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I do not want to sleep with him again, I silently admit, knowing damn well that’s exactly what my vagina indeed does want.
Traitor.
My father’s cold voice pulls me out of my dirty, wrong thoughts.
“Why are you sitting at my table, Acerbi?” he asks. I turn my head to look across the table at my dad. His eyes have gone from icy to murderous.
“Attempting to engage a beautiful woman in conversation, of course.” I don’t have to see Drago’s face to hear the smirk in his voice.
“Not here you’re not.” My father lets out a strong huff of air that I feel across my face.
Most people may be drinking champagne, but not him. I’ve never witnessed him drink anything but Scotch in all my life.
I can remember the smell from when I was a small child. It’s not a particularly inviting smell I would consider enjoyable. Then again, most things associated with him aren’t enjoyable.
“My daughter has no interest in your conversation.” I just barely keep my jaw from falling to the table. “Leave.”
“Oh, I think she quite enjoys it, don’t you, Bri?” My head rolls to the side where I scowl at him. Egging on Robert Andrews isn’t wise for anyone. Not that I’ve ever taken my own advice, because that’s exactly what I tend to do with him myself.
“Brianna,” my father barks. “Please tell me you of all people do not associate with the likes of an Acerbi?”
“Dad, in my line of work I associate with all kinds of people. You have no idea.”
My eyes never leave Drago’s. They can’t. Not because I don’t want to but because he’s captured them somehow. It’s almost as if they’re only meant for him—belong to him even.
But that thought baffles me. I’m as independent as a woman gets.
At least I thought I was.
How can he make me question myself like this?
“Ahem.” My father clears his throat loudly, successfully dissolving the spell.
I turn my head, giving my father the attention he’s never deserved.
I’m about to tell my father to butt out, to mind his own business, when Drago opens his mouth first.
“Let’s dance, detective.”
It’s not a question, but it doesn’t sound like an order either. Again, he baffles me. Isn’t he supposed to be the big bad werewolf?No—a dragon.That’s what he told me last weekend. And as cliché, as it is, that is what his name means after all.
I look right at my dad, into his eyes as I smile triumphantly, as I answer Drago.
“I’d love to.”
My father’s jaw locks, his eyes angry with me. But my champagne flute is plucked from my hands and placed on the table, and then my hand is in his, and I’m pulled up from my seat.
* * *
I can seemy dad from where we’re standing on the dance floor. His face is scowling, but his eyes... His eyes are filled with anger.
Should I be alarmed?
“I do believe my father does not like you, Mr. Acerbi.”
“How about this, when you’re trying to nail me for a crime, you can call me Mr. Acerbi; when you’re off duty, it’s Drago. And yes, Robert hates me.” He laughs, seemingly unaffected by the notion.
“You just became so much more appealing.”
