He really is crazily tall, probably around seven feet, and his sliver peppered hair shines in the sun. It’s swept to the side and his jaw has a light dusting of iron. His eyes are green and seem to bite into me as he stands there, his body muscled in the grayness of his suit, heaving, enraged like a bear that’s just returned home to find its lair has been messed with. His watch glints, as silver as the rest of him.
Even his eyes are a silvery sort of green.
“Why are you parked like this?” he snaps.
I smile as sassily as I can.
My armor.
That’s what Mom calls a woman’s smile. Just smile wide and brightly and watch any man wilt under the pressure. The problem is, Mom’s that sort of woman, the confident, outgoing type. My smile comes across as more of a grimace or like I’m baring my teeth, probably more like Dad than Mom. Even so, it usually results in some kind of smile in return.
This man just stares, his emerald eyes winking all silvery.
“I was delivering a package,” I say. “I’m a messenger for Dominic DeLuca.”
That’s gotten me out of most jams with my messenger job these past two weeks, driving around this frankly confusing city trying to make deliveries. The west coast is so much more open, spread out, like lightly buttered toast. This is like somebody’s just wedged an entire block of butter onto the bread. It’s unfathomable at times, the warren of roads and streets and alleyways.
But this man just watches. I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch, a sort of half-smile, but I can’t be sure.
“So?” he says.
A prickle whispers up my spine. I have to drag my gaze away from the tightness of his arms in the suit jacket.
“So …”
“So you get special privileges?” the man says, a teasing note in his voice. “Because you work for this man, you can park in the most idiotic place possible and make me hit a car with a dog inside? You’re lucky I was going slowly or he—”
“She—”
“—could’ve been hurt.”
“Well, nobody asked you to drive like a jackass,” I hiss, but I feel the weight of his words boring down on me.
I move around to the open door and stroke my hand through Poppet’s hair, tickling her behind her white ears. Her tail wags and she smiles up at me.
“Good girl, Poppet.”
“Is she alright?” the man asks.
“Do you give a damn?” I snap. “You know, if you knew who Domenic DeLuca was, you wouldn’t be—”
I’m cut off as an idea slams into me. I turn and see his eyes glinting almost victoriously. I feel the certainty of it when I see the corner of his lip twitch again.
“You’re Domenic DeLuca,” I murmur.
“Am I?” he laughs deeply. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Well, you might as well take this,” I say, handing him the small package from my cargo satchel.
I shift the strap so it’s over my shoulder and feel it dig into my left breast, sort of squishing it. I adjust it quickly, annoyed at how red my cheeks flush in embarrassment. Domenic catches the movement and something like rage moves hotly through his frustratingly captivating face.
Grossed out, probably.
“What’s your name, then?” he asks.
“Dallas,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s just that Mom doesn’t really keep any photos of dad or his friends in the house.”
“Fine,” Domenic says shortly. “You’re Gabriel’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“The twenty year old woman who dreams of being a writer.”
“Yep,” I laugh, laughing, feeling more awkwardness moving through me. Along with … something else. It tingles. Ignore it. “Any reason for the impromptu bio?”
“So you’ve been driving around town using my name to get special treatment?” he says.
I toss my hair and feel it fluttering around my shoulders. I stare at him with as much feisty confidence as I can muster, which doesn’t feel like that much with my heart thumping harder, the firmer he stares at me, and with a tickle stroking all over my body.
This is dad’s best friend.
But it’s hard to remember that when he’s smoldering at me.
“I’ve been using your name to do my job,” I say. “This city is absolutely confusing and filled with rude assholes, to be honest. And if I have to use your name to stop some over-zealous traffic warden for ticketing me when I’m parked making a delivery, well, fine.”
“What about your dog? What about Poppet?”
I glare at him. “I was literally walking ten feet from the car to put this in the mailbox, which for some reason is wedged at the side of the freaking building. If I have to go into a high rise or whatever, I take her.”
With a touch of amusement, he says, “And when people object to having a dog inside their building you just drop my name, and suddenly every person in there can’t wait to pet her and give her treats.”
I fold my arms and then immediately regret it. It pushes my breasts together and causes him to glance there, almost fiercely.
Yep, definitely grossed out.
“Am I in trouble, then?”
His lips tremble the same way Poppet’s do when I put out in her food bowl. He looks savage for an instant like he wants to devour me at the thought of me being in trouble like he’s dreaming up gorgeous sadistic ways to punish me.
My overactive writer’s mind has me bent over his desk, his strong hands moving over my bare ass, his fingers teasing closer to my soaked hole with each kissing spank. And then he falls to his knees and buries his mouth against my sex, sucking, licking, consuming …
Calm. Down.
“I should fire you,” he says. “But since I’m about the most magnanimous man you’ll ever meet, I’ll just tell you to never do it again. And I’m going to have one of my men ride with you from now on.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’ve driven around the city advertising
