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Her body slumps. “I’m sorry.”
Interesting.
I lift the bottle and take a long drink, watching the defeat in her body language. Where’s her sass gone? Something has happened, and a thread of anger weaves through me.
I push it aside.
She’s my enemy. Or at least, her family is.
Pawn. Remember that.
I put the cap on my bottle.
“Is that why you’re here, Mia? Guilt for not telling me your real identity?” But I don’t care. I simply want to keep her talking because it’s clear there is more than this going on. “Or because you signed a false signature on our agreement?”
If I’m going to play this, I must be smart. I can’t let her know I care about what her family does. Or that I have a vested interest. Theoretically, if I was simply a businessman wanting to ensure his privacy wasn’t at risk after a night with a woman, I would be concerned about that contract.
That’s all.
“No!” she says. “No. I’ll honor that. I just can’t sign my real name. I couldn’t. Surely, you can understand that now. Or maybe you can’t. There’s...My life isn’t normal. I can’t explain.”
I do. I understand more than she realizes.
“Good to know,” I reply and lean a hip against the counter. “So, why are you here, Mia Mancini, mafia princess?”
She cringes, and I watch her curiously.
I wait.
“So...God...My father knows I was here last night,” Mia says, and I raise a brow.
“And?” I ask coldly.
Despite the fact he’s Joe Mancini, do I care? I’m Connor fucking Barrett. He’s hardly going to come knocking down my door for fucking his daughter.
Well, he might.
“Unless Wikipedia has it wrong, I’m pretty sure you’re over eighteen,” I add.
“You googled me?” she asks, giving away a hint of pleasure, and I suppress the smile I want to give her.
Instead, I push away from the counter and throw back the rest of the water.
“When you learn the daughter of the Italian mafia was in your bed, it’s always good to check she is of legal age, don’t you think?”
“I’m twenty-four,” Mia confirms for me again.
I didn’t Google her. I have all the information about her on my office wall. She’d be creeped the fuck out if she saw it.
I toss my water bottle in the trash, and I can see she’s wondering why I’m not quivering in fear.
She won’t get that from me.
“So, your father’s going to send someone to shoot out my kneecaps, is that it? Is that why you’re here?” I smirk.
Joe Mancini can try, but his goons won’t get close enough. Everyone who works in my personal or protective roles has military training and is far more skilled than they need to be.
Or perhaps, doneedto be.
