“Dance with me?” he asks, his eyes locked with mine. His voice is slightly shaky before he clears his throat. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Do we?” I question, pulling out of his hold.
“Yes,” he says with confidence, grabbing my hand this time and leading me to the dance floor.
My heart hammers beneath my rib cage. He’s never asked me to dance before—never really engaged me in conversation at a gala or ball before, either.
We’re attracting looks from nosey women around the room, who are not so subtly pining over the gorgeous man clutching my hand with a death grip.
When we’ve reached the center of the floor, he whips me around, spinning me into him as he cradles my lower back with his palm. I’m still reeling over the whiplash—both mental and physical—when he starts to move us to the music.
As my brain tries to catch up, my eyes wander around the ballroom, and where I see people whispering, eyes wide in marvel at Luciano on the dance floor.
It’s a sight that hasn’t been witnessed in ages.
Holding my head high, I plaster on a smile and turn my attention back to the man holding me in his arms as I try to remind my heart that he means absolutely nothing by this display of decency.
“You don’t dance,” I mutter, the words finally forming on my tongue.
“Would you prefer we speak more candidly in a corner somewhere where we will really draw attention?”
“Honestly, I think that option would have been more discreet.” I tip my chin toward the lookie-loos. “I don’t think anyone’s seen you dance in nearly a decade.”
“How would you know how long it’s been since I’ve graced the dance floor?”
Because I scour the society pages and interrogate your sister about your love life like I’m a sad puppy dog.
Glaring at him, I ignore the question. “What is it you want to discuss?”
His eyes search mine, fire meeting fire as I continue to hold my head high like he has zero effect on me and my insides haven’t completely turned into Jell-O. After a moment, he finally sighs in defeat. “I’m taking your case.”
“I’m not interested in your representation.” My response is immediate and unwavering, but my subconscious still screams ‘you idiot’.
Maybe what’s her name will call me back.
“You’ve found someone else?”
He means another attorney, but my heart stupidly pangs with some delirium that he means romantically.
But my answer in both instances is no.
“I have,” I tell him anyway.
He scoffs before looking over my head. I can practically see the cogs in his mind working as we float across the dance floor in time to the music. With a cocky smirk, he leans down to my ear, his voice dropping to the sexiest throaty growl I’ve ever heard. “They won’t fight for you like I will.”
My panties incinerate from the heat of my body as he pulls back and continues to lead our movements as though he didn’t just turn my vagina into Niagara Falls by the tone of his voice.
Thankfully, I’ve always been graced with quick-witted comebacks, so it only freezes me for a moment. “What exactly is there to fight? It’s a divorce case, not a murder trial. The end result is guaranteed to be a divorce.”
“Ah, and see, that’s where you’re wrong, Raina. Divorce is messy. Unpredictable. What seems easy and amicable can quickly turn into a viper's den. Your situation is complicated—I’ve looked into it. Yourhusbandis about to take on a new title as a baron, which means there are certain processes that need to be followed and expectations his family will have pending he grants you this divorce. The file Lydia compiled explained that he was demanding you accompany him to Spain for his father’sservices, which tells me he’s not ready to give you what you’re wanting. This divorce won’t be quick and painless like you think it will be. He’s going to fight dirty, draw it out, and try to change your mind a thousand times before he signs on the dotted line.”
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, and my knee-jerk reaction is to pull my hand from his and walk away. It feels like he’s pouring salt on the wound. Reminding me of everything I’ve been fearing since I left Javier’s hotel room that night.
“You’re wrong.”
Luciano tightens his grip on my hand. “I’m never wrong.”
“I’ll help you,” he reiterates, his voice smooth like whiskey.
