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Those green eyes glitter as they scan from left to right. “You spent six months as a cocktail waitress at the Hurricane casino in Atlantic City?”
Chest tightening, I nod. Fuck. Putting the casino I burned down in Atlantic City on my resume seemed like a genius idea at three a.m., when I was buzzing off coffee and chocolate cake. It no longer exists, so there’s nobody there to fact check it. I mean; it’s not the biggest lie on my resume, but it is the boldest. Technically, I did spend six months there, however it was on the other side of the bar, drinking tropical cocktails from coconut shells and swindling businessmen out of their company’s travel allowance with stupid bar tricks.
“Interesting,” Raphael muses, stroking his jaw. “The owner’s brother is a good friend. Tell me, what was it like working under Thomas? I hear he’s quite the tyrant.”
He looks up at me, eyes shaded with a challenge. Despite my unease, prickly irritation nips at my edges, because I know he’s trying to catch me out.
“Can’t be that good of a friend, because his name is Martin.”
The cool silver pendant around my neck sizzles against my clammy skin. Why do I know that? Because he growled it against my nose in the side alley of the casino, before slamming my head against the brick wall.
Raphael stares at me in dark amusement, before turning his attention back to my lies in his hand. “And so it is.”
He paces the floor, continuing to read. I hate how hyper-aware I am of every slow, heavy footstep. How I feel every thud like a heartbeat under my rib cage. Seconds feel like minutes, and when the tension gets unbearable, my desperate voice slices the silence.
“What is this about?” I blurt out. “Am I in trouble already?”
He gives a tight smile, and, taking all the time in the fucking world, he sinks into his leather chair and spins it around to face me. Thanks to the sliver of moonlight cutting across his face, I have the displeasure of seeing him glance down at the hemline of my dress and run his tongue over his teeth.
A displeasure for sure. But still, being the subject of his attention makes me a little breathless.
“Penelope, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He leans forward, rests his forearms on his thighs and looks up at me with a half-lidded gaze. “If you’re to work for me, then our relationship needs to be more…” He bites on his bottom lip and sweeps an eye over my thighs again. “Professional.”
I feel myself blushing at the way he wraps those plump lips around the word professional. It drips with insinuation, like we’ve been secretly fucking for three months. Which of course, would never happen in a million years. Partly because I’d rather stick a knitting needle in my eye, and partly because I’m sure Raphael would happily source the sharpest one possible for me.
Plus, if that rumor is true, and he only fucks girls once…
I sweep the thought away with a breathless shudder. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, I fear I’ve given you the wrong impression of me.”
“And what would that be?”
“That I’m not a gentleman.”
My snort is ugly, loud and loaded with disbelief. It bounces across the dark office and lands on Raphael’s perfect poker face. It’s all sharp lines and thick lashes and if I saw it across a velvet table, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t fold, even if I had a Royal Flush.
“You’re not a gentleman.”
His eyes flicker with the tiniest flame of amusement. “No?”
“You own two yachts.”
“The Queen of England has eighty-three.”
I blink. “You’re a Visconti.”
“So is Nico, and you seem to like him just fine.”
“You carry a gun!”
He runs two fingers over his bottom lip, trying, and failing, to hide a smirk. “The gun is fake, Penelope.”
“My ass.”
“What about it?”
Our gazes clash. Mine burns with annoyance, his simmers with satisfaction. I tear myself out of its magnetic trap. It might make my blood a few degrees hotter, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be as easily fooled by it as the girls in the locker room below. Instead, I glare at the gold doorknob, wishing I could open it with the power of my mind.
