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I bring the limoncello bottle to my lips and drink deeply. You’re deluding yourself. He’s not the man you hoped he was.
Footsteps echo across the pool patio. Tommaso appears and interrupts my pool party. “He wants you in his office.”
“Tell the monster I’m busy.”
My lips curl as the flamingo nods once more.
Tommaso makes a noise, drawing my attention. He’s staring at me in alarm. “Get out of the pool.”
I kick my feet and paddle toward the middle and out of reach.
“Don’t be difficult.”
“Me?” I snort. “I’m just trying to live my best life while in captivity.”
“You’re hammered.”
“Yep.”
He crouches, then begins paddling water in an attempt to reel me in. I circle my hands and counteract his efforts.
“Come on, Riley. He’s been in a foul mood for days.”
“Then I advise you do what I’ve been doing—avoid him.”
Head shaking, Tommaso stalks away.
Laughing, I wrap my arms around the flamingo’s neck for a victory hug, drunk on bright sunshine, bold defiance, and bottle-induced therapy.
A sudden splash nearly upends me. Did Tommaso jump in fully clothed? All the guards dress impeccably in expensive suits and polished shoes. Sandro’s little robots must look uniform in appearance, right?
I grind my teeth. Uniform—like the beautiful women he surrounds himself with.
A man surfaces, and it’s not the bartender.
I begin paddling in earnest.
The flamingo flips, and I’m sent crashing into the water. I kick a leg, hitting him in the thigh, then thrust my other leg into his chest to push off and away. He curses and throws out a hand, snatching my bikini bottom and ripping it straight off me. Treading water, I glance at his furious face, immediately realizing the fun and games have just started.
With an arm anchored around my waist, he hauls me toward the shallow end.
“You ruined your suit,” I blurt out.
“In a few minutes, it won’t be the only thing I ruin,” he downright growls.
“You dove into a pool to get me.”
“Did you think I’d let you ignore me?” With an arm beneath my knees, he carries me out of the water, stalking across the pool patio and in through the kitchen door.
“My hair must look darker when wet,” I drunkenly say.
“Is that what this is about?”
I swallow hard. He can’t know I’m jealous.
Why am I jealous? I hate him.
His men avert their eyes as we cross the living area toward his office. Unlike the last time he ushered me along with him, not a single brunette is here to witness my humiliation.
