Page 50 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

“I don’t understand a word you said.”

“Yeah, I know, but I like that you’re not all that interested in those semantics of my life, anyway.”

Cara let out a shaky exhale, and dropped his gaze. “This—tonight—freaked me out a little bit.”

“I can tell. You didn’t have to come running, though. I was fine, as far as that goes.”

“I was gone before I even knew what was happening, so …”

Gian chuckled.

That was all Cara got—one of his husky laughs—before he grabbed her waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her fast. The bruising force of his mouth crashing against hers took her breath away, and all that remaining fear and worry stopped, just like that. His hands slid up her sides and cupped under her jaw while his tongue darted into her mouth and gave her a taste of the bourbon he’d been drinking.

Cara felt dazed-like, when Gian finally pulled away.

Breathless.

Stupid.

Spun.

“I knew this would look good,” he said.

“Huh?”

His thumbs slid down over her throat, hooking under the delicate lace of the black choker he had sent to her the day before. “This here, it looks perfect, mon ange.”

“It does have a certain appeal,” she admitted.

“There was a white one—”

“Gian.”

“But this one matches those stockings you’re wearing, anyway,” he said, never missing a beat.

Cara rolled her eyes. “So, hey, if you’re good here with … your friends, then I’ll head out. I don’t need to be here, and you’ve got my number.”

“I am good,” he said, “and so are they, so how about—”

“Lea?”

Cara froze in Gian’s warm hands like ice water had been poured down her spine. Gian, too, stiffened, his hands tightening to her neck at the quiet call of a name Cara rarely heard spoken anymore. She didn’t think it was random, not with the way the man posed the question over Gian’s shoulder, or the way Gian’s gaze turned cold and hard in an instant.

A beat of time passed, and then another.

Cara’s breath felt painful in those moments.

Gian moved to her side, his arm snaking around her waist. Cara faced the well-dressed man, who looked to be around the same age as Gian. Clean-cut, fresh-faced, and good-looking. He certainly wasn’t anything to scoff at, and whoever he was, he looked like he recognized her.

“Frankie,” Gian said, his smile belying the coolness in his voice. “I don’t think you’ve met Cara Rossi, have you?”

The man—Frankie—suddenly appeared as though he had taken a punch to the gut.

“My bad,” Frankie said, offering Cara a fleeting smile. “Constantino wanted to know if you were going to head out, Gian.”

“Sì, I think I am.”

Frankie nodded. “All right, have a good—”