Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
But as quickly as I uncover it, I stifle a gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.
I’m not alone. Beneath the floor, crouched and hiding, the little blonde pixie with wide, terrified eyes holds a finger to her lips. Her eyes plead silently with me.
And then I know. Those heavy footsteps and that deep voice came to carry her away. She wasn’t meant to be followed and found.
I know what I have to do.
I stare into her pleading eyes and nod, a promise that I’ll protect her, or, at the very least, hide her, as footsteps draw so near to me I feel the vibration of each heavy footfall landing. I silently put the trapdoor back down, tug the rug back over it fully, and sit back on my perch. I grab a worn copy of Palmistry Through the Ages just as the heavy curtain’s pushed aside.
I knew they were opening that damn curtain.
But there is no they.
There’s only him. One person. And given the air of authority that surrounds him, I’m confident he doesn’t need backup.
If I thought this little room was small before, I know better now. It becomes a nook instead of a room as this man’s entire presence fills every inch. His hulking frame looms in front of me. So tall he hides every filament of light behind him. Black-brown hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on top. A scruffy beard covers a strong jaw and sturdy chin. I watch as a flare of recognition lights his eyes—he knows me?—but just as quickly, the look disappears and I wonder if I’ve imagined it, as his dark eyebrows slant in a frown.
I quickly glance at his clothes. Nice, well-made, probably custom work. But it isn’t the cut of his pants or the way his white polo reveals cut, bulging biceps and shoulders too large to fit in here comfortably that catch my attention. It isn’t the faint fragrance of cologne that makes me want to sniff his neck and moan, or the commanding air of authority. No.
It’s those… eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so blue. They remind me of the blueness of the hot springs in Tuscany, deep cerulean eyes almost too pretty for a man. Almost. The stern, ruthless cruelty embedded in those eyes erases anything that even smacks of femininity. No. He’s all male, every inch of him, and my body doesn’t miss the memo.
I swallow, finding it hard to breathe. I’m glad I’m sitting down. He catches me in that gaze. I lose the ability to speak. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His eyes flick from me to the palmistry chart and the book in my hand. I hope it’s obvious I’m an employee, prepared to read some palms, not a mafia princess hiding from her bodyguard and nearly sitting on the head of the nameless woman I’m protecting, the very same one he’s looking for.
I finally find my voice.
“Why, hello there,” I say pleasantly, leveling the full wattage of my powers of flirtation at him. “Are you my two o’clock?” I’m stunned at how nonchalant I sound, but Marialena Rossi’s been here a time or two. You don’t have to be nonchalant. You just need to fake it. Thankfully he can’t hear the frantic beating of my heart or feel the dampness of my palms.
He glances at his watch. “It’s three twenty,” he says suspiciously. “And I’m never late.”
Fuck.
I smile and I really, really hope it’s the dazzling one.
“Oh, right. I get so lost in my head sometimes I don’t pay attention to the time. Time is so capricious, isn’t it? My three thirty, then?”
I pretend like I’m going to rise from my chair and offer the other for him to sit on. Maybe if I’m casual about getting up off this chair he won’t even suspect I’m hiding a full human beneath these floorboards.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m looking for a woman.”
I settle back on the chair and give him a coy smile. “Are you, then? Just any woman, or do you have a type in mind?” I wave my hand suggestively as if to say, yoohoo, woman here.
His eyes narrow dangerously. Calculating. Heated. I stifle a gasp as an erotic pulse of need shoots between my legs when his look grows stern.
Mamma mia.
Why, why, why is it always the bad ones that spark my fire? Why?
When the corner of his lips quirks up, showing a flash of white, I know he isn’t amused. It’s the look of a predator baring his teeth.
“Looking for a blonde who came in here. Smallish woman.”
Play along. Play along. I imagine my heart races in time with hers. Is there enough air under there? Oh, God, what if she’s suffocating? But no, if that’s a storage room…
My voice thankfully doesn’t wobble. “Oh, the one with a little pixie cut?”