I stride over and dump the pile of clothes onto the counter with enough force to make the woman jump.
“There.”
Lorenzo turns, glances at the stack, then at me, and smiles like I haven’t just walked out of a war zone. “Excellent. Now, where shall we go?”
“To hell?” I give him a sugar-sweet smile sharp enough to cut skin. “No? Shame. Then I want a phone.”
One dark brow lifts. “A phone?”
“Yes, Lorenzo.” My voice drips with venomous patience. “You know. The little device people use to call each other. Mine is in Italy.”
His gaze sharpens instantly. “And who will you be calling on this phone?”
“Dante,” I say without hesitation.
His expression changes only slightly, but enough for satisfaction to flare bright and mean inside me.
I tilt my head. “Why?” I ask softly. “Is that a problem?”
“Cara,” he warns, his voice low and lethal, “I would think very carefully before you say another word.”
That makes me laugh. Not because he’s funny. Because he’s unbelievable.
“Of course,” I say, shaking my head. “That figures.”
Then I turn to the saleswoman with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s jealous because my fiancé is a saint. A genuine, actual saint with a huge dick. And unlike some men, he doesn’t confuse obsession with love.”
The poor woman blinks. “Oh, I?—”
“And do you know what this asshole did?” I jab a thumb toward Lorenzo without even looking at him. “He stole me frommy wedding because the great Lorenzo Conti cannot bear the idea of losing. Not a deal. Not a fight. Especially not a woman who chose someone else.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go absolutely still.
If he were the kind of man who unraveled, there’d be smoke curling out of his ears by now. Instead, he just stands there in that terrifying silence of his, looking like murder in an expensive suit.
I smile wider.
“Actually,” I say to the woman, as if we’re sharing gossip over cocktails, “you don’t happen to have a phone I could borrow, do you? I’d love to call my fiancé and let him know I’m being held hostage.”
“That is enough, Elizabeth.” His voice cracks through the boutique like a whip.
A few heads turn.
I face him slowly, all false innocence and sharpened teeth. “What?”
His jaw is so tight I can almost hear his molars grinding. “Not another word.”
My temper, already blazing, goes incandescent.
“Oh, that’s rich.” I take a step toward him. “Did you really think dragging me into a dressing room and fucking me would make me forget I hate you? That one stolen moment would erase what you did?”
The air between us turns electric.
I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it now. Just fury. “You don’t get to put your hands on me and then expect gratitude, Lorenzo.”
The saleswoman looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole. I barely notice. Because now I’m looking straight at him. And I want every word to land.
“You are not furious because I want a phone,” I say, my voicedropping. “You’re furious because the second I have one, I can call Dante. I can remind you that I was going to marry a man who is kinder than you, cleaner than you, better than you—and that no matter how badly you want to win, I am not a prize you get to steal.”
