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Don’t want anyone else laying a single finger on her. Don’t want them within half a mile of that maid.
Five
Holly
Diego finds me on the top floor of the mansion, pushing a vacuum along the cream carpet of a guest suite in neat rows. Like a farmer tilling her fields or something.
I dunno. Cleaning gets pretty boring.
He watches me from the doorway, dark eyes glittering. I chew on my bottom lip and keep vacuuming, pretending I don’t see.
Then: “We’re doing this right now.” His gruff voice makes my insides fizz to life. “Tonight, okay? Shut that off.”
“I’m busy,” I say, just to be contrary, but even as the words come out, I toe the vacuum off and turn to face him. As if I could keep away.
The mobster nods at the glass balcony doors. “Will it work up here?”
Um. What?
He huffs at my bemused expression. “The daydream you told me about yesterday. The armchair in the snow. Will it work up here, or does it have to be in my suite?”
I blink at the brawny man in the doorway, my thoughts spinning wild. If I insist it has to be in his rooms, will he take me there? I could see his bed. Take greedy lungfuls of his scent. But what if his suite is off limits and this is my only chance?
“Here’s good,” I mumble.
Diego marches into the room, crossing my perfectly tilled cream field with agitated steps. He yanks the balcony door open, a gust of wind fluttering the drapes, then casts around for a suitable armchair.
I point at a chintzy number in the corner. One of De Rossi’s vintage rescues.
“Will that fit us?”
“It had better,” Diego mutters, striding over and lifting it like it weighs less than a bag of sugar. Muscles bulge and flex under his black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to display his corded forearms, and oh god, my face is already on fire.
“Blankets?” he calls from outside, the armchair scraping against the stone balcony. I stumble to the ottoman at the foot of the guest bed.
Is this really happening? I pinch my thigh through my maid’s dress.
No, I—I think it is.
Oh wow.
I’ve dreamed about this scenario before, obviously, but in my dreams, there are fewer… logistics. I just blink and find myself in Diego Cedrone’s lap, his hands roaming greedily over my body, and then I dive into kissing him like my life depends on it.
Of course, my life mayactuallydepend on it, but that’s not a fun thought. I push it away.
Even up here, in a guest suite that barely anyone uses, the blankets inside the ottoman are luxurious. The finest taste. They’re dark velvets and pale wools, fuzzy and quilted and sleek, and I plunge my hands into the ottoman, relishing the softness against my bare arms.
“What are you doing?” The low voice comes from behind me and I jump, my breath catching.
“Nothing.” I pick the top three blankets, scuttling past him for the door.
There is no way I’m going to tell Diego Cedrone, brutal mafia enforcer, that I am a tactile little princess who likes to rub soft things on her skin. Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen.
But what would his beard feel like against my thighs?
Nope. Doesn’t matter.
It’s dark already, though it’s not even that late, and thick clouds block out the stars. Snowflakes spiral on the breeze, whipped against the mansion walls, and down below us, the lawns and hedge maze are caked in white.
