Caterina
The rest of the day rushes by in a blur of meetings, choices, and wandering thoughts of Dane Ryder’s waiting smile.
I can’t recall the last time I went on a date. I don’t even remember when I last spent a night under ambient lighting with a man who wasn’t my little brother or father.
My driver, Danny Costa, cruises up to the museum steps at seven thirty in a black-and-gold Bentley, even though I could walk the handful of blocks between the museum and my date spot. Despite the cold, I love the big fluffy flakes falling from the sky to blanket the city.
During the ride, I let my hair down, shaking out my bun so my dark waves cascade across my shoulders to my mid-back. I recognize my assets, and I’m about to flaunt them all.
Danny glances at me in the rearview mirror with sharp gray eyes. “Will you need a ride home, Miss Ricci?”
“No, you can go on back without me.” I pull a compact out of my purse and poke at the edge of my eye. My makeup isn’t date-night, but it’ll do. “I’ll be late, so I’ll stay in town tonight.”
I hope.
When we reach the restaurant, I slyly unbutton and shimmy out of my ruined shirt, leaving the fabric crumpled on the back seat of Danny’s car. Adjusting Dane’s jacket, I ensure I’m entirely covered before sliding out of the vehicle.
Danny closes the door behind me. “Be safe, Miss Ricci.” We’ve worked together long enough for me to hear his unease.
Even he knows how strange it is for me to go out like this. To indulge in a night of fun.
I smile and wave him back to the car. “I’ll be fine. Good night, Danny.”
The Marq is the type of place that triggers visions of smoke curling around dapper guests while the Rat Pack chills in a corner.
The welcoming aroma of cloves, ginger, and a hint of pine ushers in holiday cheer.
The immaculately restored mahogany pillars, green damask wallpaper, and brown leather booths showcase a shiny fifties vibe.
Soft lighting illuminates the room, giving workaholics the perfect backdrop for a night of relaxation.
Dane meets my eyes from across the space, waving from his spot in a small circular booth, a glass tumbler on the table in front of him. The rolled-up sleeves of his button-down reveal forearms covered in gorgeous ink, and my chest flutters at the sight.
I slide onto the leather seat. “Dane.” My voice remains cool and collected. Win for me.
“Caterina.” He smiles, his teeth white in the shadows. “You came.”
“Well, you went to all the trouble of spilling my coffee so you could give me your jacket and my invitation.”
Dane laughs, the rumble deeper and throatier than in Pruitt’s office, and my stomach somersaults.
He grins a little, reclining in the seat like he’s settling into his throne. “I guess my clever plan worked. You look way better in that jacket than I do, anyway.”
It’s been months—years—since a man like Dane complimented me, and I can’t stop the helpless little fluster buzzing in my head as I fidget with the top button of the jacket. “Are you going to order me a drink, Mr. Ryder?”
“Of course. Since we don’t have a server yet, I can hit up the bar.” He studies me for a moment, that dark gaze dragging over my body. “Martini. Grey Goose, extra dry, extra dirty, extra olives.”
On the rare occasion I imbibe hard alcohol in public, a good martini is my go-to. “Sounds great. How’d you know?”
“A lucky guess.” Dane’s hand brushes my arm as he heads for the bar.
My skin tingles in the places he touched as I track him across the room, my eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and muscular thighs.
Dane Ryder is gorgeous. Lush brown hair rolls in waves that need a haircut but work for him. A five o’clock shadow of chestnut stubble frames a face chiseled straight from marble.
Not to mention his ass in those tailored pants…
He’s got a baseball player’s build, tall and strong and sturdy. I wonder what he does to maintain his physique. Or did that body, face, and voice come with the deal he signed with the devil?
Before my dirty thoughts can start running away from me, a bitter, desire-dampening echo seeps into my brain.
What’s he see in me?
Shaking my head, I dip my nose to the jacket’s collar and inhale another hit of his delicious cologne. Just because he’s the most attractive man who’s ever paid attention to me doesn’t mean I don’t deserve that attention. I refuse to let self-doubt ruin this night.
With everything else going on…I need this win.
“Here you go, Caterina.” Dane sets a martini glass on the table as he settles back into his seat.
“You can call me Cat. Everyone else does.”
“We’ll see. I’m not like everyone else.” He scoots around the booth, his warmth creeping closer.
I sip my martini, relieved that the three olives give me something to do with my hands.
He drapes an arm along the leather behind my head. “Tell me about Cat the Museum Worker.”
Much easier than discussing Cat the Mafia Princess, so I gladly accept the cue. “I’ve lived in Brooklyn my whole life. I’ve got a father and a younger brother, and in my free time, I like swimming.”
Ice clinks as he swallows the amber liquid. “You don’t look like much of a swimmer.”
I raise my chin. “I’ll have you know I was an all-star in middle and high school and swam in college. I still hold local records.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but.’”
