at my back, pausing a moment before inclining his head and swinging around to walk away. Just like that, the threatening ogre takes his leave, meaning whoever stands behind me is far more powerful.
“You can take what from here?” I turn, my pulse catching at the mischievous chocolate eyes that capture mine.
The handsome stranger grins, his smile subtle and exuding just the right amount of friendly flirtation. He wants me to feel at ease, and for the slightest second, I do, gently coaxed into his web of sex appeal.
Then intuition kicks in.
“You can take what from here?” I repeat.
His grin deepens, the slight flash of wicked intent catching me off guard. This guy is good. Manipulative. Everything about him is perfect. Too perfect. From the expensive designer suit, to the devilish graze of stubble along his chiseled jaw, all the way to his finger-tousled dark hair.
Charming yet destructive.
Attractive yet lethal.
“Join me for a drink.” He doesn’t wait for my response before he raises a finger to attract the attention of the bartender, ordering another Pinot Grigio and a scotch.
He’s been watching me. Closely enough to know what I’ve been drinking.
“You look concerned, but there’s no need to be,” he adds. “I only asked Bishop to keep you inside until the Costas were well and truly gone.”
Fuck. I’ve definitely been caught. The only question now is—by who?
“Did you also ask him to pepper me with accusations?” I raise my brows. “You didn’t want to do it yourself?”
“Maybe I was too busy spying on our shared target.”
I frown, in part due to how I can’t stop staring at him, but mainly because of his explanation. He’s admitting to spying on Emmanuel? To me? A stranger? “What is it with you two and this Costa family? I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I honestly know you’re full of shit.” His gaze holds mine, those playful dark eyes keeping me captive. “I never forget a beautiful woman. You were here a few weeks ago. In a flowing navy dress that plunged at the neckline and exposed an impressive amount of leg.” He leans closer and adds with a conspiratorial whisper, “A word to the wise—maybe wear something that doesn’t make you look like a goddess if you don’t want to draw attention.”
My throat tightens. I have to drag a hand to my neck to ease the building tension.
Not only is the blatant seduction entirely foreign after years of celibacy, but this man is right about the navy dress, meaning I wasn’t caught tonight.
I failed weeks ago.
I drag my gaze from his knowing smirk and focus on the bartender. “Thank you, but I won’t be needing another drink. I’m leaving.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” The cocky stranger casually glides onto the stool in front of him. “You had your hair out, the same as it is tonight, the blonde strands hanging over your shoulders. And you wore the sexiest pair of two-inch pumps. They were white, if I’m not mistaken.”
Cream, actually.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I keep my expression in check and return my attention to his.
Christ. That was a mistake.
His potent stare intensifies, his gaze starting a leisurely trek down my body. I feel his attention like a caress as he visually devours me, from my breasts to my hips all the way to my toes.
“I distinctly remember the shoes.” His voice reclaims the hint of a low whisper. “Because I imagined what they would look like crossed behind the back of my neck.”
I choke on thin air. “You’re quite forward aren’t you, Mr…?”
“Call me Matthew.” He reaches for the scotch the bartender slides toward him and jerks his chin in thanks. “Don’t forget that glass of wine.”
My eyes widen. “No. Don’t.” I fix the young bartender with a scowl. “I’m not going to—”
“She’ll drink it,” Matthew answers with an unhinged level of superiority.
To any other woman, this boldness from an excessively attractive man might be endearing. Unfortunately, I’ve been down this cocky, charismatic road before.
He thinks he’s catnip to my animalistic senses when in reality he’s merely a ticking time bomb in a cover model package. I should know—I married someone exactly like him.
“Are you always this arrogant, Matthew?” I need to get out of here. I should storm for the door without a backward glance. What’s this guy going to do? Tackle me to the floor in the middle of a busy restaurant?
“What’s the difference between arrogance and confidence?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you call me arrogant and not confident?” His brows furrow as if he’s truly perplexed and one hundred percent invested in my response while he takes another sip of scotch. “Because confidence is the self-assurance that comes from appreciating one’s abilities and qualities. While arrogance is an exaggerated sense of one’s importance and abilities. In which way have I been arrogant?”
That goddamn grin, for starters. The curve of those perfect lips wordlessly boasts how he could devour me in one sitting when that will never happen.
“For God knows what reason, you’re flirting with me,” I state flatly. “Not only that, you’re giving me the distinct impression you think you could easily seduce me. Which, my friend, is an exaggerated sense of your abilities, which, in return, is your definition of arrogance.”
His player smile doesn’t waver as he drawls, “Are you sure it’s not confidence?”
My pulse stutters. It’s not so much the question, but the smooth way he asks. The superbly adept way he seasons his masculine tone with the tiniest glimpse of a dimple in his left cheek.
“Yes.” I snatch the fresh glass of wine the bartender places on the counter and take a gulp. “I’m leaving. Good night.”
His smooth chuckle haunts me. “But I don’t even know your name. What am I going to write on our marriage license?”
Yet again, I’m caught off guard, all the pulse hammering and skin tingling colliding in a mass of hysteria that sends a shocked laugh bursting from my lips.
I can’t remember ever being hit on like this. Being the wife to a notorious criminal, within an already infamous crime family, tends to keep men distanced. Even if I was experienced, I’m sure this guy would still leave me unsettled.
He’s too damn good at this game.
“That right there.” I point a finger at his chest. “Pure arrogance.”
He takes another leisurely sip of scotch. “Is it, though? Really?”
I release another spontaneous chuckle, take a final gulp of wine before returning it to the bar, and then step back. “It was nice meeting you.” It’s an exaggeration, although, honestly, not a lie. I haven’t enjoyed a heartfelt laugh in years. “It’s too bad I’m not the woman you think I am.”