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“What makes you think I’d offer you that?” I say in a voice lower than my speaking one.
“Then I’ll find out on my own.” His fingers reach for my hair and he grabs a strand, then brings it to his nose.
I’m shocked, spellbound, and all other synonyms that imply frozen in place.
My attention is stolen by the way the red contrasts against his tan, lean fingers. How it touches the veins on the back of his masculine hand.
The moment he inhales deeply, it’s like he’s sniffing my most intimate part.
“Don’t blame me for how I use such truth, sweetheart.”
I slap a palm on his chest and shove him away with a harshness that matches my breathing. “Why…the hell are you touching me?”
He never does that. Not even when he’s bringing the whole office down by telling me to disappear. Not even when we both found out that Gwen was my daughter.
We might have been enemies, rivals, and the villain in each other’s stories, but we kept the fight verbal, legal, and sometimes with petty moves.
But never with touching.
And the change is throwing me off more than it should.
Apparently, though, it pleases Kingsley, because he smirks, lifts a shoulder, and whispers, “And why shouldn’t I touch you?”
“Because there was an unspoken rule about that, asshole.”
“I’m removing it then. You’re like a painting of a battle, but whoever said war and art should be watched from afar didn’t have the audacity to come close, touch, breathe, and taste.”
My lips tremble, but I manage to say in a warning tone, “Stay the hell away from me, Kingsley.”
“Again, that depends on whether or not I get what I want.” He slips a strand of my hair behind my ear and his fingers leave a trail of burning acid on my skin as he steps back.
“And what is that?”
His eyes glimmer with sadism as he says, “The naked truth, sweetheart.”
4
KINGSLEY
“To what do I owe this unpleasant visit?”
I slide onto Nicolo Luciano’s hard leather sofa that has an exterior that matches its owner—uncomfortable.
He remains seated behind his old desk in the run-down office he’s been trying to keep in shape for the past two decades with no results in sight.
The man has countless companies, both legal and illegal, under his thumb, but he’s holding on to this rotten legacy with the stubbornness of a petulant child.
“Not your grim face, naturally.” I flip through a half-torn Italian magazine from the nineties, pretending the affair is more boring than missionary sex. “Might consider putting on a different expression than ‘Hello, awful to meet you. I’m a killer.’ if you don’t want to get locked up for it.”
He leans his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers at his chin and showing off the fine lines of his handmade Sicilian jacket. “Didn’t realize you had the time of the day to care about my freedom status, King. Either you’re more bored than an old hooker or you’re less subtle than a rookie detective with a badge hanging out of his ass.”
I throw the magazine back on the sturdy wooden table and stare at him. “What’s your relationship with Aspen Leblanc?”
I want to jam my fist into my mouth for uttering those words, but then again, I’m direct to a fault.
Always go in headfirst.
Never sideways, never backward, and definitely never stagnant.
