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The senator turns to me and drapes his arm around my shoulder with a familiarity that makes my flesh creep.
“Tell him, Flora. We were only messing around.”
“Take your filthy hands off her.”
The sentence comes out as a low growl, and I stare in shock as the senator springs away from my side as if I’m toxic.
Domenico flicks the senator a disdainful expression and says in a dark tone that offers no argument, “Leave.”
I almost faint with relief to get the hell out of here, but as I make to move, a huge arm reaches out and pulls me roughly to his side. “Not you.”
“But…” I foolishly open my mouth, causing him to turn and, for the first time, stare straight into my eyes and what I see there tells me I should be extremely afraid right now. Terrified even because this man is not saving me, he’s declaring war on me.
As the senator is ushered away by the other man, I sense the attention of the room upon us. It’s as if the whole town is witnessing my humiliation because I have no doubt in my mind this man is angry and I doubt it’s because of the company I keep. For some reason, his anger is directed at me and with one jerk of his hand, the music starts playing once more and he tugs me effortlessly against his rock-hard chest. Before I can react, those immense arms lock tight around me and before I know what is happening, he proceeds to move me around the dance floor, apparently in no hurry to let me go.
I’m in shock and rendered speechless by fear. What is happening? Why did he intervene and why is he so angry with me? Maybe he knows I’m only a lowly assistant and doesn’t think I’m good enough for one of his parties. I can’t even contemplate why this has happened and if I survive the night, I’m booking a one-way ticket to London, taking me as far away from this man as is humanly possible.
His scent is overpowering, and it’s not just his aftershave. There is something so incredibly attractive about the man holding me tenderly, which surprises me because he appears anything but tender.
I can feel his heart beating against my cheek and for some reason, it makes me feel safe. Inside his arms, I am protected. However, what happens when those arms fall away from me? I doubt he will let me walk away. Something is telling me that already and I quickly run through an escape plan in my mind because God knows I’m going to need one.
The music changes and if anything, his arms tighten even further and as we move around the room, I’m glad nobody can see me engulfed in this wall of muscle because my cheeks must be flaming right now. What is this? Does he think I’m a whore and expects me to swap punters for the night? It wouldn’t surprise me, but what shocks me the most is I’m not disgusted by that.
What would it be like to be with a man like Domenico Ortega? My own body is betraying me as it wakes up to that possibility, and I must physically restrain myself from bending toward him like a flower facing the sun. The trouble with balls of fire is they burn and I’m in no doubt at all that he would burn badly.
We must dance for several songs, and I’m shocked when his fingers trail against the back of my neck in a surprisingly tender move. In fact, this man, despite his size, is incredibly gentle as he holds me like a precious flower, almost fearful that I’ll be damaged.
The heat from his body is welcome, and it strikes me that I’m no longer cold. If anything, I’m burning up because this is seductive. Just being the focus of his attention is overwhelming but being in his arms is like a drug.
When I don’t think he will ever let me go, he stops abruptly and without saying a word, fastens his bear like grip around my wrist and almost drags me from the room like a cave man claiming his mate. I nearly fall as I stumble to keep up with him and, as the door closes, it effectively silences the noise from the gala.
Now the silence is oppressive, threatening and suffocating. Extreme danger is beckoning and I’m certain I won’t leave this place with my dignity intact, if I’m allowed to leave at all, that is.
Finally, I muster some courage from somewhere deep inside and say in a rather high voice, “Um, thanks, but I can take it from here.”
I may as well have saved my breath because he completely ignores me, causing me to say a little louder. “Please stop. I want to go home.”
Suddenly, I am flung hard against the wall and as I catch my breath, he grips my neck in one hand and forces me to stare into his obsidian eyes that are brimming with anger.
“What did you say?” He hisses as he leans closer, his breath dancing across my face, causing me to squeak, “Please, I want to go home. I’m sorry if…”
His huge hand presses against my mouth, effectively silencing me, and as I stare into his turbulent eyes, I wonder what the hell I’ve done to make him so angry.
Then for some reason, he stares at me and if anything, I would say he was fighting his own battle and then his hold lightens and what I see should scare me more because the extreme anger has been replaced by raging desire.
“Who are you?” He whispers and I gulp, “Flora. I work at the Barrington Gallery. I’m so sorry if…”
“No.” he stops me mid-sentence and whispers, “I know you.”
Now it’s as if I’m in an asylum and I am seriously wondering about this man’s mental health as he relaxes his grip and stares at me with a yearning I’m not certain how to deal with.
“I…”
He shakes his head and places his finger on my lips and stares at me with an expression that steals the breath from my lungs. If anything, the sight of me is torturing him and I wonder about that. Does he think I’m someone else? It can be the only explanation. Because I don’t believe he is seeing me right now.
I’m shocked when his finger traces a light path down my cheek and the emotion in his eyes makes me freeze because who wouldn’t be intoxicated by this attention from a man as magnificent as he is?
Then, from out of nowhere, the anger returns, and I watch the violence erupt in his eyes as he hisses, “You smell like revenge.”
