Page 2 of Malicious Marriage

Getting him alone in his office never even crossed my mind.

Dean drags his hand through his hair once more with a deeper sigh escaping him. This time, his hand lingers, pulling on the strands while his other hand grabs the green silk tie around his neck and drags the knot a few inches down. Then he unclasps the top few buttons of his shirt and breathes deeply as if the collar has been smothering him the entire night.

I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t.

He doesn’t know I’m here and it’s so terribly inappropriate, but I can’t resist. Several inches of dark, golden skin are exposed now along with a few teasing curls of silver and brown chest hair. The well-dressed, picture-perfect Dean Savoy is suddenly looking a little disheveled with his hair ruffled, his shirt open, and his tie a few inches loose from his throat. He leans forward and sheds his black suit jacket, forcing me to look away.

How do I do this? This is the perfect opportunity, but the thought of making a noise and revealing that I’ve been sitting here in the dark the entire time feels more and more impossible the longer this goes on. My skin is hot. My heart is pounding so hard my teeth are trembling, and I’m too scared to move in case a sudden spring in the chair decides to alert Dean to my presence.

I shouldn’t say anything. I should stay silent until he leaves, which surely won’t be long since he’s the host. It’s his party, and I can’t imagine he’ll stay away for long when he’s supposed to becelebrating some incredible new deal between the Italians and the Russians that will bring a new era of peace to New York.

Or so they say. I’m not involved in any of the details.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He sits there with his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking slow, deep breaths. Each second drags past like an eternity, and the fear of being caught does nothing to calm the tears still slowly welling in my eyes. Each time I blink, they escape down my cheeks, and I don’t dare to lift my hand and wipe them away. I’m frozen like a statue.

This was all so much easier in my head when talking to Dean Savoy was just a plan that I could control and ensure success in my head. Reality is much more daunting.

My nose tickles, and I try to breathe in constantly but slowly through my nose. But it keeps running. Tears well faster as my distress rises, and in the end, there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from sniffling.

Dean’s eyes snap open.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

His hand moves along the desk and a button clicks. A moment later, the desk lamp next to me blooms to life and my safety blanket of darkness melts away, exposing my presence to the room and Dean.

This is it.

It’s over. I’ve been caught.

Dean will surely be furious. Not only did I break into his office—and why did it have to behisoffice and not just some random office, huh?—but I’ve remained hidden here like some creepy stalker just watching him. He’ll kill me for sure. He’ll do away with me, and the only person who will miss me will be Bobby.

It’s over. It’s soover.

Under the golden glow of the lamp, I can’t hold back my sniffles, and the fear of getting caught surges up inside me. My mind goes completely blank of excuses and when I blink, my entire world blurs.

Say something, Clover. Say something.

Anxious tears well, and the entire world goes quiet as the music beneath us fades with the end of a song. My lips part, and suddenly, something soft brushes against my flushed cheek. I blink again, sending a wave of tears rolling down my cheeks.

Dean stands over me with a tissue in one hand that he offers out to me and a box of them in his other.

“Here,” Dean says in a low, soft voice that almost vibrates through the air toward me. “Dry your tears.”

With trembling fingers, I accept the offered tissue and quickly bury my nose into the softness. I dare not think how expensive these tissues must be. Sniffling, I wipe at my nose and dab at my eyes, then when Dean offers me the tissue box, I take it and set it in my lap. It’s a decent distraction to focus on, so I grab a handful of tissues and carefully dab at my eyes and cheeks, though I spot with a heavy heart that my dollar-store mascara is not as waterproof as it claims.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp. My voice shakes with how hard my heart is pounding.

Dean Savoy is standing next to me, offering me tissues rather than yelling at me. The man with the most cold-hearted, dangerous reputation in the city is offering metissuesfor my tears rather than slitting my throat for trespassing.

I’m in way over my head. This was such a mistake.

“Don’t apologize for tears,” Dean says. The angle of his voice shifts, so I open my eyes to see him perched on the small table in front of me with his elbows balanced on his knees and the fine lines around his eyes deepening from the worried frown above his eyes.

“I’msorry,” escapes me once more because what else am I supposed to say? Sorry for crying. Sorry for sitting in the dark like a weirdo. Sorry for not announcing my presence like some kind of stalker.

Dean hums gently in his throat and watches me intently, barely even blinking. This close, I can see right down the white shirt straining across his pecs, and my cheeks flush hotter at the glimpse of hidden skin under his collar.