Page 39 of Darkest Kiss

"Deal."

"I mean it, Noemi."

"I know you mean it. You mean everything. It's one of your most exhausting qualities."

He hmms, but doesn’t respond to my jab. “We’ll go tomorrow. Today has seen enough excitement.”

I shrug. “If you say so. I’m starved though.”

“Let me feed you.” He gets up and offers me a hand

This time when I take it, he doesn’t flinch. Maybe I made that up.

Or maybe there are even more levels to Rian that I don’t know about yet.

Chapter Nine

Noemi

Rian ends up making me wait two more days to leave the house. Keeping his word, he gets me a light blue dress for the occasion. It’s almost the exact shade of the calm room. I pull it on and look in the mirror. The waist is nipped in, the sleeves long, the fabric dotted here and there with little hand-embroidered white flowers. When I turn to leave the bedroom, he’s waiting patiently in the doorway, holding a white cashmere coat.

His eyes rove all over my body, making my cheeks heat.

“For me?” I ask.

He smirks. “Yes, pretty girl. There are heaters upstairs, but I want my girl to stay warm.”

“Oh, I’m your girl now?” I tease. Sliding my arms into the coat, I smirk right back.

“I’ve never made any secret of that. You’ve always been mine.” He pulls the coat’s lapels close and buttons it, making eye contact with me the whole time.

“So you say. Let’s go upstairs.”

Rian growls a little, but I turn and walk to the front door. He opens it and there are a pack of bodyguards standing there in matching dark suits and sunglasses. I count ten of them in total. Either I’m crazy, or we are about to be the most closely-watched people in the city.

He waves to the elevator. “Two in the elevator with us. The rest of you take the stairs.”

One bodyguard is already calling the elevator. Rian ushers me in when the doors open. Two guards follow, standing stiffly as the elevator ascends.

“This seems like overkill,” I whisper to Rian.

He shrugs. “I hope so.”

The restaurant on the roof is the kind of place I've spent my life not deserving. It’s glassed in on three sides, with the whole city laid out and glittering below. The tables are dressed in white linen. There’s a host who calls Rian by his last name – Mr. O'Sullivan - and doesn't blink at the four enormous men in suits arranging themselves around us like furniture.

The rest of the bodyguards scatter around the patio

We're the only diners. I clock that, but decide not to ask. A waiter brings wine without prompting. He asks if we have any foods that we don’t eat.

Rian raises a brow at me. I think about it, then answer veal. There are no more questions asked. The sommelier pours something Rian ordered by nodding once at the wine list. I catch the label as he sets the bottle down. It's an Albariño, a Spanish wine. I've seen it behind the glass at the wine shop on Court Street, priced at four figures.

I take a sip of my white wine. Crisp, bright, fruity. “Mmm.”

“You like it?” He samples it too, swirling it around in his mouth. “I don’t drink often, but it’s refreshing.”

“Yes.” My gaze darts to the view. It’s lovely, a gorgeous view of downtown Manhattan in the silvering light. I take a big breath of fresh air. “Do you come here much?”

“No. I have food sent down to the penthouse when I’m here. Which, for the last four months, was basically never. I’d all but moved in across the street from your store.”