Page 31 of Mafia Obsession

“Shall we?” He opens the front door for me.

I toss my coat over my shoulders, grab my purse, and follow Ares downstairs, stopping short on the sidewalk. A gold Bentley idles at the curb, shiny under the streetlight.

Ares helps me into the car, and after giving a signal to the driver, the Bentley glides along the asphalt like it was paved five minutes ago. The smell of leather and the feel of Ares’s power sucks me into a dangerous fantasy.

A dark SUV comes up along the side of us and then takes the lead. I notice a similar SUV tails us from behind.

“Umm…” I point, in case it’s not obvious.

He smiles. “My guards.”

“Guards? How many do you have?”

“Seven.”

I stare agog at the silent choreography of security.

Shifting, my knees brush Ares’s when the car turns one way, our hands bumping at another turn. Every accidental touch feels deliberate. His cologne is the only scent I smell in the car’s interior. It’s clean and expensive, something woodsy and dark. I hate that I notice it. Hate that I like it so much.

He knows I’m married and doesn’t look like a man who wants a married woman as a best friend. He doesn’t look like a man who wants a best friend at all.

Maybe that’s the problem.

We stop in front of a small, charming restaurant tucked beneath a jet-black portico. Even in the evening darkness, “French Craft” jumps off the fabric in bright white script letters.

Ares’s muscular arm stretches across my lap. “Wait,” he murmurs.

I watch through the windshield as men from the SUVs enter first. Only after a subtle signal from one does Ares step out of the Bentley and reach back inside for me.

I let his hand close around mine. It’s the first time he’s touched me directly, and the warmth of his palm sends a shock up my arm.

Even when I’m out of the car, he doesn’t let go. And I don’t pull away.

Hand in hand, we step into the restaurant’s vestibule, and the smell of garlic and nutmeg kicks up my hunger to a new level.

At the hostess podium, a very tall woman in a body-hugging white dress, her tiny waist mismatched with gigantic breasts, smiles ear to ear at Ares.

“Ares Zervas, this is a surprise. Lucia didn’t mention you were dining with us tonight.”

“Hello, Eden. I assume you have a table for me and my guest.” He speaks to her in a different voice he uses with me.

Eden’s eyes drop immediately to our linked hands. “Guest? Who’s this?” she asks, delivering an underhanded attitude.

“This is Lourdes,” he says smoothly.

I note that he doesn’t say my last name or give any further details about our relationship status.

“Of course, I have a table for you.” Eden grabs two menus. “Follow me.”

I hate how stunning and polished she is. Like it’s effortless. Like some guy isn’t making her live on thirty bucks a week for food and shampoo.

At a curved banquette tucked into its own alcove, Ares gestures for me to slide in first, then sits close beside me, our thighs brushing.

“Is this the cellar wine list?” Ares asks, reaching for a leather billfold on the table.

“Why don’t you join me in the cellar, and we can pick out something together?”

I bite my lip at her shameless flirting. Maybe she thinks a blowjob in the cellar will be enough to smooth over the head chef being rude to his family.