Prologue #2
Sofia, who’s been quietly horrified and angry from my glimpses, lets out a heavy sigh now and goes to Frank as he cups his injured hand, mumbling curses in Italian.
“Serves you right, Frank. You had no business starting a fight when I’m perfectly—”
“I didn’t start it.” He glares at me. “And you’re not perfectly safe when it comes to him. He’s a—”
“Never mind,” she says. “Go home and take care of that hand, and I won’t mention this to anyone.” He stares at her in disbelief, and I barely keep myself from laughing, biting down hard on my lower lip.
He shakes his head. “Stay away from him and stay out of trouble.” He glares at her for another beat, and she stands with her arms folded waiting for him to leave. Then he turns to me, dishing a farewell glare.
“Keep away from Sofia if you know what’s good for you.” He stares, and I stare back. Neither of us blinks, but I manage to keep my mouth shut because there’s nothing I can say that won’t get me into more trouble with one or the other of them.
“Go.” Sofia makes a shoving motion with her hands, and with his teeth clenched against the pain in his hand he’s holding against his chest, Frank rambles back down the hall where he came from, to the lobby and the exit.
“I guess this means you need a ride home,” I say.
She laughs. “You didn’t hit him. You didn’t even take one swing at him.”
“Right. I didn’t think it politic to hurt him.”
She laughs again, picks up her bag, and moves toward me. As she closes in, it feels like she’s bringing an earthquake with her, like the whole world is vibrating with a powerful energy. But I keep my eyes on her face and her smile, staying steady, and I keep my hands to myself.
Frank was right. Sofia Rossi is not good for me.
But when she loops her arm through mine and her scent envelops me, the warmth of her arm and body soaking into mine, infiltrating until I can feel her in my bloodstream, hot and thrilling, any thoughts of whether she’s good or bad for me fall away like self-preservation is an overrated thing compared to whatever this is between us.
“About that ride—don’t take me straight home.”
I almost stumble as we walk down the hall to the back exit. Shit.
When she sees my motorcycle, her eyes flare wide, but the corners of her mouth lift slightly, grudgingly, and she moves faster, breaking away from me.
“Secret?” Fifi asks. “I’ve always wanted a ride on the back of a motorcycle.” She draws the palm of her hand across the leather seat, and I can feel it like she’s stroking my—
I cough. Then I get hold of myself—I mean my cool, not my—never mind. “Consider me the granter of all your naughtiest wishes.” Closing in, I wrap an arm around her and whisper in her ear because I’m addicted to that scent hovering around the delicate lobes and down her neck.
“Your brother will murder me if he finds out.” The raspy sound of my voice surprises me, and I start to pull back because this isn’t how a guy takes control of his cool. This is how a guy gets himself in a world of trouble wanting a girl he can’t have.
“You mean he’ll kill you if he can actually land a punch.” Her mischievous little grin is somehow sexy as hell and ignites the spark in me beyond redemption.
“Hop on behind me.” I swing a leg over the sleek, efficient bike built more for speed—because that’s my jam—than passengers, which means the back seat is small to non-existent, and when she hops on the peg and swings her leg over, holding onto my shoulders without an ounce of shyness, she ends up tight against my back, her arms wrapped around my abdomen like she’s done this all before.
“You sure you’ve never ridden before?” I ask.
She leans her head close to my ear and whispers, “Only in my dreams.”
Everything in me flinches to attention, especially my inconveniently located dick.
“I only have one helmet.” I pass it to her.
She takes it reluctantly. “Won’t you get in trouble for riding without one?”
“No. There’s no helmet law in New Hampshire.” I turn to watch her.
“So you’re giving me your helmet to protect me…
” Her eyes are dreamy, and in spite of all kinds of warning flags that she’s getting the wrong idea, my dick is telling me I’m full of crap because she has the exact right idea.
I’m so freaking in lust with her that my mouth is dry as ashes because my body is on fire.
And that may include my heart, may all the gods of heaven and hell, including Cupid, help me.
My hand shakes as I turn away with a curt nod and start up the bike.
“Don’t go straight home. Take me somewhere fun,” she whispers in my ear, her hair blowing on a light breeze in the cool late afternoon air and wisps of it tickling my face.
I shudder and hope to hell she didn’t notice. “It’s going to be chilly.” I slip out of my jacket and hand it to her.
“What are you doing? I’m wearing a sweater.” Her eyes are wide and her words soft.
