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“First of all, you need to remove the foil.” To my surprise, he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth and rips the foil off with his teeth. Christ. Something hot and primal flares between my thighs. I will every inch of my face not to show it. “Grip the top”—he wraps a large hand around the neck of the bottle, and places the other halfway down— “and the trick, Amanda, is to twist the body, not the cork.”
A tendon in his large, tanned hand flexes. The pop is as sophisticated as he is.
A little hiss of air escapes my lips as he gently runs the cork around the brim, settling the gas fizzing out of it. He hands the bottle back to the bartender, who mutters something incoherent.
“Amanda?”
She looks up, her near-pained expression silently conveying, haven’t you tortured me enough?
With a roll of his wrist, Rafe presents the cork between his middle and forefinger. “Always open it away from your face. These things can take an eye out.” He cocks his head. “And with eyes like yours, that’d be a travesty, wouldn’t it?”
He tosses the cork in the air, catches it, then slips it into his pocket.
Jesus Christ. This man is smoother than a freshly waxed floor.
He takes a lazy sip of whiskey and checks his watch over the rim. Then, as if he can hear my pulse thumping and he wonders where the noise is coming from, his eyes come my way. They run over my hair and down the parting of my coat, before stopping at my open-toed stilettos.
His lips tilt in amusement, because even this asshole knows it’s stupid to wear open-toed heels this close to Christmas. As his gaze comes back up to mine, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip.
“It was a pleasure, Penelope.”
A little lightheaded from the pop, and pissed off with myself for suddenly having a spine made of jelly, I swipe my drink off the bar and harden my glare. “Sure, let’s do this again sometime.”
He smiles tightly at my sarcasm and runs a large hand down the front of his waistcoat as his gaze coasts over my head and to the wedding guests around us. With a subtle glance back at Amanda, who’s now pouring champagne into flutes with shaky hands, he curls his forefinger toward his chest.
I stare at it in disbelief.
Surely not. Surely, he’s not beckoning me?
Anger flares up inside me like a nasty rash. I’m not one of his fucking maids, nor one of the suit-clad minions he summons with a flick of his wrist.
I open my mouth to tell him so, but when our eyes clash, my protest evaporates. His sea-green gaze flickers with something dark and alluring. Something that appeals to the weak-willed space between my thighs. My brain is too foggy from alcohol and velvet-clad insults to put a name to his expression, but I know, without a doubt, it’s tailor-made for me.
Despite the feminist urge to kick him in the groin, I find I’m taking a step forward, and I give in to his gravitational pull. Once in his orbit, his warmth and soft scent of soap, cologne, and mint wash over me, sweeping away my next breath. Heart colliding with my rib cage, I squeeze my hands into fists and focus on the gold-tipped bow tie around the thick trunk of his throat. Which is perfectly shaved, of course. I’m not brave enough to look up, because I’m far too close to survive eye contact that intense. I stiffen as he stoops, and when his hard jaw grazes mine, it makes me headier than any liquor could. Then his deep voice vibrates gently against my earlobe.
“I’d rather shut my dick in a car door than do this again some time, Penelope.”
A cool rush of air caresses my neck as he returns to his full height.
What?
Stupefied and shaken, all I can do is watch as his imposing silhouette slips through the crowd without so much as a glance back.
I stand there for a few minutes, trying to regain control of my pulse. As semblance returns to me, it brings a wicked thrill. It feels like I’ve just uncovered a deep, dark secret.
Raphael Visconti may look like a gentleman, may talk like a gentleman.
But he is anything but a gentleman.
