Page 13 of Jackpot Joker

It doesn’t take long for Dario’s long strides to catch up with my own. “So, are you a virgin?”

I stop in my tracks and pivot toward him, mad as hell. “Excuse me?”

The smirk on his face only further pisses me off. “I think we’re finished here today, Mr. Caruso. Thank you for making me leave behind all the work I needed to complete at the office so you could bring me here and be outrageously inappropriate. I’ll find my own way home.”

His smirk falls, and his hand grabs my arm, the part where a very muscular bicep would be, had I kept up with those Tae-Bo videos I did in high school. Instead, he’s grabbing the flabby flesh that is the bane of my existence. As if this man couldn’t piss me off more.

“I’m sorry, mio toro, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

I don’t like that I don’t understand the Italian words he spoke to me. I also don’t like how good they sounded from his lips.

“Then perhaps our conversation should be more about business and not the status of my sex life.”

A snort escapes him, and I seethe, attempting to storm off, but he still has a vise grip on my upper arm. “Miss Baker, I wasn’t inquiring about your sex life. I was asking if this was your first time visiting Angelo.”

I stop struggling against his hold and process what he said. I completely took his words out of context and sexualized them. A knowing look spreads across his face, and I immediately feel like a fool. I may very well hate this man.

“So?” he asks.

“So what?”

“Is this your first time? Your first time visiting my hotel-casino, I mean.”

He loosens his hold on me, and my arm instantly cools. Damn, I hate that I hate that. “Yes. This is my first time here.”

My words are soft, as is the smile he gives me. “It’s my greatest honor to be the one to give you the pleasure.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I can’t help the fact that they’re probably crimson right now. Why does everything this man says sound so good? “Let’s get this over with.”

It would be a complete lie to say this establishment is anything less than stunning. White marble flooring and golden accents embellish the hotel lobby. Gigantic chandeliers give off a golden gleam, illuminating everything in an ethereal haze.

Large, luxurious sofas sit atop white rugs with golden ribbons swirling through them. The white marble counter takes up an entire wall, and golden stools are placed in front for guests to perch on as they check in. It’s opulent. It’s indulgent. It’s very much Dario Caruso.

We wind our way through the hotel side of things, and Dario points out things of interest, filling the gaps with questions. “How long have you lived in Las Vegas?”

“I thought I made it clear that our conversations were supposed to be strictly business.”

Dario groans. “Business is boring.”

“So am I,” I deadpan.

“I highly doubt that.”

His voice is deep, nearly a growl, and it causes my legs to want to spread. I shake my head of the thought and give in to the friendly conversation. “Not long.”

His eyebrow lifts at my vague response, and I relent.

“I moved here last weekend.”

“Let me guess,” he says, tapping his finger against his lips, “from Tennessee?”

I snort, knowing my father would be appalled at the accusation. “Close. Kentucky.”

He wags his finger at me playfully. “I knew I heard a touch of twang.”

I can feel the red creep up on my cheeks, and Dario looks at me inquisitively. “I’ve been trying to hide it,” I admit.

“Why would you do that?”