Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
His expression darkens as he takes a step back toward me. “What do you want to hear, topolina? I’ve killed eighty-seven people. Some quicker than others.” He takes another step, and it feels like I’m being hunted. “I smuggle illegal arms and deal with people who would leave you traumatized for life if you ever met them.”
Another step brings him almost toe-to-toe with me.
He leans down a little. “And right now, I’m thinking about forcing you to marry me so you can give me the heir I lost. After all, I’m stuck with you for life. I might as well get something out of it.”
Jesus.
I’m so rattled the only thing I can say in my defense is, “I have to wait a year before I can have children.”
For the second time tonight, he lets out a burst of laughter before saying, “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure to buy condoms when I go to the store again so I don’t get you pregnant before the year is up.”
Not winning with this man, anger starts to bubble in my chest, making me stupidly brave.
“Good. Make sure you stock up. I haven’t had sex in years,” I snap.
The man gives me whiplash as his expression turns serious again. “How many years?”
Frowning at him, I mutter, “Seriously?”
“How many fucking years?” he barks.
“Five.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Want me to rectify that problem right now?”
What?
I move backward until I’m out of his reach. “It’s not a problem, and no thanks, I’ll pass.”
When he comes closer, desire tightens his features, and while I’m stunned by the sudden change in his mood, he lifts his hand to my face. His thumb tugs at my bottom lip as he leans closer, and I find myself holding my breath.
Instead of kissing me, his lips brush along my jaw until he reaches my ear. “Careful, my little mouse. Two can play this game, and I’m much better at it than you.”
“I’m not playing a game,” I whisper as I bring my hands to his sides.
He pulls back until our eyes meet. “I deal with thieves and murderers on a daily basis. I can smell a lie a mile away.”
Crap.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t really want to get to know me.”
Damn, he’s good.
I swallow hard because I’m all out of ideas.
What do I do now?
He tilts his head, and this time, when he leans forward, his mouth brushes against mine. “But I do want to get to know you.”
That means he’s definitely attracted to me. I just have to find a way to use it to my advantage.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
His tone is downright predatory as he whispers, “Everything.”
Giving him a taste of his own medicine, I say, “I’m thirty, excellent at cooking, and beach sand makes me itch. My favorite color is green.”
A genuine smile spreads over his face, and it leaves me a little breathless because he looks way too freaking hot for me to handle.
“Is ginger your natural color?”
“Yes.”
He moves away from me and takes off his jacket. My eyes lock on the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants before he takes a seat on one of the couches. He rests his arm on the back of the couch, then gestures with a jerk of his head for me to take a seat.
Only when I sit down on one of the other couches does he ask, “Have you always wanted to be a chef?”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Yes. My mom taught me how to cook, and I always found it relaxing.”
“Were you planning on working at a restaurant again?”
“Yes. I had a list of four restaurants I was going to visit so they’d know I’m available as a sous chef.” Scrunching my nose, I correct myself. “Make that three. The one reminds me too much of you, which is a pity. It was one of my favorites.”
He lets out a burst of laughter. “How the fuck do I remind you of a restaurant?”
“La Torrisi,” I say.
Again, he laughs, and it makes me smile.
“If you’d walked into my restaurant, I would’ve given you the job.”
“Pity you don’t own one,” I mutter.
“I do.”
Actually feeling relaxed, I ask, “Yeah? Which one?”
His expression turns playful. “Take a wild guess.”
The list of restaurants in New York runs through my mind until I stop on one. My lips part, and my eyes widen. “Are you serious? La Torrisi?”
When he nods, I can only shake my head. “I don’t believe you.” My mind races, then I say, “The manager is Viviana Corso.”
“Elio’s wife.”
Not remembering the name, I ask, “Elio?”
“My right-hand man. You’ve seen him at the warehouse.”
“The one always sitting behind the desk in the office?”
When he nods, I’m still skeptical. There’s no way he owns one of the best restaurants in New York.
“You still don’t believe me,” he murmurs.