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“I know.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because you’re alone at night in the middle of the city.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Not tonight.”
Michela stops and averts her gaze. “My car got towed tonight. I don’t have a ride home.”
“And?” I smirk. Fuck, I am evil. Toying with her in a way that draws her out could become addictive.
She presses a hand over her forehead, glances at me, then looks away again.
I start walking toward the limo, leaving her with no choice but to ask me.
Heels click on the pavement, and Michela tugs my elbow. “Hey,” she says.
“Hm?” I smirk.
“Could you give me a ride home?”
“No.”
Surprised, she blinks. “Oh. Of course not. You’re clearly going somewhere. I’m sorry. Forget I asked.” She starts to turn away, but I catch her elbow, slide my palm down her arm, and capture her wrist. I squeeze gently, my arousal making me harden.
“I’m messing with you, angel. Get in.”
4
PRETEND YOU’RE MINE
MICHELA
I’ve never ridden in a limousine before.
I expected black leather seats, red-carpeted floors, and a disco ball. Instead, the beige interior, with two folded suede blankets tucked under a bar holding top-shelf liquor, speaks of luxury and sophistication.
The space comfortably accommodates Corrado’s long legs and mine as I sit across from him. Since he’s sitting with his legs open the way men who dominate their space often do, I press my knees together and cross my legs at the ankles, the way I saw Kate Middleton do once during an interview. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs, then fold my hands in my lap.
Corrado scoots toward the bar and examines the bottles, finds something that might be wine, and pours two glasses.
He offers me one.
“Thank you, but I can’t drink,” I say.
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
I think about the answer. “Can’t.” Maybe both.
“Not even one glass?”
I shake my head. “My mom started with one glass.” Then I pinch my lips. “Sorry. TMI.”
He sets both glasses on the side, then searches for something else. Now he finds something darker, perhaps a whiskey. He pours it neat, drinks it, then decants one more. This one, he sips.
I wonder why he didn’t take the whiskey in the first place. Perhaps he was trying to share something with me. It shows good manners, which makes me think he’s a gentleman, even if he has an edge. Even if he’s a made man, a member of the ruling Sicilian family my brother once mentioned to me. I’m pretty good at remembering stories and names.
