He finally took the subpoena from my fingers, his smirk slow and devastating.
“I’ll see you in my office.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
The look in his eyes had sounded less like he was talking about the deposition and more like he was talking about me.
I knew after the wedding he’d be a menace. I just hadn’t realized how dangerous it would feel to have all of that attention aimed directly at me.
We relapse into silence and since I have nothing else to do, I grab my glass of tequila and take a drink. He continues to sipfrom his bottle of beer beside me while I resist the urge to sneak glances at the side of his face.
I’m extremely uncomfortable. I do not like awkward silences.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask after a couple of minutes.
“Having a drink with a friend.”
“I hate your guts.”
“Alright, having a drink with an enemy then,” he amends smoothly. “You’d be surprised how often I do that. Although most of my enemies do not possess your grace. Neither are they nearly as beautiful as you.”
I nearly choke on the tequila. I wait until it’s successfully gone down the right pipe before looking up at him, praying to God that my cheeks are still normal.
The last thing I need is to blush in front of him. The man is sexy as sin and it’s easy to feel like nothing else exists when I stare into his intense dark eyes.
But he’s also him. A Vitale.
“You’re creeping me out. Go away.”
He smiles and for a moment, I forget to breathe because he looks even more beautiful when he smiles. My heads swims.
“What are you doing here, princess?”
And it’s the use of the nickname that does it. It’s somehow both mocking and endearing.
I feel myself relax in his presence. He’s the devil’s gatekeeper, and yet I let my guard down. Because I’ve had a trying couple of weeks and for once I just want to not be.
My eyes flicker to his lips and I’m surprised by just how much I want to kiss him. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with need. Then I blink, and the urge disappears.
I remember who I am and who he is, and despite the smile and the deceptive kindness, I know without a doubt that staying here with him won’t end well.
“Leaving,” I say, and before he can respond, I’ve already slid off the stool.
I don’t look back. If I look back, I’ll stay, and staying is a catastrophically bad idea that I refuse to entertain.
I make it through the glass doors of the bar before another body crowds me, wrong smell, wrong face, wrong everything. A man, middle-aged, reeking of vodka and cigarettes, leering.
“Hey beautiful. Don’t you look lonely.”
“Excuse me,” I say flatly, stepping to the side.
He steps with me. “Come on, don’t be like that.”
I’ve handled men like this in courtrooms, in parking garages, in the elevator of my father’s building at fourteen years old. I square my shoulders and open my mouth to eviscerate him, and then he’s gone.
Not gone. Down on the floor, choking, one hand around his throat. Matteo Vitale stands in front of me with the same infuriating calm on his face, except for his eyes. His eyes are black with something feral.
He advances.
