Page 35 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Well, thank you, darling. I’m glad you hold me in such high regard!” I scramble out of his embrace and get down to search for the fucking drill among the mound of wrecked white drapes. The blasted thing is still vibrating. “Fuck!”

“Tara,” Satan growls.

“Just… leave me alone.”

“You’ll hurt yourself. Let me—” He breaks out into a coughing fit, sounding genuinely awful.

I drop the edge of the drape and narrow my eyes at him. “You should listen to Greta and get yourself checked out.”

“Afraid you’ll end up as a young widow, gattina ?” Another bout of coughing overtakes him. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow until he’s able to draw a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

Locating the drill under the piled material, he walks up to inspect my masterpiece. “Were you trying to bust a hole for another window here or something?”

“The drill bit kept hitting… whatever”—I flip my hand at the wall—“and wouldn’t go through.”

“So you tried a dozen times?”

“Actually, it was thirteen.”

DeVille shakes his head. A crooked smile plays on his lips as he moves the step stool out of the way. It takes him mere seconds to drill the hole I’ve been struggling to make for nearly an hour. It takes him even less time to create another over the other marked X.

“There.” He extends his hand. “Anchors?”

“What?”

“The plastic things that get fitted into the holes. They keep the screws in.”

“Oh.” I kneel next to the toolbox Greta gave me and rummage through it. “I didn’t expect you to know how to do this manual, home reno sort of stuff.”

“Why not?”

I raise one of my eyebrows while looking him over. Even with his shirt sleeves rolled up and while holding a drill, he still somehow manages to look sophisticated.

“You just don’t seem like the type,” I say, returning my attention to finding what I need in the toolbox. Finally, I spot the orange plastic thingies and grab a couple. “Here.”

DeVille stretches his hand toward me, but instead of taking my offering, his arm snakes around my waist, and he pulls me to him. My chest collides with his, knocking the air from my lungs.

“And what type do I seem like, Tara?” he asks, leaning in.

“An overly arrogant one. One who’d never stoop to hands-on, hard work.”

“Mmm. I can assure you that I enjoy hard work, and I’ve never shied away from anything that requires hands-on effort. I’m also very adept at a variety of techniques. Especially the carnal kind.”

There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he delivers his claim. Is he insinuating…?

OMG, he is!

A shudder works its way through my body, and a deep, throbbing need settles in my core.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to dispel mental images of Arturo putting his hands- on efforts to use.

Specifically, his fingers on my pussy. My clit pulses with anticipation, and I can’t help it… A sigh escapes me.

His molten gaze instantly falls on my lips.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I find myself leaning closer.

Closer to that sensual mouth of his. Magnetically drawn nearer, as if his eyes have the power to summon me.

I suck in a breath, inhaling his scent. Exhilarating.

Alluring. Addictive. His lower lip ghosts over the edge of mine, and every one of my rational thoughts flies straight out of the window.

I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him to me, capturing that enticing lip of his with my own.

He kisses me back. Hot breath fans my face as he crushes me to him. As he ravages my mouth. As he devours me like a starving man at a long-awaited feast. The spicy fragrance of his cologne plays with my senses as I counter him kiss for kiss.

His hand trails downward, squeezing my ass, making my mindless need skyrocket into a—

The heat of his palm stills over my butt cheek. And, somehow, that sudden lack of motion is a splash of cold water on my overheated flesh. My eyes fly open. Colliding with chocolate-colored depths. We stare at each other, both trying to catch our breath.

Split second.

Then, as if zapped, he and I jerk apart. Forcing several feet between us.

“Umm…” I look away, unwilling to face him. Reluctant to meet his gaze again. “I need to find that wall anchor I dropped.”

“Yeah. Okay. Good.”

Arturo nods, avoiding my eyes when I pass him the little thingy after spotting it on the floor. My own gaze won’t venture anywhere near his, but probably not for the same reason.

What the hell was I thinking? Kissing him?

Shit. He’s never going to let me forget that.

“That’s perfect,” he says, slipping the anchor into place.

He continues to work utterly unperturbed.

Not about what just happened between us.

Not about getting drywall dust on his fancy suit.

As if his sleek business attire is simply a part of who he is and not what he wears, the man speedily progresses through sinking the anchors into their holes.

