Chapter 11 Augusto
Augusto
I’ve negotiated arms prices with men who’d dance on my grave. I’ve walked into basements knowing I was outnumbered, outgunned, and one wrong step away from a bloodbath. But none of that prepared me for Erin Applebaum walking into Tony Castellano’s office dressed like a fever dream.
The moment the door closed behind her, the air in the room heated, like a log catching fire after simmering for days.
I found her face first. Blue eyes, wet lips, hair mussed up with a rogue feather caught in the strands.
Then my eyes fell to her body.
Christ.
Bare legs. A neckline that looked like the love child of a Regency novel and a porn movie.
I didn’t mean to look for as long as I did, but I couldn’t not look.
When she spoke—some sassy comment about nipple tassels—I had to work not to laugh. Tony’s manager did, and I shut that down with a look so fast it happened before I realized.
I didn’t want him looking at her. I didn’t want any man looking at her.
So, I accompanied her to the storage unit.
We’d already set off walking when the thought occurred to me it was the perfect moment to ask her to be my fake wife for a week—she was caught off-guard, vulnerable, more likely to agree.
That was exactly why I decided against it. I don’t want her agreeing to this under any kind of duress. She has to want to do it, otherwise it won’t work.
I had to come up with a reason for being there.
Coincidentally, Tony Castellano is an important associate of ours, not to mention the fact he’s now Cristiano’s father-in-law, so in a way, I do have a stake in the port.
I had to think fast because whatever story I gave her just now would have to be feasible for when I take her to the retreat.
I leave the port with one clear plan forming as the sun dips low over the water. I’ll ask her properly, on neutral ground, when she isn’t flustered, half-naked, or caught off guard by coincidence. She deserves that much.
Part of me wonders why on earth I’d choose Erin Applebaum to be my fake wife when this job is going to need a hundred percent of my focus.
If I’m totally honest with myself, it’s because I’ve made it to fifty-two without being hung, drawn and quartered or drowned in the Hudson (a rarity in this profession), and I deserve a sort-of-vacation with a woman I like to look at.
If she agrees, I’ll just need to set myself some boundaries and keep my hands under control.
But, jeez, knowing how she looks in a wet blouse, short dress and damn showgirl outfit is doing nothing to discourage me from wanting to drag her pants down her thighs and go to town on her pussy.
What the actual fuck?
I haven’t had thoughts like these in a long while.
Regular sessions with hookers tend to keep my dick sated and my mind from wandering into thought paths like this. Maybe I need to schedule an extra session before I enter that bar again, tensed up and ravenous.
No. This arrangement will only work if we keep some professional distance from each other.
Sure, some hand holding and light caresses will lend credibility to our act, but I’ll need to keep a level head, my wits about me, and my senses on high alert. I can’t afford for any of my plans to be compromised by some rogue feelings I might have for a woman.
I make one stop on the way home.
The dry cleaner hands me the blouse neatly wrapped in plastic, pristine once more.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake off the thought of how this might slip off her skin, tuck the blouse under one arm and leave the premises.