"No. I don’t. Aside from Luciu Valentini. But I can guess you’re bad news if you’re friends with Aidan."
"I like the taste of my name on your lips," I murmured, but that she associated me with bad news was something I had to change. "There are thousands of people in this city who should fear me... but you’re not one of them."
She stared into my eyes, before slowly, tipping her forehead forward in silent assent. "I’ll dance with you."
Four
Jen
That Evening
Because I was on the hunt for a rich husband, I knew most hotties in Midtown by this point. My position at a firm of accountants that regularly ‘serviced’ the Wall Street 1% meant that I should have at least come across a ‘Luciu Valentini’ before.
This guy, however, was new to me.
Very new.
But God, as much as I loved fresh blood, I couldn’t avoid the fact that this one was dangerous.
Dangerous enough to take a seat at a table with the heir to the Irish Mob without fearing for his life…
"You have beautiful eyes, Jennifer," he told me softly, his finger moving along the curve of my chin, stealing my breath and making my heart skip a beat.
"Thank you," I whispered, entranced by his stare. Overwhelmed by it.
"Sir?"
He blinked, the fog between us fading as he turned to the server. "The check? And our coats, pi favuri."
When the waiter returned, Luciu paid the check and placed a credit card inside the leather folder he’d been handed.
Taking the opportunity to study him, I took in the Rolex—an odd selection because as costly as they were, they weren’t the usual choice for a mogul—and the simple diamond cuff links on his sleeves.
Because I was an old pro at this, I did a quick guesstimate on his outfit and figured he was wearing over fifty grand’s worth of gear.
Minimum.
That depended on the type of Rolex, of course. Suits like the one he wore didn’t come cheap, either. The hand stitching on the lapels was so tiny that, even this close to him, I had to squint to see the individual stitches.
Was it bad that I wanted to run my tongue along them?
Well, okay, not bad, just weird.
Another server arrived with our coats, and against the expensive wool of his topcoat, mine looked even more ridiculous: skimpy, as barely there as my dress, and not at all made for the weather we were having. For the first time, I felt ashamed.
Against his saturnine elegance, I was dressed like a whore.
‘Everything in this life, Fionnabhair, comes at a price. Make sure someone else pays the tab.’
My mother’s words haunted me, but she was right. I’d dressed this way so that if Aidan hadn’t been able to scare Damian into dropping the lawsuit, I’d hoped that seducing him would make this nightmare go away.
I should have known the fucker wouldn’t come. That was what I got for daring to hope.
"Come, Jennifer, let me show you how Sicilians throw a party."
My lips twitched. "Never heard of a cèilidh, have you? The Irish are good at parties."
"I’ve seen how you jig. We’re far more romantic."
I wasn’t sure if I could handle more romance. Not from this guy. I was already close to detonation and that was from a few strokes of his fingers against my elbow.
He snatched up my coat before his hands moved along my arms, dragging the nerve endings to life, making me shudder as he pressed a kiss to the side of my cheek.
"Beautiful, duci, beautiful."
I nearly whimpered when he moved around to rearrange the lapels of my pathetic excuse for a coat, and I let him. I actually let him because his eyes tangled with mine, and he looked at me as if nothing could break his stare. Like his end goal was the only thing that mattered…
That end goal?
Me.
He was the beautiful one, though, and drowning in a look from him was headier than walking into a room with a dozen stoners smoking pot.
I reached up, stroked his chin. With just enough of a beard for the hairs to be soft and not prickly, covering a large expanse of his jaw, shrouding the soft pink of his firm lips, he had a mouth I wanted to devour. "I hope your dances include kisses."
"That can be arranged."
He shrugged into his coat, then rubbed a careless hand over his head.
His hair was a mixture of floppy and structured, making me think he’d probably washed it, put some product in, then fixed it with his fingers. That artless look would probably take me a couple hours to achieve, and undoubtedly took him ten minutes, but I could forgive him for it.
If anything, it was hot. So hot that it didn’t take much effort for him to look that good.
The man was a work of art.
A serious Mona goddamn Lisa. Just the guy version.
And those chocolate eyes? Holy Mama of Jesus.
Sweet Lord.
And whoever the hell else I could blaspheme because none of it, and I meant, not one expletive, could begin to describe how gorgeous this man was.
Those eyes.
Just...
Seriously.
It was like he was made to have me melting into a ridiculous puddle of need.
Leaving The 68 took a while because there was some kind of snafu with the elevators.
The Sharpe was one of Manhattan’s latest mega-skyscrapers, so it was definitely weird that there was a problem, but I was a born-and-bred New Yorker, so I knew it was a part of city living.
Everyone got stuck in an elevator at some point. With buildings this tall, they didn’t even shut them down when there was a fire because who the hell could run down eighty-four floors to escape a fiery inferno that started on the hundredth story?
When he saw the line, he arched a brow at the maître d’ who scurried over to him.
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Valentini. The delay won’t be long—"
Luciu passed him something, his sleight of hand artful, and the maître d’ crumpled his hand around it before murmuring, "If you’d like to step this way, please?"
We moved ahead of the line, and I’d admit, I felt like royalty. Each and every glare and grumble were ignored with a stately lifting of his chin, and because I was on his arm, I mirrored him.
He owned the room.
Together, we owned it.
It was intoxicating.
Like a lifetime of being teetotal and suddenly discovering the joys of tequila.
The ride down to the garage took place in silence, but the second the doors opened, I felt the rush of a draft all along my spine thanks to the really shitty taste in clothes I had for a wintry evening. Luciu paused, slipped out of his winter coat, then placed it around my shoddily covered shoulders.
I didn’t tell him it was unnecessary, didn’t question the chivalrous gesture. Instead, I embraced it, tucking myself tighter into the folds of expensive wool, sucking in air that scented of him because he smelled divine, and the heated coat against my chilly flesh felt so damn good that it made me want to huddle into his side even more.
Once I was wearing his coat, he placed his hand at the small of my back and we strode the few steps toward a Rolls Royce. I wasn’t altogether surprised to find he had a driver who was waiting at the side of the vehicle, huddled into his coat, the engine rumbling.