Merciless, Page 3

  “You have a thing about manhandling women, Tex?”

  Fucking hell. She has no idea. “Only when the woman likes to be manhandled.”

  Emi’s pupils dilate, and I swear I can hear her pulse racing faster, but I manage to dial it back. Bringing her arm up, I place a warm kiss on the inside of her wrist before releasing her. Her brows knit together as she draws her arm to cradle it against her chest. I’m not sure if the move is to protect her skin from further onslaught or to hold the kiss in. My ego likes the latter idea better, so I don’t argue with it.

  “Now, about that prize,” I say. “I was thinking a late dinner would do nicely.”

  “Tonight? I can’t go anywhere tonight. I’ve been dancing all day, I’m tired and need a shower—”

  “Tomorrow night, then.” It’s Sunday, and I know from the website that the school isn’t open.

  She pauses to think while she drags the corner of her bottom lip through her teeth, which causes my dick to twitch behind the fly of my jeans. Down, boy. “No dinner, one drink.”

  “Come on now, that’s hardly enough time to get to know each other. Appetizer, entree, but no dessert, and unlimited drinks.”

  “Charcuterie and cheese platter with one bottle of wine.”

  My face screws up like I took a bite of my nana’s lemon pie. “Darlin’, I don’t even know what the hell you just said, much less where to find it.”

  This seems to please the hell out of her, and for the first time, I witness Emi’s brilliant smile. It’s like stepping out into the sunshine after a month of nothing but rain. The warmth of it radiates from her beautiful face and penetrates something deep inside me. Damn but I want to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can.

  “Don’t worry, I know just the place. Give me your phone.” I don’t even think twice before handing it over, unlocked. After a few seconds she hands it back, and I hear her phone go off across the room. “I’ll text you my address, and you can pick me up, say seven o’clock?”

  I arch a brow and try to school the grin fighting to get free. “Like to take charge, do you?”

  Dark brown eyes flare wide. “What? No, I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes, I’m just used to handling things myself.”

  “That’s okay, Emi, I’ll let you lead for a bit.” Stepping in closer, I tuck a few runaway strands of hair behind her ear. “Don’t get too used to it, though. ’Cause when a woman’s with me, the last thing she ever has to do…is handle herself.”

  The innuendo does the trick and her lips part on a quiet gasp. Slowly, I drop my head as though I’m going to kiss her. Her lids flutter closed, and it takes every bit of resolve I have not to take what I want, what she’s so obviously willing to give. I want to taste her lips more than my next breath, but I manage to hold myself in check. At the last second, I kiss her chastely on her porcelain-smooth cheek. Then I start to walk backward to the door before I say screw it and pounce like the wild animal I truly am.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night, Emi-girl. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  She releases a deep breath, letting the spell of our almost-kiss wash away, and I can see her playful side spark back to life. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Tex.”

  The ridiculous nickname makes me smile. Hours later, I wonder if my mom’s childhood threat about my face “getting stuck that way” might actually happen, because I’ll be damned if I’m not still smiling as I climb into bed.

  Chapter Five

  Emi

  “Emi, where are you going?”

  Shit. I was hoping my dad would still be in his office and I’d be able to slip out unnoticed. Instead, he’s in the breakfast nook eating a grilled chicken salad; a salad he finds to be personally offensive, if the disgruntled twist of his mouth is any clue. It’s nothing new. Since his heart attack a year and a half ago, he’s made his resentment of his overhauled diet well-known, but I don’t care. He can pout all he wants as long as he stays away from all the pasta, rich meats, and oil-drenched bread that put him in that hospital room and nearly made me an orphan in the process.

  Popping my phone and lipstick into my black clutch, I smile and try for a casual tone. “Just out with a friend, Daddy, it’s no big deal.”

