Page 7 of Steal My Heart

“What about a favorable prenup to sweeten the deal?” He calls after me.

I walk away with a smile on my face, an envelope in my purse, and his diamond ring in my hand. Disappearing in the crowd, I drop the ring inside my clutch.

Bump and grab a wallet, and then bounce.

Thatwasthe plan, except the envelope has thrown me for a loop. It felt heavier than a letter or a bill—God knows I have enough bills of my own—but I don’t want to cut my night short in the event both it and the ring turn out to be a bust. Wouldn’t be the first fake diamond I’ve swiped.

“Excuse me.” That voice has me gritting my teeth.

“Yes?” I turn around to find the officious clipboard woman.

“I’m going to need to see your name tag, my dear.”

“What is the problem?” I huff.

“Oh, there’s no problem. See that gentleman at the bar?” She points to the man I just robbed. “He’s a big donor, and he’s asked for your name,” she whispers conspiratorially with a wink.

“You can tell Mr. Bennett that she’s with me.” The low timbre of a man’s voice has my arms breaking out in goosebumps.

“Yes, Mr. Calvani.” The woman’s cheeks flush for a second time as she scurries away.

I spin around, quickly understanding why the woman was so flustered. Can’t make out everything because of the mask, but the parts I can see,dayum.

Nice square chin with a short and well-manicured beard. Pretty olive complexion. Piercing baby blue eyes. Inky black hair styled to perfection. All this in a tall—I’d say at least six feet—and trim tuxedo-wrapped package.

My eyes flutter up to meet those intense baby blues, and we stand rooted in place, staring at each other. A nervous giggle escapes my lips, and I try to cover it by clearing my throat. “Should I say thank you, or fuck off?”

“Dance with me, and you can decide for yourself.” He extends his hand.

I should be scouting a second mark, but there’s a saying about a bird in the hand, and I find myself accepting this man’s outstretched one. His large hand practically swallows mine whole.

He leads me to the dance floor and gives me a spin, our bodies now pressed close. Doesn’t feel like he has anything in his front pockets, other than a sizable appendage hanging toward the right.

Dayumagain.

We lock eyes, and it feels like he’s trying to pry my name from my mind. “Are you always this intense, Mr. Calvani?”

“Seems you’re at an advantage knowing my name,” he muses, giving me another spin.

I spin back around, my left hand landing on his chest. My fingers slip inside his tux, fanning the interior pocket.Empty.“Wouldn’t hurt a man such as yourself to be at a disadvantage every now and then.”

“You think so?” He pulls me close, our bodies practically fused.

Our eyes lock, and I can no longer hear the jazz band over the pounding of my heart. Rising on my tiptoes, we’re now sharing the same breath. “Only one way to find out,” I shock myself by saying.

A growl rumbles low in his chest as his lips crash into mine. It’s not a light, testing-the-waters type of kiss. It’s an all-out domination of my mouth.

The most embarrassing moan escapes my lips, one he eagerly swallows as he flicks his tongue against my bottom lip. I open for him, and his tongue twirls around mine with the obvious intent to own my mouth, and I can’t think of a single argument against it.

My nails rake over his tuxedo-clad chest, needing closer, and he obliges by angling my head, deepening the kiss. His domination of my mouth continues, and oh my God, the feel of his tongue against mine coupled with his lengthening erection lying heavy against my stomach has me squeezing my legs together.

He pulls back, the pupils of those baby blues having blown out completely. “Shall we continue to test your theory in private?”

My pussy throbs with a resoundingyes, that is, until I spot mark number one. Our eyes lock, and his face turns an angry shade of red as he shouts and flails his arms about, shoving his way through the crowd.

Mr. Calvani turns around to see what all the commotion’s about, and I drop his hand, but not before swiping a parting gift as I sprint for the door.

Maybe I shouldn’t judge people who run turkey trots, because I’m already sucking wind.