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“Dinner is in three hours,” I offer in response, trying not to be too obvious with my scrutiny. “Before then, I can give you a tour and get you a drink.”
“I’ll just come down in three hours,” she answers in an obvious challenge. She wants me to fight her. She wants me to insist she spends time with me. Hell, she wants me to beg her. I’m sure men have begged her for the pleasure of her company for most of her life.
Such bullshit.
“Suit yourself,” I respond before I turn and exit the room without a glance back.
***
When Julia Ridgeway says she’s going to do something, she does it. I would expect nothing less from her—and I’m the same way. But even I’m impressed when she makes it a whole three hours before emerging from her room—even after I intentionally didn’t offer the Wi-Fi password because I wanted her to ask.
When she finally enters the kitchen, I’m heating up the dinner Brent had frozen and flown in from some Italian place in New York. She takes a seat on the other side of the kitchen island and I do a double take. Julia has changed out of the jeans and sweater she wore for the trip and into a short, tight black dress—skintight.
‘Mouthwatering’ is an understatement. The dress hugs the swell of her breasts and cups them so lovingly, they look otherworldly.
“Go ahead,” she urges, sporting a shit eating grin. “You can compliment me.”
“I was going to say you’re the only woman in the history of the world to pack that for a twenty-four-hour trip to Montana in the dead of winter.”
“I told you before, I’m from Boston. I can handle the cold,” she answers, waving her hand dismissively.
I let out a scoff. “Yeah? I went to MIT. I’ve lived through your Boston winters. They’re child’s play.”
“What’s MIT?” she inquires, cocking her head to the side.
Immediately, I can tell she’s fucking with me. She obviously knows what MIT is. The night I met her, I googled the shit out of her and I know she went to Yale, which is basically an artsy version of MIT. Clearly, she’s trying to get under my skin.
Sighing, I raise my chin in her direction. “That’s a nice dress, Julia.”
“Why, thank you. I don’t half-ass anything, August. If I’m going to give you a fifty-billion-dollar ride, it’s going to look and feel like fifty billion dollars.” Her expression remains smug and she dips her finger into the reheated pot of sauce that I’ve removed from the burner to cool. “Needs salt.”
“It’s from—” I check the handwritten instructions from the chef de cuisine, “—Al Coro. They have two Michelin Stars.”
“Well, they don’t use enough salt at Al Coro.” Julia slides off her stool and walks around the island to stand next to me. “Here.”
She takes a pinch of salt from the salt pig and sprinkles it into the sauce. Then she spoons a small amount and tastes it directly from the pot. “Hm,” she murmurs before adding another pinch. Stir, spoon, taste. “Now try it,” she instructs.
I do. And I’ll be damned—she’s right.
“Fair enough.”
Triumphant, she puts the spoon back into the pot and faces me, now giving me an unobstructed view of her body in that dress—that fucking dress. I try to temper my reaction, but my gaze drifts to the flawless swerve of her breasts into her waist. When I finally get her naked tonight, I plan to drag my tongue along every curve on her body, and it still won’t be enough to sate me, I assume.
“Don’t act so proud of yourself.” She glances down and then back up at me. “Don’t think for one minute that you earned this.” She gestures at herself with a graceful sweep of her hand. “I’m just here because it’s legally binding.”
“That’s why you invited me to Milan. Legal reasons.”
The pink flush in her cheeks is addicting. I’ll never get my fill of provoking her, and Milan is now a weapon of mass destruction. I flew all the way out there just to humble her and give her a taste of rejection that she surely has never experienced before. It was worth the hassle and the jet fuel. I would do it again in a heartbeat.
“And that’s why you came scampering over in a matter of hours.” Acid seeps out of her words. “Legal reasons.”
I pivot to face her and mirror the combativeness of her posture. “You’re going to make this as difficult as possible.”
She stares me right in the eyes and says, “One day, when a man blackmails your family in order to make you fuck him, you’ll make it difficult for him too.”
“And yet here you are—in my home,” I counter. “Wasn’t that difficult, if we’re being honest.”
That familiar look of indignation moves across her face. “Well, maybe it won’t happen tonight.”