As strange as chatting about myself is, I enjoy commanding this man’s attention. I recline in my seat. “But after one too many rotator cuff injuries, I lost my chance at the Olympic team. I still swim to let off steam and relax, though.”
His gaze stays locked on my face while I talk, intense in a way that has my tongue thickening and my stomach tightening. I lick my lips, catching the way his eyes track the motion.
After clearing my throat, I continue. “Anyway, my focus shifted to books and art, I found a second passion, and here we are.” I slide an olive off the stick with my teeth. “I’m talking too much. You go.”
“The abridged version like yours?” He raises a sexy brow, that smile hiding who even knows what secrets. “Okay. I was born and raised in Los Angeles.”
“I knew that wasn’t New York City hair.” I quickly gulp down some of my martini. Why did I interrupt him like that?
Dane just smiles again, a small gold hoop flashing in his left ear as he tilts his head. “Observant. I’m here for work.” He finishes off his glass and flags a server. “Another brandy here, and another martini for the lady. Now, where was I?”
I’ve already forgotten, so I instead blurt the first thing on my mind. “Your eyes are stunning. Some women would kill for those lashes.” Shit. Where’s that second martini?
He grins a little, those dark irises glittering in the dim light. “Yours are too. Hazel, right? I love that green-gold stuff.”
I bite down on another olive, the saltiness distracting me from the flutter in my chest. “You don’t have to compliment me back.”
“Are you censoring me, Cat?”
“No.” My lips twitch. “You do you, Dane Ryder.” I brush hair from my face, deciding I like how this man looks at me. A primal part of me vibrates with the urge to show him everything. All of me.
I shake that thought away. No need to rush when the night’s still so young.
I finish my first martini just as the server brings my second. “This is a work night for me, you know.” As I pull the glass toward me, I pretend to glare at Dane. “I can’t get too hammered.”
“It’s a holiday. Live a little, Cat.” He sips his brandy, and the golden liquid’s reflection warms his skin. “You want to hear more about me or not?”
“Please.”
He inches a little closer, the heat of his body steaming my side.
He chats about his parents, how his mother’s love for art influenced his father and then Dane himself.
How he’s held jobs since he was a teen to help contribute to his family.
About his two younger siblings, one back home in LA, one here in New York assisting him with his work.
But, frankly, my mind fixates less on Dane’s words and more on the shape of his lips. On the sharpness of his laugh when he mocks a collector he’s had bad run-ins with. How his eyes spark with interest when I push back against his insistence that medieval art is boring.
I drink more than I should, with martini glasses and brandy tumblers soon littering the table. I talk more than I should, too, unable to keep myself from responding to Dane’s barbs and teases.
He’s annoyingly smart, and if I’m honest, I find that even more attractive than his damn face.
As the night progresses, I start to wonder if he’s even real.
But under that near-perfect smile and those come-fuck-me eyes, a whisper of unease prickles beneath my skin.
He maintains a smooth, easy charm, but every few seconds, his gaze flicks to the door, always watching the comings and goings of the other patrons.
The hand that’s not draped around my shoulder hovers near his waist, his fingers never flat, never relaxed.
The man practically vibrates with leashed energy, reminding me too much of the men I live with.
I rub my neck, convinced I’m just self-sabotaging. Just because the mafia is my life doesn’t mean it’s also the life of every man I come across.
It’s like after you buy a red car and suddenly start seeing red cars everywhere. Or you get swimmer’s shoulder, and suddenly everyone you bump into—swimmer or not—has rotator cuff impingement or bursitis. Or your mother dies, and suddenly everyone…
Bad example.
I have yet to run into someone else who had their mother ripped from their life during their childhood. Dane’s stories suggest that his parents remain together and alive and happy as clams.
I shove all those intrusive thoughts away. I’m having a great time, and that’s that.
Live in the moment, girl.
Later, near midnight, Dane Ryder leans in. “Can I kiss you, Caterina?”
The question steals my breath, so all I can manage is a tiny nod.
As the bar erupts into cheers of “Happy New Year!” Dane’s lips fall on mine. Desire floods me at his sweet, brandy-like taste.
When was the last time someone kissed me? Years ago, at this point. Maybe not since my early college years. And none of those kisses ever burned the way Dane’s does. None sizzled through my blood like lava, shooting sparks straight from my brain down to my core.
His tongue finds mine, coaxing until I’m panting for air. His hands roam my torso through the jacket, heavy and demanding as they caress my back and hips.
My brain spins, fuzzy from the lack of air, from the drinks, from the heat of Dane on and around me. I cling to his arms, my fingers tight on his firm muscles.
I want to rip his shirt off and discover what’s hiding beneath the thin fabric. To trace every line of ink on his skin and memorize the patterns one by one.
Most of all, I want more.
What better way to ring in the new year?