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Michael gathers our coats. “We won’t be far. If you need anything—”
“You’ll be down at the private beach, enjoying a night picnic under the stars. Yes, I know. Now go. Please. I’m begging here.”
Michael leads me to the elevator, and I turn in time to catch Gabriella helping Liam wave bye just before the elevator doors close. I drop my head and take a deep breath. This is the first time being away from Liam since the kidnapping, and while I know he’s safe in the penthouse with Gabriella and Enzo, I’m struggling to accept it.
I feel Michael’s comforting presence a moment before he envelops me in a hug from behind. “He’s going to be perfectly fine, Rose. I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”
That’s what worries me. I close my eyes and rest my head back on his solid chest. Michael doesn’t know the truth about me and, in turn, Liam. My father is a powerful man with hands in deeper pockets than most dirty politicians. In fact, he probably owns the pockets those politicians play in. It’s a silly, idealistic dream to imagine that Michael can stand against the leader of the Miami Irish mob, but I’ve always wanted to live with my head in the clouds.
And then there’s the very real possibility that the truth may scare Michael off completely.
“Rose? If you’re not ready for tonight, we can go right back up. We don’t have to do this if it’s too soon.” Michael must sense my unease, but it’s not about tonight. It’s about everything else.
I turn in his arms and run my hands up his hard abs, over his muscular chest, and across his broad shoulders. He tenses beneath my touch, but not from fear or disgust. Pleasure has blown his pupils wide and swallowed the light. I meet his dark eyes and smile, knowing I’m playing with fire yet again and love the thrill of burning.
Michael’s lips tease up into a knowing smirk. “Careful, sweetheart.”
“What if I don’t want to be?” I know I’m pushing his limits, but for the past few days, I’ve lived in sweats and oversized shirts, feeling every bit as unattractive as I thought. Even though it never seemed to bother Michael, it did me. But the way he's looking at me now brings back memories of the night we first met, making me feel like the same girl all over again.
Michael leans forward and whispers, “You should know that I don’t put out on the first date.”
“Oh, good.” I press up on my toes and meet his playful challenge. “Then you should know that I don’t put out until the third date.” And then I kiss his cheek and smile like a cat that has just gotten into the cream.
“We’ll see. You’ll find that I can be very persuasive.”
“And I can be very stubborn.”
Michael nods as if processing that bit of information for later before he suddenly grabs my wrist and pulls me straight into his chest. Gripping the nape of my neck with one hand, he brings the other to settle on my cheek. His mouth is on mine before I can say a word. His tongue dives in and tangles with mine. It’s a sensual dance to which only we know the steps. When I push forward for more, he chuckles against my lips and pulls back, leaving me breathless and incredibly frustrated.
“Still feeling stubborn?” He runs a finger down my cheek, tracing the curve of my neck and brushing over my pounding pulse before stopping right above my neckline.
I swallow, unable to form a single word. The smirk on his face tells me he knows my threat holds no weight.
Michael leads us out of the elevator, through a private, empty hallway, and out the door at the end. He takes my hand the moment we step outside and guides me through a richly lit stone path surrounded by thick shrubbery and flowers. The air is alive with the sounds of insects and the distant roar of crashing waves. As we get closer to our destination, the smell of salt water grows stronger, reminding me of better days when Mom was alive and the afternoons we spent along the shore.
We round a corner, and the stone path empties onto the white sands of the beach. The moon is full and high in the black night sky, illuminating the water below like a dark mirror. Fairy lights twinkle along a veranda’s high exposed wood beams, creating a magical atmosphere for the space below where a picnic mat has been stretched out, complete with throw pillows and blankets.
Michael helps lower me to the blanket and sits next to me. He reaches for a wicker basket, pulls out a red rose, and hands it to me. I make a show of smelling the delicate fragrance before setting it down beside me with a murmured thank you.
I watch as Michael dishes dinner and fills two glasses with red wine. “Rose, we did things completely backward. And I don’t know about you, but I want to give whatever this is between us a chance. I’d like to see if there is something more between us than just raising our son together. I want us to be a family.”
The truth slips free before rationality can stop my mouth. “I’d like that too.”
“Good. Then I have a serious question.”
I eye him warily, not sure if he’s about to pull a ring out. “Okay.”
“What is your favorite color?”
What?
“My favorite color?” Did I hear him correctly?
“Yes. Mine is red if that helps break the ice.”
“I guess then mine is purple, but not the deep color, the lighter shade of purple like lilac.”
“Favorite food?”
