9. Chapter Nine #2
He has already moved his arm away from Livia.
I don’t care.
I shouldn’t.
“I’ll be back.”
I don’t go outside.
Instead, I head directly toward the bar and inhale air thick with citrus, alcohol, and sweat.
The man beside me is trying to swallow his partner’s tongue. I turn away, although privacy is clearly not a priority here.
I signal the bartender.
A tall stranger slides into the space beside me, his cologne nearly as thick as smoke.
My stomach is still churning from the sight of Livia’s fingers against Luca’s sleeve.
I shouldn’t have cared.
But some primitive, impulsive part of me wanted to dunk her head into the ice bucket on our table.
Livia is my friend.
She makes provocative jokes because she enjoys seeing how people react.
Everyone knows that.
But I didn’t find it funny.
I hated it.
The stranger beside me says, “If it isn’t Simone ‘Sim’ Rochefort.”
His amused voice finally draws my attention.
He’s attractive enough in a boyish way. Soft features. Smooth face. The kind of man who could have walked out of high school yesterday, although he’s probably older than I am.
I’m not surprised he recognizes me.
Who doesn’t?
I lift one eyebrow as my next drink arrives.
“Are you a fan?”
His mouth curves. “Who isn’t?”
I nod, pleased despite myself.
“And you are?”
“Simon.”
He laughs.
“I’m Simon, and you’re Simone. Seems like a lucky coincidence.”
I down the shot.
Simon watches me openly.
My mouth.
My breasts.
My hips.
My legs.
Whether or not Simon is his real name, he has only one goal.
He wants to sleep with me.
At this moment, I’m not entirely against it.
I’m angry.
Restless.
Jealous for no valid reason.
I came here to escape the pressure building inside me.
Maybe I should make use of an eager fan.
I finish another drink.
Simon leans closer, his breath brushing my face.
“Would you make a devoted fan’s dream come true and let him take you home?”
I click my tongue and examine him.
“Name three of my songs.”
He answers immediately.
“Lights Out. Alone with You. On My Bed.”
He’s clever.
All three songs are mine, and the message is obvious.
I smile.
I tend to make impulsive decisions when I’m tipsy and angry.
I lean closer, chasing escape in his mouth.
“What did you say your name was again?”
I don’t get to kiss him.
I don’t get to help him complete whatever fantasy list he’s constructed.
A warm, unyielding hand closes around my wrist.
“Party’s over,” my captor growls.
Perfect.
I look up.
Luca is staring at Simon with enough menace to stop the man’s heart.
It’s lethal.
Terrifying.
And dangerously attractive.
Simon leans away.
Then he disappears into the crowd.
I pout and finish the drink in my hand.
“You chased away my fan.”
Luca looks at the empty glass, then at me.
“How many have you had?”
“I stopped counting.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He pulls the barstool away before I can sit again.
“Come on.”
“No.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I am not.”
I try to step around him.
The room shifts slightly beneath my feet.
Luca catches my waist before I stumble.
His jaw tightens.
“I can walk,” I insist.
“Clearly.”
Before I can protest, he bends, hooks one arm around my knees and another around my waist, and lifts me over his shoulder.
The club tilts upside down.
My hair falls across his back, and my pulse pounds from the sudden closeness.
“Hey!”
I strike his shoulder.
It feels like hitting steel.
“What do you think you’re doing? Put me down, you son of a—”
His arm tightens around my legs.
Heat rushes through my body.
“Put me down, Luca Moreau. Right now.”
He ignores me and carries me through the crowd.
People turn to stare, but the music swallows my protests.
Luca doesn’t stop until we reach the parking lot.
Cold air bites against my flushed skin.
He lowers me carefully onto my feet.
I sway.
His hands immediately close around my shoulders to steady me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands.
I pull away and glare.
Then my gaze catches on his sleeve.
The place where Livia touched him.
My anger flares again.
And now I feel worse than before.
“My feet hurt.”
Luca closes his eyes for one second, as though requesting patience from a higher power.
Then he crouches in front of me and reaches for the buckle of one heel.
“What are you doing?”
“Preventing you from breaking an ankle.”
He unfastens the first shoe.
“You shouldn’t have worn these damn things if you couldn’t walk in them.”
“I’ll wear whatever I want.”
I look down at him through the pleasant fog of alcohol.
The night is colder than when we arrived.
But every brief brush of his fingers against my ankles sends little bursts of heat across my skin.
He handles my feet as though they’re made of glass.
For a fraction of a second after removing the second shoe, he hesitates.
Then he releases me and stands with both heels in one hand.
His eyes drop toward the bare pavement.
“The ground is rough.”
“I want to go home.”
The muscle in his jaw moves.
He closes his eyes again and takes a slow breath, clearly fighting whatever he wants to say.
Then he reaches behind me, unlocks the passenger door, and opens it.
I glare at him one final time before climbing inside.
He closes the door and walks around the car.
A few seconds later, he slides behind the wheel and throws my heels into the back seat.
Neither of us speaks.
But the silence is alive with the things we’re both pretending didn’t happen.
His hand on my back.
Livia touching his arm.
The stranger at the bar.
The way Luca looked ready to destroy him.
He starts the engine and pulls away from the Devil’s Pit.
I stare out the window and tell myself the anger twisting inside me has nothing to do with jealousy.
And the man driving me home is only my bodyguard.
Not my date.