Page 11

Her hair was even darker than he remembered.

It wasn’t groomed like he was used to seeing on women.

It wasn’t straight, but it wasn’t exactly wavy either.

It was wild. He wondered if he were to put his hand in it whether he’d be able to get it out.

It looked like it might ensnare a man. She had on sunglasses.

Again. He couldn’t get even a glimpse of her eyes.

Once she was opposite him, she stood still—real still. She had bold bone structure, a strong jaw and cheekbones, like that actress his grandmother loved, Anna Magnani.

She must have some Italian in her . Of course she does with that name.

She offered him the box, but he didn’t take it.

She wasn’t wearing the white T-shirt. Why wasn’t she wearing the white T-shirt?

That got him thinking about jelly doughnuts. Tracing circles. And nipples. Her nipples.

He crooked his finger for her to come closer.

She bent over, and that thick mane of hers fell forward, some strands brushing against his cheek. What was that scent? Was she wearing perfume?

A sudden jolt of electricity shot straight to the south pole.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, annoyed at the sound of his husky voice.

She tilted her head. “I should have thought it was obvious.”

“It’s what you’ve got those guys wearing that’s obvious.”

“You’ve never seen a French maid’s uniform?”

“I know what it is.”

“Of course you do. I’m sure it’s standard issue for all your girlfriends.”

Now the south pole was rising.

Damn it.

He bit his lip to keep from smiling. “And if I said it was?”

She tossed her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

He had the feeling he’d seen her tilt her head like that before. But he didn’t remember her doing it.

She attempted to stand up but stopped.

“Ow!” she cried.

Her hair had gotten caught in the zipper of his shirt.

Shit.

He grabbed the collar of his shirt and placed his espresso on a nearby table.

“Come closer,” he said.

“Why?”

“So I can get your damn hair out of this zipper.”

She hesitated. And there was a moment. Was it her breathing? The flush in her cheeks? He wanted to remove those sunglasses and see her eyes.

And then a sudden thought came to him and he grinned. “Are you afraid of me?”

You should be, once we’re out on that track.

She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She sounded breathy.

His grin widened.

“Well, then,” he said, his voice low and husky, “come closer.”

She sighed as she leaned forward.

When he tried to release the zipper by pulling the tab, it took the hair with it, forcing her to bend lower. Her hands grabbed the armrests of the chair for support, and she dropped the box of sugar cubes.

She looked down at his lap where they’d landed.

He saw where she was looking and chuckled. “Like what you see?”

Her eyes shot up, meeting his. The sunglasses had slid down the bridge of her nose.

Her eyes were dark. Real dark.

They might be black.

She shoved the glasses back up and then quickly grabbed the arm of the chair again to regain her balance.

“You are so full of yourself,” she hissed.

He shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s better than being full of something else.”

“Your ego, as big and overblown as it is, still leaves plenty of room for bullshit.”

She heaved a noticeable sigh. His eyes were drawn to her breasts like they were magnets. He didn’t know if she could tell where he was looking, but he knew she couldn’t cross her arms. Not in the position she was in now. This amused him. It probably shouldn’t. But fuck it. It did.

He looked up. She must have seen where he was looking. She was glaring at him. He didn’t need to see her eyes to know that.

“You could stand up, you know,” she spat.

I could. But I’m not going to.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“I heard you. You’re not exactly soft-spoken.”

“Don’t forget demure and genteel.”

“No, not that either.”

“Characteristics of the ideal lady,” she huffed.

“Who says?” He grinned when he heard her sigh. “You think you already know what I think is an ideal lady, is that it?”

“No,” she hissed. “Just forget it.” She pulled back, but he didn’t let go.

“Do you want to rip out your hair? Just be patient. It’s supposed to be a virtue.”

“You don’t strike me as patient,” she huffed.

“No good driver is.”

“Not true. The fact that you don’t know that might explain your performance the last few years. I know patience is a virtue when it comes to racing. That’s part of what makes me a damn good driver.”

His heart began to thump.

“We’ll see,” he said, gritting his teeth as he struggled to pull the hair gently from the zipper.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Vittori? Does it make you feel uncomfortable to see men so scantily clad?”

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps what’s bothering you is not so much what the men are wearing but what they’re doing.”

“What do you mean, what they’re doing?”

“A woman’s job.”

“Serving coffee?”

“That’s right.”

“I didn’t say that, you did.”

Now he’d gotten it; he gently pulled the hair loose and leaned back.

“There,” he said.

She quickly righted herself and crossed her arms. “Is it true you rescued a cat and a dog from a dumpster?”

He frowned. “Who told you that?” He waved his hand. “Never mind. I know who did.”

It was either Dario or Celeste. If Dario had told her, he would have said something like The guy’s not really as bad as he makes himself out to be.

That’s just a wall he puts up. He’s like those mangy mutts he rescued from a dumpster.

But don’t ever call them mangy in front of him.

People are mangy but not animals . If it was Celeste, it would have been more like The guy’s an asshole, we all know that, but he did rescue that cat and dog. He has that going for him.

He crossed his own arms and sat glaring up at her while she did likewise, glaring down at him.

She was the first to break the silence. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Is it true? Did you rescue a cat and a dog from a dumpster?”

“Yes, it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?”

She shrugged. “No reason.”

“Animals don’t go around showing you one face and then turn around to show the world another. They don’t make you think you can trust them, only for you to find out you can’t.”

Something changed after he’d said that. He tried to spot what it was. Was it in her face? The way she was standing? He tried to pinpoint what it was, but couldn’t.

“And people do that?” she asked, her voice suddenly softer.

His heart picked up pace. He wanted out of this chair. But with her standing there, he hesitated. And that made him feel trapped. For some reason the softer voice bothered him. He felt more comfortable with the other one—the one that matched her black eyes.

“Women do,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But then, you being a woman, you would already know that.”

There she was. She was back. He could tell by the way she’d squared her shoulders.

She scowled. “I know what’s bothering you.”

There it was—the black-eyes voice. Why would he prefer it to the softer one?

“You do, do you?”

“I’m sure you would have preferred a woman serve you.”

In that outfit, as a matter of fact, yes .

A surge of heat radiated through his body, and that pole between his thighs began to throb.

She glanced down at his lap. “Your sugar?”

The humming he’d felt in his groin went full throttle.

He hesitated before getting her meaning. He picked up the box and handed it to her.

She indicated with her eyes his espresso sitting on the table.

He took it, but before he could hold it up to her, she threw a sugar cube in the cup with enough force, most of the espresso spilled out onto his thighs. He was glad it was no longer hot.

He stifled a grin but not the stirring he felt below his waist.

“I think one should be enough,” she said with that arsenic smile. “We wouldn’t want you to be too sweet, now would we?” she added before walking away.