Page 3 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Conrad

T he TV drones on in my bedroom while my mind's trying to focus on the email in front of me.

An obnoxious infomercial interrupts my train of thought.

An overly enthusiastic blonde gushing over a vacuum cleaner.

“Oh my god, Kat. This vacuum makes cleaning a breeze and leaves your floors spotless!” My cock stirs under the sheets at just the fucking name.

Katarina. My kitty kat. Not mine yet, but she will be.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, checking the time. Wednesday night. Two more days until I see her again. Forty-eight hours and some change until I can sit at that bar and watch her move, listen to that smart mouth of hers, imagine all the ways I'd shut it up.

Santiago texted earlier that he offered her more shifts again.

Said she turned them down, like always. Part of me is pissed—what the fuck is she doing that's more important than making money?

But another part feels fucking relieved.

One night a week is torture enough. Seeing her more might push me over the edge I'm barely clinging to.

I toss the remote aside and adjust my hardening cock through my boxers. This happens every time I think about her, which is pretty much a constant these days. That mouth. Those breasts. The way her ass looks in those tiny fucking shorts she wears.

My security system pings, and I grab my phone, swiping to the camera feed. Just the night guard doing his rounds. Sometimes I pull them up when I can't sleep, just to people watch and maybe hope I might catch a glimpse of her even though I know I won’t.

My phone starts vibrating, rattling against the nightstand. I grab it, ready to bark at whoever's interrupting my late-night fantasizing, but the name on the screen stops me.

“Matteo,” I answer, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “It's been a minute.”

“Conrad, my friend.” His voice is thick with his Italian accent that never quite faded despite growing up here. “Too long. I've been thinking about you today.”

I run a hand through my hair, instantly knowing why. “Antonio's birthday.”

“Yes.” The word comes out heavy, weighted with grief. “Can you believe it? My little brother would've been forty today.”

I swallow hard, memories flooding back. Antonio Marino—Matteo's younger brother, my friend since we were kids running wild through Little Italy and he would tag along.

Dead at thirty-two from a bullet meant for someone else.

Wrong place, wrong time. The Del Mar family made sure those responsible paid, but it didn't bring him back.

“I remember,” I say, my voice rough. “Hard to forget.”

“I'm having a drink for him,” Matteo says. I can hear ice clinking in a glass. “Thought you might be doing the same.”

I reach for the decanter on my nightstand, pouring two fingers into the empty glass. “I am now.”

We sit in silence for a moment, both drinking to a ghost.

“How's business?” he asks finally.

“Good. Expanding. Just bought another bar downtown.”

“Another one? Christ, Conrad. How many does that make now?”

“Six,” I answer, not bothering to mention the three restaurants, the nightclub, or the real estate holdings. Matteo knows I've done well. Better than either of us expected for a couple of street rats from the old neighborhood.

“And your personal life?” he asks, a smile in his voice now. “Still married to your work, or has some lucky woman finally dragged you away from your empire?”

My mind immediately flashes to Kat—her green eyes, that smart mouth, the way she called me Daddy as a joke that didn't feel like a fucking joke at all.

“No one serious,” I lie.

Matteo laughs. “You're full of shit, amico. I can hear it in your voice. There's someone.”

“There's always someone,” I deflect. “Just not anyone worth mentioning.”

“Yet,” he adds. “Not worth mentioning yet.”

I grunt, taking another sip. Let him think what he wants.

“Speaking of the fairer sex,” Matteo continues, his tone changing, “Maren just turned eighteen.”

“Antonio's kid?” I remember the sullen pre-teen girl at the funeral, clutching her mother's hand.

“Yeah, Antonio's girl. She's all grown up now. Christ, Conrad, you should see her. Looks just like her father. Same smile, same eyes.”

I hear the pride in his voice, mixed with pain. “You seeing her now?”

“Yeah,” Matteo sighs heavily. “Now that she's eighteen, I can finally see my goddamn niece. That whore of a mother can't keep me away anymore.”

“Lisa still being difficult?” I remember Antonio's ex—high maintenance, always looking for the next meal ticket.

“Difficult? She's been a fucking nightmare since he died. Took the insurance money, moved Maren to St. James’ campus with some hockey coach she was fucking on the side. Cut off all contact with our family.” The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut glass.

“But now the kid's legally an adult, and Lisa can't do shit about us being family.”

I swirl the bourbon in my glass. “That's good, right? Getting to know your niece?”

