Chapter Seven #3
“It is exactly the point.” His phone remains in his hand, but he does not type. “You will not drive. You will not sleep in your car. You will either call someone you trust, or I will take you home.”
Take me home. Take me to bed.
Just fuck me and get it over with.
I stare at him, willing my cheeks not to flush.
He takes my silence as submission and goes back to his phone.
“But what about my car?” I blurt out. “I need my car this weekend.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
Okay, it’s a lie.
But I’ll say anything to get out of this situation.
The idea of being in a car with him, in the confined space, the dark of the evening, is too much.
"Your keys."
I stare at him. “What?”
“Your keys,” he says patiently. “Give me your keys.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I am a child. A very stupid child.
"Because I don't think you'd want me to have them hot-wire it," he says, deadpan.
I flush.
Right.
My mind scrambles for another excuse, another reason this cannot happen. “It’s… I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“You are not trouble.” He says it so simply.
I am losing.
I am losing badly.
“I can’t—” I start.
“Give me your keys, Victoria.”
The way he says my name is a warning, a command.
A promise.
And I am too tired to fight it.
Too tired to do anything but obey.
My fingers tremble as I uncurl them from the keys. The metal is warm from my grip, the plastic of the key fob smooth.
I hold them out.
He steps closer. He doesn’t just take them.
His fingers close over mine.
His skin is warm, rough. A shock that goes straight up my arm, down my spine, and right between my legs.
I freeze.
My breath catches.
His gaze drops to our hands, to where my fingers are trapped beneath his, and I see his jaw tighten.
I feel it.
I feel the awareness between us. The same one that has been haunting my dreams for nearly two weeks.
It is not a dream now.
It is very, very real.
His thumb brushes over the back of my hand with a stroke that is far more intimate than it has any right to be.
It is a touch that says, I know. I feel it too.
And then, just as quickly as it happened, it is over.
He takes the keys.
He steps back.
The spell is broken.
He separates the fob from the rest of my keys with a twist of his thumb and holds them out to me.
I take them, careful not to touch his hand. “Thank you.”
He gives a short, sharp nod.
A sleek black SUV is gliding toward us, the headlights cutting through the gloom of the garage. It comes to a smooth stop beside us.
A man gets out. He’s wearing a suit, but he doesn't move like a man who spends his time in meetings. He moves like a man who could break me in half with minimal effort.
Armando, I presume.
He opens the rear door, and there it is. The back seat. The dark, confined space where I will be trapped with Mario Conti for the twenty-minute drive to my apartment.
Twenty minutes of unbearable tension.
Twenty minutes of my mind replaying the feel of his fingers on my skin.
Twenty minutes of him sitting too close, smelling too good, being… Mario.
Mario gestures for me to go in.
I'm still standing next to my open car door.
I reach inside and grab my briefcase, then with no choice, I close my door and slide into the backseat of the SUV.
The inside of the car is warm and has me sighing.
The leather is soft, the interior is clean, and it smells faintly of expensive cologne and something else… something that is purely Mario.
I hear his voice as he speaks to the driver in Italian. Damn, I wish I knew what he was saying.
Instructions about my car, I figure as he tosses the fob to Armando. Duh, what else would they be talking about?
Then Mario slides in next to me, and the space immediately shrinks. The car suddenly feels impossibly small. I press myself against the door, clutching my briefcase on my lap like a shield.
He is just sitting there, not looking at me, but I can feel him. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer weight of his presence.
We don't move right away. I see another man materialize in the garage out of nowhere and it looks like Armando is handing my keys over. Just like that, someone is available.
That's the kind of thing that a man like Mario Conti makes happen with a snap of a finger.
Armando gets back into the driver's seat, and the SUV pulls away from my sensible, practical sedan.
I watch my car in the side mirror until it disappears behind a concrete pillar.
It feels like watching my old life get smaller and smaller.
The silence in the car is oppressive. It’s filled with everything we aren’t saying. With the memory of my dreams. With the memory of his fingers on my skin. With the lingering taste of amaretto in my memory.
I stare out the window, focusing on the blur of the city lights. My head still aches, but it’s a different ache now. This is sharper, alive with awareness.
I should say something.
Something professional obviously.
