Page 12 of Jackpot Joker

Mr. Jorgensen gives Jasmine a nod, shakes my hand, then walks away. When I fix my view from him to the much more beautiful attorney, she gives me the same glare he had given her. Huh. They must teach you that at law school.

“Is this really necessary?” She huffs, and I can’t help but smile. She’s cute when she’s growly.

“According to the senior partner of this firm, it seems absolutely necessary. Now, go get your things so I can take you out for some fun.”

“You mean show me your property.”

“Same thing.”

Jasmine rolls her eyes, and I wonder if she ever gets headaches from how frequently she completes the motion. She pulls her purse from a drawer in her desk and slings it over her shoulder. “I’m going to get a coffee to go, then I’ll meet you in the downstairs lobby.”

“It’s a date,” I say to her back as she heads down the hallway in the direction of where I found her.

“It’s not a date,” she grumbles.

It’s definitely a date.

Chapter 7

Jasmine

I’m in need of the world’s strongest cup of coffee after putting up with that petulant man. The one who thinks he can flirt his way into having me do his will. An Italian devil dressed like a stylish angel in his pale blue designer shirt with the top two buttons undone to tease his impeccably chiseled chest and the trace of a design I can’t quite make out. His flowy shirt was tucked in at the waist, showing off his trim figure, and if I close my eyes, I can picture the set of abs lying underneath. A pair of perfectly tailored navy pants had him looking like a million bucks, especially when paired with the impressively large loafers adorning his feet. It’s like the man was ready for a trip to Milan instead of a standard business meeting at the law office.

I sip the glorious beverage and close my eyes to embrace it, but behind closed lids is the mental image of Dario Caruso’s dark, perfectly coiffed head of hair, his eyes so brown they’re nearly black, and that smug smile of his I couldn’t seem to swipe off his face. The man is damn fine, and he knows it. I’m sure he’s used it to his advantage on multiple occasions.

But it won’t work on me.

“I heard you had a meeting with Dario Caruso today,” a voice says as it’s coming into the break room, startling me. I turn to see a woman, probably a decade older than my thirty years, heading to the refrigerator. As she pulls out a bottle of water, she touches it to her skin as though it’s on fire. “That man is what wet dreams are made of.”

I snort, and she smiles at me, uncapping the water and taking a drink before making introductions. “I’m Victoria, another one of the lowly attorneys on this floor. You must be Jasmine.”

It brings a sense of satisfaction that this woman has heard my name already. “I suppose I must. Heard a lot about me?”

She shrugs. “Only that you have the personality of a great white and the curves of a back road. Respectfully, of course.”

I bite my tongue as I so often do, working in a chauvinistic man’s world where the women can be just as vile. “Of course.”

She waves my comment off. “Anyway, that Caruso man is a catch, and I recommend keeping a spare pair of panties in your desk drawer for whenever he comes around.”

My brows furrow, and I hiss out my next words, “Does he sleep around with the whole office?”

A sly smirk creeps upon her face; I know this woman is trouble. “You jealous?” Before I can revolt against such a suggestion, she continues, “I don’t know that he’s actually slept with anyone here, but hey, can’t blame anyone if they did.”

She reaches in and grabs a second bottle of water from the refrigerator before walking out of the break room and tossing a goodbye in my direction. It means absolutely nothing to me, but as I ride the elevator down to meet the man in question, I can’t help but wonder if Dario Caruso has bedded any of the women he’s worked with. Would he try to get into bed with me?

My knee bounces in the ostentatious Porsche I’m crammed inside of. Dario has attempted to make conversation with me throughout the drive, but I’ve only managed to reply with snorts and the occasional semi-interested hum. He has refrained from touching me in the confined space, and I’m at war with myself on whether that’s a good or bad thing.

It’s a good thing, Jaz. The man is your client and should keep his hands to himself. No matter how good those hands look gripping the steering wheel right now.

“Welcome to Angelo,” Dario says, and my eyes widen as we pull into the resort’s covered parking area. A man in a golden vest opens my door, and I take his hand, stepping out and dropping my jaw as I look up. The expansive covering has a cream-colored ceiling with gorgeous golden cherubs sketched throughout. I circle, stunned by the beauty, as Dario comes over, placing his hand on my back.

“Well, Miss Baker. What do you think?”

I look up at him. “It’s breathtaking.”

He smiles down at me, his eyes never wavering from mine. “I completely agree.”

I step away, immediately missing the heat from his touch, then curse myself for the reaction. My head is high as I walk forward, stepping through the sliding gold doors as though I’m the one who owns the place. “Let’s start the tour so I can get home.”