“Should be, but...” He pauses, and I can practically see him rubbing his temples like he always does when he's troubled. “Something's not right with her, Conrad. I can't put my finger on it, but something's off.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's quiet. Too quiet. When we talk, it's like she's...I don't know, measuring every word. Watching herself. And she’s a goddamn cheerleader. When did you ever know a cheerleader to be quiet and measured?”

I frown, sitting up straighter. “You think she's in trouble?”

“I don't know what to think. She's got these moments where she reminds me so much of Antonio—laughing, teasing me about being an old man—then suddenly she's like a different person. Withdrawn and nervous.”

“Could be her home life,” I suggest. “Lisa never struck me as mother of the year material.”

Matteo snorts. “That's what's weird. From everything I can see, they're like the fucking Cleavers over there. Nice house. Lisa's husband seems decent enough. Maren's got good grades, headed to college in the fall. On paper, everything's perfect.”

“But your gut says otherwise.”

“Exactly.” Ice clinks against glass as he takes another drink. “I'm going to keep digging. I just...” He sighs. “I needed to vent to someone who knew Antonio. Someone who'd understand why I can't just let this go.”

“You shouldn't,” I say firmly. “Antonio would want you looking out for his kid.”

“Yeah.” His voice softens. “I miss that stupid bastard every day.”

“We all do.” I drain my glass, feeling the bourbon burn pleasantly down my throat. “Let me know what you find out about Maren. If you need anything?—”

“You always were a good friend. To me, to Antonio. It means a lot,” Matteo says, his voice thick with emotion.

“Don't mention it.” I pour another finger of bourbon, letting the silence stretch between us.

Matteo clears his throat. “Enough of this depressing shit. Let's talk about something else. Like whatever woman's got you tied up in knots.”

I almost choke on my drink. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” he laughs. “Santiago mentioned you've been hanging around the bar more than usual when I talked with him like a lovesick teenager. Said you're obsessed with some little bartender.”

Fucking Santiago. Can't keep his mouth shut. “I don't have a woman problem.”

“Bullshit.”

“I have an unhealthy relationship with work,” I counter. “Always have. You know that.”

“Right.” The ice in his glass clinks again. “And that work just happens to involve staring at some twenty-something's ass every Friday night?”

I grind my teeth. “I'm being hands on.”

“Oh, I bet you'd like to be hands on,” Matteo snickers. “Santi says you look at this girl like she’s your last goddamn meal.”

“Santiago needs to mind his own fucking business,” I growl.

“What's her name? Katherine? Katya?”

“Katarina,” I correct automatically, then curse under my breath when Matteo howls with laughter.

“Knew it! You've got it bad, my friend. How long have you been torturing yourself over this one?”

“Six months,” I admit, seeing no point in lying now. “And it's not torture.”

“Strategic blue balls then,” Matteo says. “Why haven't you made a move? You don’t particularly care about morality.”

“It's complicated.”

“It's only complicated because you're making it that way. You want her, take her.”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She's young.”

“How young?”

“Twenty-four.”

Matteo whistles. “Twenty years, huh? That's a gap.”

“Thanks for the math lesson,” I snap.

“Hey, I'm not judging. My ex-wife was fifteen years younger than me. Age is just a number once everyone's legal.” He pauses. “But if you're too chickenshit to approach her, you should talk to Vivi.”

“Vivi?” I frown. “Your cousin?”

“Yeah. She runs Infinity now.”

I vaguely recall hearing about this—Vivian Marino taking over some tech bros business and transforming it into some high-end matchmaking service for the wealthy.

“What does Vivi have to do with anything?”

“Jesus, Connie, for a smart guy you can be a fucking idiot sometimes.” Matteo's voice cuts through the line. “If you're too hung up on this bartender to make a move, at least get your dick wet somewhere else.”

“What are you saying?” I down the rest of my drink, feeling the burn spread through my chest.

“I'm saying Vivi's built a very high-end companionship service. Discreet, professional, expensive as fuck. Perfect for guys like you who don't have time for relationship bullshit.”

“You want me to hire a prostitute?” I can't keep the edge from my voice.

Matteo sighs heavily. “It's not prostitution, asshole. It's an arrangement. These girls are vetted, clean, and looking for exactly what you're offering—money in exchange for their time and attention. No messy feelings, no workplace complications.”

“I don't need to pay for sex.” My jaw tightens.