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“I’d like to come,” Beatrice admitted.
He studied her face. “Shit, you are worrying. I told you—”
“I’m not worried about my father. It’s a part of the business I’ve never seen firsthand.” And she could be there if anything did go wrong with her father. She’d be there to threaten him in person.
The memory of patching Montrell up after the last drop rose, and her stomach twisted.
Montrell hesitated, then nodded. “I told you. You can do anything you want.” But his brow furrowed, as if he didn’t like it. “We’ll bring more of our guys. Maybe then Vespa won’t kill me.”
Beatrice pushed to her feet. “Like Vespa would ever hurt you.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You don’t know Vespa very well. Death, that’d be too much, but she loves to punish me.”
She expected him to smile when he said it, but Montrell was looking much too serious. She moved to the door, placing her hand on the knob before she glanced back at him.
“You were wrong, you know,” she said, unable to smile under the weight of her nerves.
Montrell blinked, his head tilting. “Wrong about what?”
“It wasn’t thoughts of my orgasm distracting me.”
He flushed. “I know. I’m—”
“Montrell!” she snapped, not wanting to hear an apology again. An apology would underline how broken she was. When he winced, she took a breath and forced the truth out. “I was picturing putting my mouth on you while your men watched.”
His face burned redder as his eyes narrowed. “Fuck, Bea,” he groaned, letting his head thump down to the table. “You make me so fucking hard.”
She jerked the door open, feeling the same throb as before.
“Close it behind you,” he said, sounding almost breathless.
She did, her flight instinct kicking in. She would need her gun if she was going with them anyway.
When she pictured his hand wrapping around his erection right there in the conference room, she felt another delicious throb, and the tempo of her clicking heels increased as she ran away.
Vespa got into the car last, and her glare turned sharp when she found Beatrice seated inside. “There’s no fucking way this is a good idea!”
“We’re bringing more men,” Montrell defended his choice, looking out the window.
Beatrice was already looking out the window as well, as if the conversation didn’t apply to her.
Vespa blew out a breath. “You better seriously pay attention this time,” she muttered, hunching into herself as they headed out.
Montrell had told himself the same. Multiple times. He still felt like ants were crawling along his arms. Beatrice had come onto him in the conference room, painting a picture that almost made him cream his pants.
That she was now pretending he didn’t exist let him draw in a full breath. He tugged on his beard, but even that made him think of how Beatrice liked to cup his cheek over it. He pulled harder, letting the pain come.
“Are we expecting trouble?” Beatrice asked. Her crossed legs looked even longer in her silky dress pants than they did in a dress. The boots she’d switched into were closed-toe but still high-heeled, gold, and flashy. The reminder that she’d gone shopping with his money let him smile and relax.
“I wouldn’t have let you come if I was worried,” Montrell said.
Beatrice frowned. “I can handle myself.”
Vespa’s fingers stopped tapping her arm. “That’s true. You were shooting the Albanians in that mall when we arrived. Clipped a few of them yourself.” She studied Beatrice’s jacket. “And you’re carrying the piece I gave you.”
Beatrice’s hands clasped together in her lap as she continued to stare out into the sunshine. “It’s not like I trust my father, but he acts in his own best interests. That includes cooperating with us for now.”
“And when that changes?” Vespa asked.
