Chapter 3
Catarina flipped her head back and downed another glass of the excellent scotch. At least, the label claimed it was excellent. She couldn’t taste it anymore. She was too busy contemplating her next move.
The only thing she was absolutely certain of? She would not—under any circumstances—marry that flat-assed buffoon who thought juggling two women at once made him impressive. Hookers, no less! Who knew what kinds of disgusting germs were crawling all over Matteo’s nether regions now?
Actually…did that even count as sex? Did interaction with a hooker, or two, count as a sexual conquest? She frowned into her glass. She was too tipsy to remember what the rules were anymore. Either way, she was useless at this sort of thing. And that thought irritated her.
Suddenly, she stiffened her spine in anger. She wasn’t useless. She knew…things. She had a photographic memory. Or was it eidetic? If she hadn’t polished off half a bottle of scotch, she might have remembered the difference.
Snorting at herself, she spun slightly on her stool, deciding her pity party had lasted long enough. Except—her gaze landed on the man in the corner.
Oh.
Ohhh.
That was definitely not a picture. That was him. In the flesh. And, dear heaven, those photos she’d seen didn’t come close.
Her stomach gave a little flip. She was tipsy enough to let her legs carry her forward, heels clicking against the polished floor after she slid off her barstool.
Each step felt daring, like walking into the lion’s den in satin and pearls.
She lifted her chin, pretending she wasn’t wobbling just a little.
The closer she got, the larger he seemed—broad shoulders filling the dark suit, power radiating from him in a way that made the other men in the room unconsciously sit up straighter and taller, desperate to compare but falling short.
Catarina forced herself to keep moving, her scotch-fueled bravado the only thing stopping her from turning back around.
“Good evening, Mr. Romano,” she greeted with a tipsy smile as she reached his table, resting one hand on the back of the chair across from him for balance before lowering herself into it.
He looked at her, dark eyes locking onto hers. Good thing she’d had that head start with the scotch. Otherwise, she might have bolted. Up close, he was even more dangerous-looking. Dangerous and absurdly handsome.
She leaned an elbow on the table for balance. “You know,” she said, her voice conspiratorial, “you really should come with a warning label. Something like—‘do not approach without alcohol in your system.’”
One dark brow arched, his mouth curving slightly. “You think I’m scary?” His voice was rough velvet, deep enough to vibrate in her bones.
Catarina shivered. Deliciously. “A little. But the good kind of scary.”
Then he smiled. And just like that, her knees gave up. No one had the right to smile like that. White teeth, tanned skin, nearly black hair, and those eyes!
“Yes,” he interrupted smoothly, amused. “You already mentioned my ‘dark, dark eyes,’ Bella.”
Her jaw dropped. “Wait—did I say all of that out loud?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
His smile widened. “Yes, you said everything out loud.”
Catarina propped her chin in her hand, squinting suspiciously at him. “Are you…a good kisser?” she whispered.
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound low and rich.
She scowled. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at you,” he corrected. “At the question.”
“Well, it’s a very important question,” she huffed, fumbling with the clasp of her pearls.
“Damn it, I hate pearls!” She yanked them off and slapped the necklace onto the table.
The ten-thousand-dollar strand slithered to the floor, but Catarina was too busy steadying her chin with her hand to notice.
He ducked beneath the table and came up a second later, the pearls in his hand.
“Oh good,” she said brightly. “You came back.”
“Of course,” he replied, slipping the necklace into his pocket before she could reclaim it.
She pouted at the distraction. “How did you get to be so hot?” she demanded, leaning forward. Her elbow nearly betrayed her again, but she managed to hold steady, looking quite pleased with herself.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, still amused. “And aren’t you a charming drunk?”
Her mouth fell open in mock outrage. “Drunk?” she gasped, then grinned. “Is that a good thing?”
“Yes,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping lower. “That’s a very good thing.”
He leaned forward, plucked her glass from her hand, and drained it in one swallow.
“Hey!” she hissed. “That was my drink!”
He lifted one hand, a simple, but powerful gesture. The waitress appeared instantly at his side, her smile coy and practiced. “Yes, Mr. Romano?” she asked, tilting prettily toward him.
“Another bottle,” he ordered without looking at her. Then, with a smirk at Catarina: “And this one is ours.”
Cat sighed, pursing her lips. The waitress was blocking her view of the man, and that was irritating enough. But what really offended her was the way the woman leaned across the table as if Catarina weren’t even sitting there.
“Don’t do that, lady,” Cat snarled, reaching out to tug on the hem of the woman’s…well, skirt, because there wasn’t a sleeve to grab.
The waitress shot her a scowl. Cat wagged her finger right back. “No, no, don’t get angry at me. We’re women. We’re supposed to stick together. Sisterhood.” Had the waitress just rolled her eyes? Cat gasped, insulted. “Did you just roll your eyes at me? Rude!”
The man chuckled and Catarina turned her scowl on him. He didn’t seem very affected though.
“Actually, instead of another bottle, bring Ms. Bianchi a glass of water and a plate of pasta,” the man ordered, his tone smooth but edged with authority. “With extra bread.”
The waitress hesitated, darting a look at Catarina. Cat raised her brows hopefully, like she was about to win a prize.
“We don’t serve food here in the bar, Mr. Romano,” the waitress protested, leaning in closer, her voice sugary sweet.
“Pasta. Water. Bread.” His voice dropped lower, hard as steel. “And add some protein.”
Cat grinned, delighted at the way the woman’s posture snapped straighter.
“Yes, Mr. Romano. Right away, Mr. Romano.” She practically scurried away.
Cat giggled, shaking her head. “See? If you’d just respected the rules of sisterhood, he wouldn’t have had to get all scary with you.”
The waitress didn’t even glance back. Cat dismissed her entirely and leaned toward Sal again. “I need to learn to do that.”
“To do what?” His mouth curved slightly, though his eyes stayed sharp on her.
“Scowl like that.” Cat twisted her features into what she imagined was a fierce expression and dropped her voice to a husky growl. “Pasta. Water. Bread.” She leaned forward, mimicking his glower.
He raised one eyebrow in amusement.
She gasped, pointing at him. “That! That eyebrow thing! That’s terrifying.” She brightened. “Teach me.”
His lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. “You don’t need to learn, Bella. You’ve already got a few weapons of your own.”
Cat blinked, tilting her head. “I do?”