And, behind her, the man I’ve spent all night trying not to gawp at.
Domenico DeLuca strides onto the balcony in his tuxedo, his body seeming somehow more massive and imposing in the formal attire. His face is clean-shaven now, showing off his cutting jawline. His eyes glint knowingly as he walks over to me.
“She was clawing at the glass for you,” he says.
I glance behind him, at the door he’s just closed behind him. The party goes on without us, people dancing and drinking and eating. It seems like a separate world as I lean down and tickle Poppet under the chin. She tips her head back and opens her mouth into a wide smile, relishing it.
“Thank you,” I say, standing up.
The silence stretches between us as he stares at me.
His jawline gets tight, somehow more cutting, and his gaze seems to burn into me as though I’ve stolen from him. My heart smacks into my ribcage at the absurd notion that he knows I’ve been fantasizing about him. But that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t know. I haven’t spoken the fantasies aloud, not once, and I never will.
Because they’re ridiculous.
The simple fact is a man like Domenico DeLuca would never want me.
And he’s dad’s boss and best friend.
And he’s a criminal.
But it’s hard to remember all of that when he walks closer to me and his lips twitch a little, a not-quite-a-smile.
“She’s loyal,” he says. “She saw you out here looking all self-pitying and morose and had to come and see what your problem was.”
“Self-pitying?” I giggle, flashing him a look that seems natural, even if it shouldn’t be, even if we’re getting dangerously close to flirting. Or are we? How silly can I be? “I’ll have you know I was contemplating the next paragraph of my novel.”
“Really?” he says, leaning on the railing and looking over the city with a proprietary claim. “You spend that long contemplating a single paragraph?”
I find myself leaning on the railing next to him, not quite touching, but close. It’s probably innocent but there’s something twisted up inside of me for even daring to think about this proximity as if any second he might turn and loop his arms around me and pull me toward him.
“I don’t think you really want to hear about the process of an unpublished writer,” I murmur.
“Why not?” he says.
“Because it’s boring?”
“Let me be the judge of that,” he says smoothly, still looking at the city, his city.
He could look at me like that, too. Like he owns me.
Shivers move all through my body.
I feel my sex tingling in a way it never has before, as though something deep and primal is urging me to throw myself at this man. I’m glad the civilized part of me has enough sense to batter that instinct firmly down because the last thing I need is to feel the utter humiliation that would come from such a move.
“I don’t usually spend so long thinking about a single paragraph,” I say. “That was a joke. But I guess I am always trying to keep my book in the back of my mind, you know. Just sort of letting it … ferment, or whatever. I know how that sounds.”
“How does it sound?” he asks, infuriatingly neutral, animal eyes consuming the city.
“Um, pretentious?” I laugh, reaching down and petting Poppet when she jumps up to my hips. “Like I think I’m this oh-so-important writer when really I haven’t even had a single word published.”
“You don’t have to be ashamed of your talent,” he says. “Or trying to work on your talent. You don’t have to be embarrassed because you have a dream and you’ve got the bravery to go after it, Dallas.”
I swallow.
It’s silly, juvenile, but when he says my name my pulse quickens and my blood rushes hotter.
“Okay, boss,” I say, trying for a joke. “From now on I’ll be the most arrogant person you’ve ever met. Happy?”
He turns with a slight smirk.
“Very. Anyway, what’s your book about?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“I doubt it,” he says ruefully. “I try to laugh as little as possible at these parties. It gives the men the impression that I’m made of ice inside, and that can be very useful.”
Part of me wants to ask him, Why are you telling me this? Why are you even talking to me?
But then that might break the spell and he might just leave, and for some reason, that produces a cacophony of resentment inside of me, as though my body is screaming at me that if I let this man go, there’ll be repercussions.
“Well?” he says, staring at me almost sternly.
“It’s about a dragon born with no wings,” I tell him. “So she has to go on this mystical quest to discover why, and she befriends a wizard who teaches her how to fly without wings, but with magic. There’s more to it than that, but that’s the general gist.”
“Is it a children’s book?”
I glare. “No, it’s an adult’s fantasy book. It actually gets pretty dark in places.”
He holds his hands up, that same implacable calm on his face. “Okay, I didn’t mean to offend you, Firecracker.”
My glare gets harder, even if I feel a smile tugging my lips upward. “I’m sorry, but what in the name of holy hell did you just call me?”
“Firecracker,” he says, a teasing note in his voice. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it? It certainly fits with how quickly you can explode, don’t you think?”
“No, I absolutely don’t think,” I say, moving closer to him. Heat swells all around us. The night doesn’t seem as bracing anymore. “And while we’re on the subject of moods, how about I give you a nickname, hmm? Maybe Iceman? Because you come across as pretty freaking cold. And you said it yourself. You give the impression
