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Looking at the sheets in the laundry bags, I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. “Since I’m staying in this apartment and you walked in on me at eleven o’clock at night, you understand why I thought you were an intruder. So here’s what you’ll do. Take two steps back until your ass hits the door. Then kick off your heels and spread your legs. I’ll search you.”
And enjoy doing it.
2
THE MADE MAN
MICHELA
With my arms and legs spread and my back against the door, the intense man I walked in on has me pinned like a butterfly. Since I’m wearing a short, revealing dress, he can see I’m unarmed, but he taps around my belly anyway, then asks me to turn around. Strong fingers swipe over my nape as he moves my hair with one hand. The other runs down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
His warm palm squeezes my bare shoulder. “All done.”
I face him as he slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Breathe,” he orders.
It takes a few minutes for my heart to settle down. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have. He doesn’t, so that’s a relief. My breathing evens out again.
He’s only wearing pants and a thick chain with a golden cross over his broad, muscular and tanned chest. Wet, dark brown hair falls over his forehead. His cheekbones are high. His jaw is square and sports an unshaven shadow.
His hazel-green eyes lift in the corners, and a small smile plays over his lips.
I blush, having now realized he’s watching me check him out.
This is a made man. I know one when I see one, and now that he’s assured himself I’m not a threat, the best thing I can do for my health is leave.
I look away and hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
While I grew up in the parts of New York most people avoid, and while I’m not a stranger to violence, facing the barrel of a gun on my way home from a baby shower after dropping off a bunch of drunk strangers makes me uneasy.
“You’re not in my hair, although you can help me with the hair problem.”
I frown. “How so?”
“I need a shaving kit and toiletries.”
I point at the bags. “The housekeeping staff was going to restock those. They’re in the bags.”
He tilts his head. “If nobody was staying here, why are the supplies gone?”
I shrug. “I just house-sit, sir.”
He takes a step forward, and I take one back, finding myself pinned against the door again.
Instead of keeping a respectable distance, he inches closer, invading my personal space, tall, imposing, and intense. My breath catches in my throat as he dips his head and offers me his hand.
“Corrado Mancini,” he says, and lifts my hand to his lips. Hazel eyes watch me as his warm lips touch the back of my hand. A man has never kissed my hand before.
A man has never kissed my hand while also threatening me with the promise of violence of the sensual kind.
His interest scares me more than his gun.
Tino won’t like this. “I should go,” I say.
He bends, his face even closer to mine, and just when I think he might kiss me on the cheek, I hear a click behind my back.
“Here’s the door.”
3
