Page 25 of Wicked Sinner

“Want to dance?” she asks, finishing her champagne and dropping the glass on a passing tray, and I nod, sweeping her onto the floor as the string quartet starts up a new song.

She dances beautifully, elegant and smooth, and I have to admit that she feels good in my arms. But I don’t feel that surge of desire, that hungry need that I feel just from being in the same room as Bridget. Maybe I could have settled for this before, but now… now it’s changed everything for me.

I dance with Caterina until I see Elisa, and let her go to dance with the pretty brunette.

Elisa makes small talk as we move across the dance floor, her manner bright and flirtatious, but she seems to recognize that she hasn’t captured my attention the way she might have wanted to.

She’s sweet and intelligent, but a little boring.

She mentions that, if she’d been allowed to focus on a career, she would have wanted to do accounting for her father’s business, and that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

I dance with two more young women before I end up with Isabella again. She looks slightly miffed—maybe because I spent so much time away from her when this is, ostensibly, meant to be her night.

“You seem distracted.” Isabella’s hand curls against my shoulder. “Are you not having a good time?”

“I just have a lot on my mind,” I say automatically. “Business. There’s a lot to sort through, after coming back—

"Anything I can help with?" She sways closer, and her sugary perfume wafts over me. My mind automatically flicks back to Bridget—how she always smells of the honey lavender soap and warm feminine skin, and nothing else. "I'm a very good listener. My sister always says—"

“It’s nothing you need to worry about—”

The words aren’t even fully out of my mouth before she steps back, tugging at my hand to lead me off of the dance floor. I consider suggesting to her that we stay put, but I don’t want to offend her or cause a scene, so—against my better judgment—I follow.

We end up at a far corner of the ballroom, near a large window overlooking the back of the estate, heavy drapes partially concealing us from the rest of the room.

Isabella turns to me, and before I can ask her why she’s pulled me over here, her hands plant against my chest, and she goes up on her toes, her mouth aimed toward mine.

I catch her shoulders, holding her back gently but firmly. If there’s one thing I have no interest in tonight, it’s kissing Isabella. Nor do I have any interest in her mother or father seeing this and thinking I’m more serious about this than I am.

"Isabella—"

"I know this is all very proper and formal," she says breathlessly, "but I want you to know that I'm very interested in getting to know you better. Much better."

I can hear the offer in her voice. The suggestion that, if I wanted to, we could sneak off somewhere and do just that.

Before Bridget, I might even have taken her up on it.

Isabella isn’t a woman I’d consider marrying, but I’ve never been a particularly virtuous man.

I wouldn’t take her virginity, but there’s plenty else we could do if—

If I weren’t already obsessed with a woman who makes Isabella pale in comparison.

Beautiful and willing isn’t enough for me any longer. Now I’m consumed with a woman who doesn’t want me, who spits and scratches like a cat, who does everything in her power to make it clear that she thinks I’m the devil himself.

And I can’t get her out of my head.

“I think we should take things slowly,” I say carefully, moving around her and stepping back out into the light.

Disappointment flickers across her face, but she covers it quickly with another perfect smile, a flicker of worry in her eyes for a brief second—probably concerned that I don’t think she’s virtuous enough.

“Of course,” she says quickly. “I just… wanted you to know how much I like you, Caesar. And how hard I’ve worked at making sure that I can be a good wife to someone like you. I would be an excellent don’s wife, I’m sure of it.”

“I am as well,” I say smoothly, looping my elbow through hers. “Let’s go dance, before the quartet wears themselves out.”

Safely back on the dance floor, we make it through another dance before I beg off for a drink.

I manage to elude my potential matches for a little while, making my way through the room and talking with some of the other men, discussing business and other matters, thankfully not related to my future nuptials.

When the party starts to wind down, Isabella catches me as I’m getting ready to leave. Her hand touches my arm, lingering, and I can see the hopeful look in her eyes.

"I hope we'll see each other again soon," she says softly, giving me a look that, to any other man, would be utterly alluring.

I manage a smile. “I’m sure we will,” I tell her, and then slip out to collect my car from the valet.

The drive back to the penthouse gives me time to think, and none of my thoughts are pleasant.

Isabella is everything Konstantin wants me to choose to prove my commitment to this life—pedigreed, compliant, bred for exactly this kind of life.

She would never question my decisions or challenge my authority, never get in my way or be overly needy.

She would also bore me to death within a month. I’m sure of that.

By the time I reach the penthouse, I'm exhausted and irritated and desperately need a drink. Or several. Maybe that will help me figure out how to navigate between Konstantin's demands and my own increasingly complicated feelings about the woman currently locked in my guest room.

The penthouse is dark when I enter, and for a moment I consider going straight to my own room.

But something draws me toward Bridget's, some need to see her, though I know I’m far from welcome.

It almost feels as if I’m afraid she might have disappeared while I was gone, though it’s utterly ridiculous.

Her room is quiet, and I assume she's asleep until I hear the soft sound of crying through the door.

The sound hits me like a physical blow, and before I can stop myself, I'm unlocking the door and stepping inside. She's curled up on the bed, her back to me, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Bridget?" I say softly, moving toward the bed and stopping a foot or so away. For once, my body doesn’t instantly react at the sight of her or the knowledge that she’s in bed in nothing but her sleepwear. I’m more concerned with why she’s crying, which should be concerning in and of itself.

She goes still immediately, wiping her face before turning to face me. "How was your date?" she asks, her voice carefully controlled despite the obvious signs that she's been crying.

"It wasn't a date," I mutter, moving closer to the bed. "Are you all right?"

Bridget lets out a breath. "I'm fine," she lies. "Just tired."

Drawn by some need to find out the truth—to make sure she really is okay—I sit on the edge of the bed. To my surprise, she doesn't move away. In the dim light from the hallway, I can see that her face is blotchy, her eyes red and swollen.

"You've been crying," I observe.

"Very perceptive," she says with a weak attempt at sarcasm. She wipes roughly at her face, as if she’s angry with herself for letting me see her like this.

"Why?" It’s probably a stupid question. The answer is likely going to be something sharp and cutting about how I’m keeping her locked up here—but I want to know. I want to know if it’s something else, something that I could somehow fix.

Something that will tell me more about this woman I can’t stop thinking about.

She's quiet for a long moment, and I think at first that she's not going to answer. Finally, she sighs. "I had a dream about my father. About working in the garage with him when I was little. When I woke up, I realized I might never see that place again."

The pain in her voice is genuine, and I feel that familiar stab of guilt. "Bridget—"

"Don't," she says quietly. "Don't tell me it's for the best, or that you'll give me something better. Just... don't."

She bites her lip, turning away, and I can’t help but think that even a mess from crying, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She’s wearing a silk tank top, her collarbones sharp against her lightly tanned skin and her arms bare, and I want to reach for her so badly that it hurts.

Not even for sex, I realize with a feeling that approaches alarm.

I want to hold her. To feel her against me.

I’ve never wanted that with anyone before.

"Did you find her tonight?" she asks eventually, sniffing as she drops her hands into her lap after wiping her cheek one last time.

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Your perfect mafia wife. Did you find her?"

I think of Isabella, with her perfect smile and practiced compliments, and absolute willingness to be molded into whatever I need her to be.

"No," I say quietly. "I didn't."

Bridget presses her lips together. “That’s a shame,” she says quietly, and then she slides back down beneath the sheets, turning her back to me.

I know when I’m being dismissed. But I still stand there for a long moment after getting up, looking at the woman lying there in my guest bedroom.

And then, when I finally leave and go back to my own room, all I want is for her to be there, in my bed with me, instead.