  His rapier gaze takes in my appearance before he raises his famous dubious brow. Okay, so I don’t exactly look like I’m about to meet Graham, one of my instructors and friends, for a non-fat latte at the nearest Starbucks. If that were the case, I’d be in yoga pants and a comfy top with my hair in a messy bun and no makeup. As it is, I’m wearing a little black dress, heels, and gave myself a blowout and a smoky eye. I’m trying to at least appear like I belong with a hot-as-hell guy like Austin. Sue me.

  The look I’m getting from the all-knowing Vincenzo DeLuca is that he knows I’m full of shit but is choosing to remain silent because it doesn’t need to be said. Which is to say, he doesn’t approve of my “friend” date. And to underscore this fact, he brings up the one thing that’s sure to put me in a sour mood.

  “I have good news about Marco.”

  Marco Moretti: only son of my father’s oldest friend, my childhood playmate turned tall-dark-and-handsome CEO-in-training…and my betrothed.

  I mentally wince every time I think of the B word. Who knew arranged marriages were still a thing well into the 21st century? Although, I suppose “arranged” isn’t exactly accurate. More like emotionally coerced.

  “His father tells me he will be back in Chicago at the end of July.”

  End of July? I thought I had longer. His paid internship at the Italy branch of my father’s company wasn’t scheduled to end until September.

  “Why is he coming back so early?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

  Dad sits back and picks up his glass of red wine—one of his habits that he’d been allowed to keep once daily—and waves dismissively with the hand holding his fork. “Everything is fine. In fact, he has excelled in the program. There is nothing more he can learn there that he cannot learn here.”

  “That’s great, Daddy. I’m not surprised, he’s a smart man.”

  “Sì, he will make a good husband for you. I cannot wait to finally see the two of you joined together, piccola principessa.”

  Little princess. The smile on his face and his childhood endearment for me is made of the stuff that sealed my fate. I love my father with all my heart, and when I thought I was going to lose him…God. Blips from the ambulance ride and those awful hours in the hospital hit me. Residual fear still rises whenever I think about it. I’d do anything to make him happy and free of the stress the doctors warned could bring on another heart attack. Even agree to marry a man whom I love as a friend with the hope that I can grow to be in love with him someday. After all, it’s not exactly like I have a ton of other prospects—I’ve had zero luck in the relationship department—and Marco is an amazing man who’s had feelings for me since we were seventeen. A life with him won’t be anywhere near horrible.

  But it also won’t be the fairytale I’d always hoped for; the kind my parents had and the kind my father used to want for me before he decided he needed to write my happy ending for me.

  I shake off my concerns and give myself permission to worry about that later. My father has agreed to not pressure me about starting a “relationship” with Marco until he returns. That means I have—I do the math in my head—eleven weeks, give or take, to be single and sow my wild oats. Not that I’d planned on doing any sowing, but that was before my world was turned upside down by an insistent man with golden-blond hair and light green eyes.

  “Emi, did you hear what I said?”

  “Sorry, yes, I did. You’re right, that’s great news. I look forward to seeing him,” I say with a smile like the dutiful daughter I am. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No,” he says gruffly. The reminder I’m going out has made him surly again. “Do not stay out too late. There is no reason to be out at all hours o
f the night.”

  Loosely translated that means “don’t go having an adult slumber party with your so-called friend.” Apparently agreeing to my freedom and voicing his opinions about it are very different things.

  “Certo che no, Papà.” Of course not, Daddy. I’m not above using the few advantages I have when it comes to my father, and speaking “the tongue of the mother country” always smooths his ruffled feathers, just as speaking French did for my mother when she was alive. I cross the room and lift his wrist that holds the health monitor he wears for “his overbearing daughter’s sanity.”

  “I’ll be fine, I promise. No stress, remember?” He grumbles before relenting so I can check his blood pressure. Once I’m sure it’s in a safe range, I say good night with a kiss on his cheek, then make my way to the opulent two-story foyer to wait for Austin. My watch says ten till, but I plan to meet him outside as soon as I see him pull up. No way am I letting him get near my father if I can help it.