“Wear the jacket.” We stare at each other for a few seconds, and I could swear our eyes have an entire conversation, saying everything we don’t speak out loud.
How I want to protect her from everything bad or wrong or even uncomfortable in life, how awestruck and grateful and honored she is, and how much she wants to soothe all the wrongs in my life and make it sweeter.
At least that’s what my Cupid-struck brain spins, almost making me dizzy with want and… I don’t know what else, something indefinable, something more. When I finally shake myself free from our silent conversation, I turn, and she shrugs into my too-large jacket.
I want to turn and see her wearing it, but the steely strength of self-preservation asserts itself, and I don’t. Instead, I start the engine and carefully move forward as she grips me tight. The warmth of her arms around my shirt keeps me immune from the meaningless chill in the air.
Heading for the ocean, it only takes a minute for the tang of sea air to fill my nostrils, flooding me with spectacular memories and feelings.
I verge on sensory overload when the ocean comes into view with the sound of waves crashing.
Driving along the beach a short distance, I find the pull-over spot where rocks overlook the water.
It’s empty this time of year and this time of day, the dinner hour.
Powering the bike down, I stomp on the kickstand and nod to Fifi to get off first. She holds my shoulders and swings off the bike in a smooth move like she’s been doing it all her life.
I sit there and watch her as she pulls off the helmet and shakes out her luxurious dark hair, making my fingers cry to reach out and touch.
She meets my awestruck gaze with a sun-drenched golden glow lighting her up and a smile that out-dazzles the sunset.
“What are you looking at?” she says, half laughing at me.
Without answering her, I take the helmet from her and hop off the bike, leaving it on the seat in my place. Then I take her hand and walk her to the rocks.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for a hike on the rocks, Trick.”
I look at her again, now that I’ve regained some sanity with a few deep inhales of the bracing air.
“Are you dressed to sit on the perfect rock with an extra killer view of crashing waves?”
“I think I can manage that.” She doesn’t sound enthusiastic, and I’m not sure if she’s worried about getting her skirt dirty or if it’s me she’s having second thoughts about.
“It’s what you asked for, isn’t it?”
She nods as we climb, and I hold onto her hand, then help her jump to another boulder faintly outlined with a splash.
“Don’t worry, we won’t get wet here. The tide is going out.”
“I wasn’t worried about the water,” she says, stopping and looking at me.
I stop and stare back at her, letting her words sift in around my appreciation of her beauty, of how she looks wearing my jacket.
“What is it? Not me?” I manage to wisecrack in spite of the real chink in my armor of self-confidence she’s making.
She laughs and tugs my hand. I don’t need any more invitation than that to step closer to her.
“You must be cold.” Her voice is breathy, and I don’t miss the shudder as her hair blows in the breeze, flying across her face in disarray and making her look even more sexy. If I had a right to, I’d take a picture of her right now.
Then I remember to answer her question. “If I’m cold, does that mean you’ll offer to keep me warm?” I step closer and put an arm around her, rubbing her back since she’s the one wearing a skirt and obviously chilled.
She stares up at me, her big hazel eyes half-lidded, telling me all kinds of things that make my dick swell.
“You always make me feel warm, Patrick.”
The way she says my full name sends a surge of blood from my head down below, leaving a buzz of dizziness in its wake.
I forget how to talk, but I don’t forget what her lips feel like against mine, and I lower my head, brushing my mouth across hers, breathing in her scent, designer and expensive and earthy all at once, all Fifi, a crazy mix of innocent and wild, sophisticated and sweet.
“Your lips feel warm.” I nibble to test her, and she parts for me.
Plunging in like I’m cliff diving into nirvana, I lose whatever’s left of my mind and explore her mouth, drink in her taste, press her to me.
She’s soft and yielding as she wraps her arms around me, leaning against me, and when she makes a whispery moaning sound, I clutch a hand in her hair and pull back to look at her face, to see her eyes, to read what she’s feeling, to see if it’s the same want I feel.
Like I’ve been thunderstruck by Cupid with a perfect slapshot to the heart.
“I…” she whispers and trails off, showing me everything I want to see.
“Fifi, we…” I pause to gather my wits as a strong breeze cools my head, the briny air having its effect, bringing me back to my reality.
I’m a poor fisherman’s son who’s a wannabe hockey player, not fit for the likes of Fifi, rich if not spoiled and so smart and ambitious that the world is literally her oyster.