Then, he slides the heavy bookcase into position, and finally secures the shelf brackets to the wall with screws.

He makes it all look easy and effortless.

Banging out manual tasks without breaking a sweat.

“There. All done.” He gestures toward the shelf and, collecting the toolbox, heads across the room as if we hadn’t kissed only moments ago.

Reaching the door, he throws a swift look over his shoulder. “I hope you haven’t forgotten our plans for this evening.”

“What plans?” I breathe out.

“Our first public appearance as husband and wife. As I told you, we’re heading to meet Adriano Ruffo, so please make sure you review every clause of our agreement for specific instructions on how to present as my spouse. And don’t forget to smile.”

“Yes, the first phase is proceeding on schedule. The slight setback due to the city’s mix-up with our paperwork was on an unrelated project.” I bring the wine glass to my lips and down the entire contents.

Adriano Ruffo leans back in his chair, observing me with hawkish eyes. This is the first time I’ve met the man in person, although I’ve been hearing various things about him for years. Mostly through the rumor mill that runs rampant within Cosa Nostra.

Having met Spada, I expected his point person to have a similar air. Rough around the edges. Explosive, bordering on nuts.

Ruffo is none of those things. Actually, he’s the polar opposite of his don.

Calm. Cultured. Civilized. Nothing about him is overstated, and yet, he looks like a man who wears power like a second skin.

Early forties. Black hair, with a touch of gray at the temples.

His height might be the only similarity between Ruffo and Spada.

In fact, the Boston point man may even have an inch or two on his boss.

Overall, although all outward appearances peg him as a corporate type, he’s got a build that says he’d be able to hold his own in a fight.

And with that, he probably has his pick of the ladies, despite carrying around a few extra pounds.

Nothing about the man seated before me would ever hint at his high status within the Boston Family.

As far as I can tell, he’s not armed. There’s no visible ink anywhere on him.

He’s also not into the flashy jewelry that so many of my Italian peers tend to prefer.

Anyone looking at him would peg him as just another wealthy but ordinary businessman.

And, I have a feeling that’s exactly what he wants to project.

The black-framed glasses he wears reinforce that image.

“I’m happy to hear that, DeVille.” He does that gentle head nod to convey he’s paying attention.

“As you’re aware, this particular venture is very important to our Famiglia , and we sincerely hope that everything will proceed smoothly.

Just as you had previously assured Don Spada it would during your meeting with him. ”

“I’m glad both our organizations recognize this endeavor is crucial, not only because of its value but also for its significance for our ongoing collaboration. As I’ve already stated, you’ll continue to receive regular updates.”

“Excellent.” Ruffo’s gaze slides to Tara, who is sitting on my right. “Would your wife like something else, perhaps? She hasn’t even touched her meal.”

“Tara?” It takes everything in me to keep my face expressionless. The effort is colossal, matching the restraint I’ve held myself with for the past twenty minutes. One slip, and I’m going to throttle her to death! “Is something wrong with your food, gattina ?”

Her smile is as big as the Cheshire Cat’s.

And her eyes are so wide, they’re practically bulging out from a face that’s entirely frozen in a state of cartoonish happiness.

She looks demented. Tilting her head, she beams that crazy grin at me.

She’s been wearing this idiotic expression since the moment we stepped foot in this dining lounge.

It hasn’t slipped even for a second throughout the entire fucking evening!

“It looks amazing, darling,” she says without moving her teeth. That damn smile remains in place. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Let’s summon the chef. Maybe he can whip up something more to Mrs. DeVille’s liking.

” Ruffo gives a barely perceptible wave, and within seconds, four waiters, a maitre d’, and the chef materialize at our tableside.

They line up like soldiers waiting for inspection, hands clasped behind their backs.

“Please, order whatever comes to mind, Mrs. DeVille.”

Tara glances at the assembled staff, then turns her attention to Ruffo. Her already impossibly wide smile grows even more. “I wouldn’t want to impose. Maybe there are other patrons who are waiting for their meals.”

“No imposition at all. Staying at hotels isn’t my thing, so I bought the entire resort in anticipation of this meeting. We’re the only ones here, as you can see. Feel free to ask for anything you want.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you.”

Her voice is like a bird’s song. Sweet. Charming. Playful. She’s never once used that tone with me.