  Austin… I still don’t even know his last name. I don’t know anything about him other than he has a Texan accent that gets stronger the more flirtatious he is, he’s friends with the girl I met backstage at Cardinal Sin, and he’s proficient in Google searches. That’s not much to go on. Am I crazy for even entertaining going out with him?

  Maybe. But my curiosity is getting the better of me, because I can’t seem to say no to him.

  I’d been so caught up in dancing last night, I hadn’t noticed him walk in. I was startled and scared when I felt myself spin into someone, but only for the split second it took me to realize whose arms were banded around me. Then all that adrenaline turned into molten heat and a jolt of desire so strong that it set me off balance. I tried playing aloof in an attempt to convince us both that he didn’t affect me. It was an epic fail. At least I had a small victory when it came to the date negotiations.

  At five till seven, an SUV pulls into my semi-circular brick paved driveway. I’m already outside by the time he stops in front of the door and walks around to meet me. He’s wearing black slacks and shoes, with a pale-green dress shirt that matches his eyes. It stretches across his broad chest and big arms, tapering at his trim waist, making my mouth water.

  “Damn, Emi,” he says, stopping at the bottom of the stone steps to study me. “The way you look is worth me breaking out my wedding-slash-funeral attire.”

  I laugh as I walk down to him. “Not many other occasions to get all dressed up?”

  “Darlin’, when I go out, it’s for beer and hot wings, neither of which requires a collared shirt. But I’ll wear one every time if it means you’ll be on my arm looking as stunning as you do.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr…?”

  “Massey. Austin James Massey, at your service.” He raises my hand and places a soft kiss on my knuckles, the quaint gesture somehow more lascivious the way his lips linger as though on my mouth. Butterflies erupt in my belly as I feel a blush steal into my cheeks.

  “Then we’d better go, Mr. Massey,” I say, continuing our faux formality. “Our reservation is for seven thirty, and I do so hate to be tardy.”

  “Right this way, miss.” He makes a wide sweep with his free arm, gesturing to his truck. “Your 2004 Chevy Tahoe with minor rust around the wheel wells awaits.” I laugh and hop into the passenger seat, using the running board and his hand to steady me. After sliding behind the wheel, he glances over at my castle-like, Tudor-style mansion, and his smile falters. “If I’d known I was courting royalty, I would’ve borrowed my friend’s Beemer.”

  I chuff in amusement. “My family is less God Save the Queen and more Godfather Part I, without all the messy illegal stuff.”

  “You mean all the murder-y stuff?” he clarifies with a smirk as he pulls onto the street.

  “Exactly. And as for cars, they’re meant to get us from point A to point B. They’re only status symbols for the extremely pretentious or men who are overcompensating.”

  Laughing, he says, “I can’t wait to tell Roman he’s overcompensating. So then what do you drive, girl-who-lives-in-a-castle-on-a-lake?”

  I blush, embarrassed about where I come from for the first time that I can think of. “My father’s the pretentious one. That’s his house, and I still drive the Land Rover he bought me. Nothing but the best for his little princess,” I add wryly.

  “Aha, so you are royalty. I knew it.”

  “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

  “Kinda,” he says, throwing me a wink before returning his attention to the road. “So, your dad bought you a ninety-thousand-dollar vehicle.” He lets out a low whistle. “When I turned sixteen my dad got me a new fishing pole.”

  “It wasn’t for my sixteenth birthday,” I say defensively. “I was twenty-two and it was his way of rewarding me for making principal dancer.” I’m not mentioning the brand-new Mercedes I’d been given for my sixteenth. In fact, I need to steer this conversation in a different direction. I’d rather find things we do have in common than don’t. “Do you and your dad do a lot of fishing together?”

  Austin slides me a wry grin. He knows I’m changing the subject, yet he doesn’t comment on it. “Yeah, it was how we bonded. I didn’t even know my dad until I was fifteen. Before that I was raised in a small town outside of Dallas with my mom. My dad never even knew I existed until my mom was diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer and she decided she had to tell him.”

  “Why did she keep you a secret?”

