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He smirks. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“I mean it, Sera. What would I gain from that?”
Everything. Antony D’Agostino has everything to gain from getting in my way. Using my father’s temporary weakness to make a move on our family. The fact that he’s pretending that’s not the case makes me even more wary.
“Sera.” Antony rises and comes around the desk toward me. When he’s a foot away, towering over me, one hand lifts toward my face, then pauses.
For a single, shocking second, I think he’s going to touch me.
Then his hand falls.
He clears his throat. “Sera,” he repeats. “I’m being straight with you, okay? No bullshit. You’re crazy if you think going into that meeting alone is the right decision. If you want to be taken seriously at all, you need a man standing next to you.”
I open my mouth in angry protest, but he lifts his hand again. This time he does touch me, his finger cupping my chin, lifting my face to his.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he says softly as he looks down at me. “But you know I’m right. I’m not saying you can’t handle your father’s business alone. I’m telling you that the men you’ll be meeting with won’t believe that you can.” The caramel notes of his voice seem to reach inside me, making me suppress a shiver of…something. “I can stand up with you. Just my presence will give weight to what you say.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to refuse. I want to. But something stops me. I tell myself it’s not that the gentleness of his touch has disarmed me.
“This is one thing I can do for you, Sera,” he says gently. “Let me do it.”
He actually did listen to what I had to say.
He’s not telling me I’m not competent.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right. The men I’m about to meet will see me as less than Carmine Mucci. Of course they will. They’ll see my presence at the meeting without my father as a signal that something is wrong. Maybe if Daddy could be there with me — if he could introduce me, slowly, to these men. Get them used to dealing with me as my father’s right hand. But without that… Antony is right.
Damn him.
Three hours later,we’re on our way to the meeting in one of my father’s restaurants. I’m in the back of a Cadillac Escalade owned by Antony, leaning against the buttery leather seats and trying to calm my pinging nerves.
Antony left the Mucci compound this morning after I reluctantly agreed to let him come with me to the meeting, and returned later with a limo and a driver. When I emerged at our front entrance, he was standing outside the rear passenger door, chatting with the driver, and turned to look at me with an expression of unveiled appreciation. He nodded once and stepped back to let me slide into the back of the car, then slid in next to me. As the driver shut the door behind him, Antony leaned over and whispered against my ear. “You look perfect. Businesslike, but also sexy as hell. They won’t be able to think straight with you in the room.”
I look down at my navy power suit now, smoothing the form-hugging pencil skirt and checking my nude stiletto heels to make sure they’re flawless. My hair is up in a high bun. The almost-nude colored shell I’m wearing under my jacket gives the illusion of almost-there cleavage. My face flushes hot at the knowledge that Antony has guessed the reasons for my clothing choices.
But also because he called me sexy.
I like that more than I should.
We arrive at the restaurant. It’s a traditional Italian place that serves the best manicotti I’ve ever had. This is the first time I’ve ever been here for something other than a family birthday or other function. I start to move to open the door, but Antony puts a hand out to stop me.
“Never open your own doors,” he tells me. “You are in charge. You’ve got people for that.”
I gaze up into his eyes. He’s right. It occurs to me to be grateful for this advice.
The driver gets out and comes around. A second later the car door opens. “Let’s do this,” Antony says, giving me a wink. “You’re in charge, sweetheart,” he repeats. “I’m just here for muscle and gravitas.”
As we walk through the doors of the restaurant, Antony’s hand touches my lower back, guiding me through. My hackles instantly raise and reflexively, I almost turn and hiss at him to keep his hands to himself. But I swallow it, because at the same time, a shiver runs through me at the intimacy of his touch.
Heat instantly pools between my legs. I swallow, my lips parting in something like the beginning of a moan.
This is the second time Antony D’Agostino’s hands have been on me today. I should be angry about it, especially right now, when I need to be focused on not letting any man distract me.
But instead, one last thought that goes through my mind before I pull away.
If a mere hand on my back can affect me like this…