Something that will break the silence and re-establish the boundary between us.
“Thank you again, Mr. Conti. I appreciate…” I start, but my voice sounds weak, even to me.
He turns to look at me.
In the dim light of the car, his face is all shadows and angles. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I see a flash of light in them, a gleam of something predatory.
“Mario,” he says. “I told you.”
Right. He did.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again.
He shifts, turning his body slightly towards me. His knee brushes against mine.
I flinch. A tiny, involuntary movement that I can’t control.
I see his jaw tighten again.
“You are shaking,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I’m tired,” I lie. My voice is barely a whisper.
"Armando, turn the heat up," he orders. I notice he says it in English. Obviously, for my benefit.
A moment later, stronger warm air floods the car. It’s a kind gesture, but it does nothing to stop the shivering because it has nothing to do with the temperature.
He is still looking at me, his gaze unwavering. It’s too intense. It’s too much. I feel like he can see right through me, see all the thoughts, all the dreams, all the fantasies I’ve been trying to bury.
I turn my head away and look out the window again.
He doesn’t look away. I can feel it. A physical touch. A weight.
“Did you eat dinner?” he asks.
The question is so normal, so mundane, it catches me off guard.
“Lorenzo brought me a sandwich,” I say, my voice a little stronger now.
"How long ago? "
"Around 4:30."
“Then you haven't eaten."
“I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that,” he orders.
I turn back to him. My exhaustion is being replaced by a slow-burning anger. An anger born from frustration and embarrassment and a desperate, undeniable attraction that I despise.
"Is there a reason you keep giving me orders, Mr. Conti?"
"Because you keep lying to me," he says evenly. "And you look like you're about to shatter."
"I'm not one of your employees you can just command."
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
The way he says it makes my stomach clench. The meaning is clear. I am definitely not an employee.
I look back at the window. We’re on the expressway now. The city is a blur of light and color. I see the Willis Tower, the Hancock Building. They are just shapes in the dark.
I think of my dreams again. Of him pressing me against the window. The memory is so vivid, so real, I can almost feel the cold glass against my breasts, the skyline of Chicago blurring as the orgasm builds.
My breath hitches.
I close my eyes.
I just want this ride to be over.
Heat floods me. A wave of liquid heat that washes away the exhaustion, the anger, the embarrassment, and leaves only raw, primal need.
All too soon, the SUV slows, turning off the expressway and onto the streets of my neighborhood. The familiar storefronts, the restaurants, the bars. They feel like a different world. A world I don’t belong to right now.
I live in a brownstone that was converted into two apartments on a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s a good neighborhood. A place I chose for its peace and quiet and low crime rates.
I realize neither of them even asked where I live. It's not information I typically give out to clients, so the only way he'd know is if he sought the information out.
Armando pulls up to the curb in front of my building. The engine is still running, but the silence that falls is even heavier than before.
This is it.
The moment I can escape.
I reach for the door handle, my fingers clumsy.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say, my voice stiff and formal.
But Armando is already out and has Mario's door open.
When Mario gets out, I realize he plans to walk me to my door.
I can't make myself object. I've objected to every step so far. He knows I want to run away from him. And it wouldn't take a genius to figure out why. And Mario Conti isn't an idiot.
My legs feel unsteady as I get out of the car. I clutch my briefcase and walk towards my front door. The streetlight casts long shadows, and I can hear the distant sound of a siren.
Mario is a step behind me. I can feel him. I can smell him. His presence is a physical force, a current of electricity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I fumble for my keys. My fingers are shaking so badly I can’t get the key into the lock.
“Let me,” he says.
His voice is low, right next to my ear.
I freeze. I can feel the warmth of his body, the solid wall of his chest a breath away from my back.
I want to lean back against him. I want to feel his arms wrap around me. I want to feel his hands on my body.
Instead, I force myself to hold still, to not move a muscle.
I hold out my keys.
He takes them.
His fingers brush against mine again.
I fight the shiver, but I lose. It racks my body, a deep, involuntary tremor that I can’t control.
He doesn’t say anything. He just unlocks the door and pushes it open. He hands me back my keys, his fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.
I step into the entrance. It's a small space with two doors that split the building in half, giving me one side of the brownstone.