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That voice. The voice of death threats and old whiskey. Morana swallowed, shaking herself out of it.
"Mr. Caine," she replied in an even voice, bringing her attention back to the road. "I'm supposed to meet Dante and my detail is still on the tail. He isn't answering."
Morana had half expected him to gloat that she was asking him for assistance. She definitely expected one scathing comment. What she hadn't expected was his somber tone speaking quietly.
"Dante is tied up in something important. Did he ask you to meet him at 462-"
"Yes," Morana interrupted.
There was a brief pause before he came on again. "Pull over wherever you are. Don't disconnect."
Heart picking up pace, Morana quietly pulled over, not knowing why she was even doing as he asked, and sat. She heard an engine thrum in the background and realized it was that damned bike. She did not need that right now.
She could hear him on the bike and a knot settled in her gut. He was quiet. Not the waiting-for-her-to-crack quiet. Just quiet. She didn't like that she was observing anything.
The sky rumbled loudly overhead, thunder crackling dangerously just as the engine's sound joined in the cacophony.
"Drive," he ordered curtly, and Morana looked in the rear-view, to see the bike come closer and closer to her tail. She pulled back into the traffic, her heart hammering with the weirdest sense of deja-vu hitting her. His bike smoothly inserted itself between the two cars again. She saw him slow down, saw the tailing car brake to avoid a collision, and he ground out again in a rough tone.
"Hit it."
Morana didn't hesitate this time, pushing her foot down and feeling the car zip s
traight ahead, adrenaline rushing through her system as the wind went wild around her. One last glance in the rear-view before she turned left showed her the other car far, far behind, and the bike zooming through the spaces in between cars and speeding towards hers.
Morana turned, going across the bridge, and sped towards the gate looming in front of her, guarding not a complex but one lone, tall building that almost touched the darkening sky. Quickly entering the parking lot as the guards waved her through, Morana looked for an empty spot and parked, turning the ignition off.
Just as she got out and locked the car, she saw the bike enter the parking lot, saw him insert the beast of a vehicle smoothly across from her car, a dark helmet on his head.
He wore tan cargo pants and a black t-shirt, his attire casual, telling her he'd not been meeting people. She'd always seen him in shirts and trousers when he was in public.
His back muscles flexed as he swung his muscled leg over it, his thigh bunching and releasing as he stood up, his tattooed biceps bulging as he pushed the helmet over his head.
Morana blinked.
Not at the scruff or the hair or the arresting blue eyes, but at the look on his face. For the first time since she'd seen him, she saw something akin to pleasure on his face, just a ghost of an expression but on a man like him, enough to be classified as an expression in itself. His eyes were on his bike, and Morana realized, surprised, that it had been the riding that had put that look on his face. She didn't know why that surprised her, but it did.
And then he looked up to where she stood, the expression fleeting now, and his eyes hardened, his face shutting down.
Morana held his gaze, her heart thundering as thunder roiled outside, the clap in the sky loud and high, her own pulse skittering for some reason. She didn't understand this, didn't know why she did this even. It was a game. A staredown. She didn't remove her eyes from his, and he didn't remove his from hers, neither willing to look away first.
The entire parking lot was empty, the sound of rain loud in the silence of the lot, like bullets pelting down on the ground from the sky.
Her phone rang, the noise startling in the quiet, and she looked down.
Dante.
"Yes?" she picked up, her eyes coming back to where he stood beside his bike, leaning against it with his arms crossed, his forearms thick, the sinews and veins and ink adding to the brutality of his form somehow, his eyes on hers. He would look relaxed to any casual observer, lounging against his vehicle. He was anything but. Morana could see the alert tilt of his head, see the focused look in his eyes, see the tensed muscles ready to jump.
"I apologize. An urgent matter came up. Have you reached?" Dante asked.
"Yes," she stayed still too.
"Great. Just give the drive to Tristan. He's in the penthouse," Dante informed her, while the man in question stood mere feet away, his intent gaze upon her.
"Okay, but next time, I'm setting the meeting," Morana said and after a pause, Dante agreed before disconnecting.
She slid the phone down into her pocket, breaking their locked gaze to rummage through her bag. Finding the drive, she stood where she was, and extended her hand.
