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“Who’s that woman?”
What woman?
I whip around and see a beautiful woman in a form-fitting dress and painfully high heels rush into his arms, clinging to him like the last life raft on the Titanic.
He says something I can’t make out, hands her what looks like a thick wad of cash, then unpeels her from him and swiftly ushers her into a waiting van.
Then, several more women emerge from a building, filing into the van in a steady stream. They don’t all hug him or carry on like he’s God’s gift to women, but he hands each of each an equally large wad of cash.
“Did he just hand them all money?” Riley asks, as if reading my mind.
I can’t reply. My chest feels like it’s caving in, crushing my heart. Enzo makes me dry hump his leg, disappears for a day, and now he’s here, handing a woman in a tight dress a wad of cash.
Did she beg for his dick? Did they all? Is that what’s happening here?
Anyone can do the math. And by the look on Riley’s face, she just did it too.
I’m almost relieved when my phone rings. Until I see that it’s the jerkface himself. I look up to find him suddenly seated at a café, facing away as a waiter brings him water and a menu.
“Who’s that?” Riley asks, nosy as ever.
I ignore it and click it off. “No one important.”
When it rings again, Riley grabs Truffles. “Looks like Mr. No One Important really wants to talk to you. Tell him if he breaks your heart, I’ll kick him in the nuts. Repeatedly.”
I smile because I know she really will.
Then she adds, “And I left a little something in your purse, but now that I’ve seen your boyfriend”—she exaggerates the word—“I doubt you’ll need it.”
Huh? I start digging through the tub-o-purse I lug around because I’m in a foreign country, and you never know when you’ll need a raincoat. Or an adapter. And don’t even get me started on the crap I carry around for Truffles.
I’m damn near tempted to dump it out right here on the sidewalk. If it’s a bag of those little Italian almond cookies, I want to shove them all in my mouth right now. “What did you leave in my purse?”
She doesn’t bother replying. She simply hugs me and flashes that evil smile of hers before skipping down the street, Truffles trotting after her, as they head towards the center of town.
Before I can rummage through my purse for whatever she stuffed in it, my phone rings again. I answer, “What do you want?”
“So many things, Bella,” he says, all growly and rough. “Starting with, I want to know if you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
“Funny, I thought we were having dinner last night. Since you didn’t show, tonight I’ll be having dinner with Riley.”
His tone shifts, irritation rumbling beneath the surface. “You may not believe this, Bella, but there are aspects of my business that require my immediate attention.”
Like prostitutes? I don’t say it out loud, but the thought screams through my mind.
He sighs, “And as much as I’d like to spend every minute of this trip with you, the fact is I can’t stay tonight. That’s why we’ll be having dinner promptly at six.”
Am I the only one who noticed that he switched it from a question to a statement? I swear, the man is the living embodiment of frustration. “The answer is still no,” I say firmly.
“It wasn’t a request, Bella. We have a deal. You get time with your sister, and I get whatever the fuck I want. And tonight, I want dinner.”
A small part of me is desperate to know why he’s doing this. Collecting women like soccer trophies, yet still calling me.
And why his voice sounds so tired and worn. Though, with that many women fawning over him, I can probably guess.
Instead of telling him where he can shove dinner, I bite back the impulse and give in. “Fine,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock,” he repeats then disconnects.
