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I’d met and served a thousand powerful men and been attracted to plenty of them. There had been sparks, flirtations, and chemistry, but none of which compared to that moment.
There had never been anything like the way that connection had filled the air with heat, nor the way my breath had caught in my throat. I saw him and understood why Vegas had fallen at his feet, why the city’s heiress had married him out of all the possibilities. He had been magnetic and I had been almost helpless in the face of it. I had walked away and assumed he hadn’t felt the same, assumed he affected every woman in that way. I had continued with my life and pushed aside any other thoughts of him.
But I couldn’t ignore him any longer. Not when someone from his company had followed me. Was it because of his interest in purchasing The House? Or was it a specific interest in me?
Could he have felt the same connection I did and was now ... stalking me? I frowned at the thought.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table, and I rolled over, glancing at the clock. Almost five in the morning. A little late, or early, for anyone to be up. The text notification was from an unfamiliar number, and I unlocked my phone.
—Bell, this is Dario Capece. I just found out what happened yesterday and would like to apologize. I hope he didn’t scare you.
What the hell? I read it a few times, trying to understand it. How did he even get my number? I typed out a quick response.
why was he following me?
The minutes stretched along with no response and I reread his text, my initial surprise fading, curiosity taking its place. My phone lit up.
—I needed to know more about you.
I rolled onto my side, and repositioned the pillow, struggling with the emotions the text was enticing. I shouldn’t read that text and feel a burst of butterflies. I should be filing a restraining order and double-checking my locks. I should be blocking him on social media. I shouldn’t feel excited that a married man wanted to know more about me. I’d told Lance earlier that it’s the age of sexual empowerment. But a married man was a different animal, one I’d never wrestled with before and had no interest in tangling with now.
I selected his phone number and scrolled through the options until I got to the “block number” selection. It would be so simple. One tap of the finger and no more texts, no chance of a phone call. It’d be the easiest way to send him a clear message.
I backed out of the menu and went to his text.
I hit reply and tried to find the strength to tell him off.
Eight
I didn’t return his text. I let it hang, the words taunting me as I fell asleep and dreamed of his eyes, the way they had feasted on me. In my dream, I had a long and twisted affair with the man, and woke up with my heart pounding, the high of our interactions still filling my chest with a dreamy, perfect sensation.
I closed my eyes and tried to find it again, wanting to resurrect the feeling. Instead, I woke up three hours later, my mouth cottony, my heart empty, mind blank.
I found my phone in the sheets and pulled up the text conversation. Nothing new had come in since I fell asleep, the ending note still his.
—I needed to know more about you.
Maybe I was reading it all wrong. Maybe this wasn’t a sexual, or even romantic, thing. Maybe Dario Capece needed to know more about me for a strictly business reason. I rolled onto my back and kicked the covers loose, my body suddenly warm.
Dario Capece was trouble, I reminded myself. MARRIED trouble. Getting involved with him would be a disaster. I thought of the moment he had laughed, the flex of his hand on the railing, the way he’d peeked at me out of the corner of his eye ... I pushed it all from my head and forced myself to get out of bed.
* * *
DARIO
Dario carefully folded his shirt in half and laid it over the metal folding chair. He walked forward and the man before him winced at his approach. Dario was a man of habit and dedication. Two hours each night in their personal gym. Four hours on Saturday and Sundays with the boxing bag and jump rope. As a result, he had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, one without an ounce of fat, the large build one that came from weights and genetics, his muscles properly proportioned without the side effects of steroids and supplements.
He stopped in front of him and the man’s eyes darted to Dario’s, a plea babbling from his lips. His apologies were too late. The asshole should have thought about this outcome before he manufactured poker chips in his garage, then tried to toss them on a table and play.
