Page 37 of King of Temptation

Think, think, think, Goldie.

“Mixed signals,” she blurted out, her cheeks heating at how undignified she sounded.

The embarrassment wasn’t helped at all by his snort of derision. “Really, menace? That’s the best defense you have?”

“Yes. Because it’s a good one.”

“All right. Explain.”

Picking up steam now—much the same way she approached running, whether he believed her or not—she shifted to face him. “The first time you spanked me, you also fingered me and gave me a pretty great orgasm.”

“Best one you’ve ever had, if I remember correctly.” They passed her parking garage and she frowned. Maybe he was giving her extra time to make her case.

Such a gentleman.

Eyeroll.

“That’s not the point,” she said, returning to her argument instead of pointing out he’d missed his turn.

“Maybe not but it seemed worth mentioning.”

Smug asshole. “Anyway,” she continued with a pointed glare. “What I’m trying to say is, men don’t finger-fuck women they never want to see again.”

“Assholes do, and as you have pointed out on more than one occasion, I am indeed an asshole.”

“Yes, but then you showed up again, checking on me. Assholes don’t do that.”

Silence stretched between them as he continued driving. He didn’t turn to circle the block, as she’d expected, leaving her to wonder what the hell he was up to. “Do you really think that’s a good enough reason for you to continue putting yourself directly in harm’s way after I’ve told you over and over not to?”

There was something different about his voice. Instead of sounding vaguely annoyed with her the way he usually did, he just sounded… tired.

It was enough of a change to tap into that hidden submissive side of her, despite her aggravation with him and the situation as a whole. Dropping her gaze to her lap, she shrugged. “I haven’t really been in any danger.”

“I know you think that. But you couldn’t be more fucking wrong.”

Being told she was wrong, especially in that growly tone, had her bristling all over again as she jerked her head up to glare at him. “How so?”

“Because now the Italians have seen your face. I did what I could to protect you back there, but I can guarantee that before Salvatore goes to bed tonight he’ll know your full name, where you live, what your favorite fucking flavor of ice cream is.”

Fear wrapped around her lungs, squeezing the air from them. “How would he know any of that?”

“Because he makes it his job to know, Marigold. And because you served yourself up to him on a silver fucking platter.”

“But you didn’t tell him my name.”

“Which will slow him down some, but not nearly enough. Your face is plastered all over the internet and I can guarantee you he was waiting outside for us to leave so he could snap a picture of you to run facial recognition.”

Oh, god. She was going to be sick all over this very nice rental car. “How do you know that?”

“Because,” he said with a shrug. “It’s what I would have done.”

“Do you know my favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Chocolate raspberry.”

Of course he knew. Jesus, the man was terrifying. “So, what do I do now?”

Turning the wheel, he steered the car into an empty parking lot. And the fear that had gripped her when he’d told her that Salvatore DeLuca would make it his mission to learn everything about her ramped up to terror as she took in the dimly lit warehouse in front of them.