  “They were young and in an ‘off period’ of their on-again-off-again relationship when she realized she was pregnant. When she told my dad, he panicked and mentioned maybe terminating the pregnancy. My mom, coming from a very religious home, never considered that an option. She decided to tell him she’d been wrong about being pregnant and moved back to Texas to be with family.” Something shifts in his expression, a flicker of sorrow maybe, but then it’s gone. “Anyway, after she passed away I moved to Chicago to live with my dad. But we had a hard time adjusting to each other.”

  He falls silent for a minute, and my heart breaks a little for him. I still sometimes feel like I’m reeling from losing my mother three years ago, and I was an adult who didn’t have to go through other life-altering situations like he did. “I can only imagine how hard that must have been for you.” I lay my hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Austin.”

  Turning earnest green eyes on me, he replies softly, “I’m sorry about yours, too, sweetheart.” My mouth parts in surprise. He shrugs almost sheepishly as he turns his attention back to the road. “I read about her when I Googled you before.”

  “Oh, right. Thank you,” I say, giving him a reassuring smile and light squeeze of my hand. It wasn’t what I’d meant by finding things we had in common, but knowing we understand each other’s loss is an odd sort of comfort.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “one day he told me to get in the truck and he took me to Lake Michigan. When I started to give him attitude, he told me to shut up and put a damn line in the water. So I did. Something about staring out at the water as we sat holding our poles allowed us to let our guards down. A few hours later we’d talked through our issues, and we had a stringer of brown trout and a new understanding of each other. Fishing’s been our thing ever since.”

  “It’s nice when you have something like that with your parents,” I say, thinking of my mom. We’d done everything together; the ballet version of the Gilmore Girls.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  He pulls into a parking space at the wine bar and orders me to stay put. I wait patiently for him to come around and open my door, then accept his hand to help me down. Austin tucks my hand into the crook of his arm as we walk, and I’m struck by what a gentleman he is. I’m very accustomed to this sort of treatment, growing up in the formal circles as I did, but with Austin it feels different. More…special. It feels like something he does without question because he believes in why he does it and not because it was drilled into him at cotillion as
a kid.

  Smiling down at me, he leads me into the small bistro I chose for our date. The decor is sleek and modern, with the entire back wall acting as one huge wine rack. There’s a bar off to the right, and the left half is for diners, some of the seating being normal tables and some with a lounge arrangement. A small band is playing live music in the corner near the front windows, and the place is near capacity with people enjoying good food and drinks while laughing with friends.

  The hostess seats us at one of the lounge settings, two low armchairs with a round coffee table between us. He orders a whiskey sour, and I order a glass of Pinot Noir with the charcuterie and cheese platter as we’d agreed upon last night. I honestly don’t care what we eat, but I’d felt compelled not to give in to everything he wanted when he caught me so off guard at the studio. And I’m nothing if not a woman of my word.

  He smiles, drilling those swoon-worthy dimples into his cheeks. It’s a good thing I’m already sitting, or my knees might have made a fool out of me when they caused one of the most graceful people in Chicago to topple to the floor.

  “Tell me something about you, Emi. Something I wouldn’t find on Google.”

  “Am I to assume you’ve already read everything about me on Google, then?”

  “I take my research very seriously.”

  The waitress sets our drinks down, and I take a sip of mine before answering with a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. “I enjoy fishing, too.” His eyebrows wing up in clear disbelief, making me laugh. “Okay, fine, I only did it once, but I had fun.”

  “Don’t stop there,” he says, picking up his glass. “I want to hear all about the ballerina princess and her fishing trip.”

  “I told you, I’m hardly a princess. Though if my father could justify locking me away in a tower I’m sure he would.”

  “If that ever happens, you can count on me to come to your rescue.”

  I chuckle at his playful wink. “That’s very reassuring, thank you.”

  “Hey, I might be more of a stableboy than a gallant prince, but us stableboys know how to have a lot more fun.” The green of his eyes heats with the kind of prurience that causes me to shiver in anticipation of what’s to come. If only I have the courage to chase it.