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Her eyes, lined with dark pencil, lashes heavy with mascara, narrow suspiciously when she comes to stand a few feet from me.
Fuck. She’s fucking stunning. And maybe I don’t want the assholes in the other room looking at her, after all, but tonight is important. Tonight will keep her safe.
I force my gaze to remain casual as I let it glide over her. With her height and the heels, she’s taller than at least two of the men inside.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth, Damian,” she snaps.
“I can think of much better places to put my tongue.”
Her cheeks flush, and she shifts her gaze away.
I think about last night. About my fingers inside her and her reaction to them. I’ve memorized the scent of her arousal.
Tonight will go differently than last night did.
Tonight, I’ll have a taste of what’s between her legs. But I won’t dip my dick inside it yet. I won’t pin her down and fuck her until she screams my name. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way.
“I thought this was a party,” she says.
“You look good, Cristina. Beautiful.” I pause, curious about something. “You seem very modest. Is that a show?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know you’re beautiful?”
Her hand instantly moves to the scar on her mouth, the line that continues down over her chin and under her neck. Uncertainty has her furrowing her brows.
I see how young she is now. See her inexperience. She wants to believe me. Be charmed by me, even. Haven’t men told her she’s beautiful before? Or do they only see that scar?
A moment later, those eyes are shuttered, the suspicion I’ve sowed returning.
“Where is my uncle?”
“Here.”
I touch my fingers to the bare skin of her waist, that strange sensation like electricity burning the tips momentarily. Moving behind her, I turn her toward the monitor, taking in all that exposed skin all the way down to the curve of her ass and the two dimples on either side on her lower back.
She’s flawless. And I’d like nothing more than to bend her over, lift her dress and fuck her virgin cunt, her tight little asshole. Dirty her with my cum all over her.
I clear my throat. Adjust myself.
I need to get my dick under control.
“What is this?” she asks, turning her head a little to look at me from the corner of one eye.
“Do you recognize anyone?”
She peers down. “I’ve seen that one at my uncle’s house. And him. But I don’t know their names.”
“Hunter Adams and Jace Vaughn. They would have known your father too. Or their fathers would have. You don’t know the others?”
“I don’t think so.” She turns to face me. “What’s going on?”
“Do you think I slept in another woman’s bed last night?”
Her mouth falls open but she’s quick to recover. “I don’t care if you did.”
“I didn’t.”
Her expression changes, she searches my eyes, and I see she wants to believe me.
“And you do care.” I shift my gaze to the monitor and point. “See that one? The man standing beside the bar looking like a fucking gangster?”
She follows where I’m pointing and nods.
“He did business with your father, but things went south toward the end. The one beside him holding the decidedly feminine drink is Arthur Clementi. He’s probably the oldest of your father’s clients. Don’t let his drink fool you, though. He’ll slit your throat as easily as any one of them.”
“What?” Her face turns ghostly white.
“Now that one there, holding the cane. He had bad blood with your father, and he’s never trusted your uncle. I’m not even sure you can win him over. And the younger one standing beside him? He’d just really rather you disappeared.”
“What are you talking about?”
I smile down at her. “Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen.”
“I don’t even know who they are.”
“But they know you. You’re Joseph Valentina’s daughter. His successor. And Joseph was a bad boy. Although I appreciated how he kept records once I figured out his system.”
“Please just explain in normal language.”
“He kept files on all these men, Cristina. These partners who made donations to political causes through the foundation. He was smart to have a backup plan, but he got sloppy.”
Goose bumps rise along her arms, and she hugs them to herself. “Why am I here?”
“Because it’s important you see where you stand.”
“But I don’t see.”
“These men are your enemies.”
“So how are they different from you?”
I’m not expecting that, and I smile, then take a sip of my whiskey.
“Have I hurt you? When you’ve hurt me.” I hold up the hand she stabbed. I took the bandage off this evening.
She’s quick to shift her gaze from it back to me, but in her eyes, I see remorse. She’s not a violent person by nature, even when it comes to defending herself.
“Have I retaliated? Or have I protected you against my father? Have I been patient with you?”
