7. Chapter 7
Jasmine
I’m in need of the world’s strongest cup of coffee after putting up with that petulant man.
The one who thinks he can flirt his way into having me do his will.
An Italian devil dressed like a stylish angel in his pale blue designer shirt with the top two buttons undone to tease his impeccably chiseled chest and the trace of a design I can’t quite make out.
His flowy shirt was tucked in at the waist, showing off his trim figure, and if I close my eyes, I can picture the set of abs lying underneath.
A pair of perfectly tailored navy pants had him looking like a million bucks, especially when paired with the impressively large loafers adorning his feet.
It’s like the man was ready for a trip to Milan instead of a standard business meeting at the law office.
I sip the glorious beverage and close my eyes to embrace it, but behind closed lids is the mental image of Dario Caruso’s dark, perfectly coiffed head of hair, his eyes so brown they’re nearly black, and that smug smile of his I couldn’t seem to swipe off his face.
The man is damn fine, and he knows it. I’m sure he’s used it to his advantage on multiple occasions.
But it won’t work on me.
“I heard you had a meeting with Dario Caruso today,” a voice says as it’s coming into the break room, startling me.
I turn to see a woman, probably a decade older than my thirty years, heading to the refrigerator.
As she pulls out a bottle of water, she touches it to her skin as though it’s on fire.
“That man is what wet dreams are made of.”
I snort, and she smiles at me, uncapping the water and taking a drink before making introductions. “I’m Victoria, another one of the lowly attorneys on this floor. You must be Jasmine.”
It brings a sense of satisfaction that this woman has heard my name already. “I suppose I must. Heard a lot about me?”
She shrugs. “Only that you have the personality of a great white and the curves of a back road. Respectfully, of course.”
I bite my tongue as I so often do, working in a chauvinistic man’s world where the women can be just as vile. “Of course.”
She waves my comment off. “Anyway, that Caruso man is a catch, and I recommend keeping a spare pair of panties in your desk drawer for whenever he comes around.”
My brows furrow, and I hiss out my next words, “Does he sleep around with the whole office?”
A sly smirk creeps upon her face; I know this woman is trouble. “You jealous?” Before I can revolt against such a suggestion, she continues, “I don’t know that he’s actually slept with anyone here, but hey, can’t blame anyone if they did.”
She reaches in and grabs a second bottle of water from the refrigerator before walking out of the break room and tossing a goodbye in my direction.
It means absolutely nothing to me, but as I ride the elevator down to meet the man in question, I can’t help but wonder if Dario Caruso has bedded any of the women he’s worked with. Would he try to get into bed with me?
My knee bounces in the ostentatious Porsche I’m crammed inside of.
Dario has attempted to make conversation with me throughout the drive, but I’ve only managed to reply with snorts and the occasional semi-interested hum.
He has refrained from touching me in the confined space, and I’m at war with myself on whether that’s a good or bad thing.
It’s a good thing, Jaz. The man is your client and should keep his hands to himself. No matter how good those hands look gripping the steering wheel right now.
“Welcome to Angelo,” Dario says, and my eyes widen as we pull into the resort’s covered parking area.
A man in a golden vest opens my door, and I take his hand, stepping out and dropping my jaw as I look up.
The expansive covering has a cream-colored ceiling with gorgeous golden cherubs sketched throughout.
I circle, stunned by the beauty, as Dario comes over, placing his hand on my back.
“Well, Miss Baker. What do you think?”
I look up at him. “It’s breathtaking.”
He smiles down at me, his eyes never wavering from mine. “I completely agree.”
I step away, immediately missing the heat from his touch, then curse myself for the reaction. My head is high as I walk forward, stepping through the sliding gold doors as though I’m the one who owns the place. “Let’s start the tour so I can get home.”
It doesn’t take long for Dario’s long strides to catch up with my own. “So, are you a virgin?”
I stop in my tracks and pivot toward him, mad as hell. “Excuse me?”
The smirk on his face only further pisses me off. “I think we’re finished here today, Mr. Caruso. Thank you for making me leave behind all the work I needed to complete at the office so you could bring me here and be outrageously inappropriate. I’ll find my own way home.”
His smirk falls, and his hand grabs my arm, the part where a very muscular bicep would be, had I kept up with those Tae-Bo videos I did in high school. Instead, he’s grabbing the flabby flesh that is the bane of my existence. As if this man couldn’t piss me off more.
“I’m sorry, mio toro, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I don’t like that I don’t understand the Italian words he spoke to me. I also don’t like how good they sounded from his lips.
“Then perhaps our conversation should be more about business and not the status of my sex life.”
A snort escapes him, and I seethe, attempting to storm off, but he still has a vise grip on my upper arm. “Miss Baker, I wasn’t inquiring about your sex life. I was asking if this was your first time visiting Angelo.”
I stop struggling against his hold and process what he said. I completely took his words out of context and sexualized them. A knowing look spreads across his face, and I immediately feel like a fool. I may very well hate this man.
“So?” he asks.
“So what?”
“Is this your first time? Your first time visiting my hotel-casino, I mean.”
He loosens his hold on me, and my arm instantly cools. Damn, I hate that I hate that. “Yes. This is my first time here.”
My words are soft, as is the smile he gives me. “It’s my greatest honor to be the one to give you the pleasure.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I can’t help the fact that they’re probably crimson right now. Why does everything this man says sound so good? “Let’s get this over with.”
It would be a complete lie to say this establishment is anything less than stunning. White marble flooring and golden accents embellish the hotel lobby. Gigantic chandeliers give off a golden gleam, illuminating everything in an ethereal haze.
Large, luxurious sofas sit atop white rugs with golden ribbons swirling through them. The white marble counter takes up an entire wall, and golden stools are placed in front for guests to perch on as they check in. It’s opulent. It’s indulgent. It’s very much Dario Caruso.
We wind our way through the hotel side of things, and Dario points out things of interest, filling the gaps with questions. “How long have you lived in Las Vegas?”
“I thought I made it clear that our conversations were supposed to be strictly business.”
Dario groans. “Business is boring.”
“So am I,” I deadpan.
“I highly doubt that.”
His voice is deep, nearly a growl, and it causes my legs to want to spread. I shake my head of the thought and give in to the friendly conversation. “Not long.”
His eyebrow lifts at my vague response, and I relent.
“I moved here last weekend.”
“Let me guess,” he says, tapping his finger against his lips, “from Tennessee?”
I snort, knowing my father would be appalled at the accusation. “Close. Kentucky.”
He wags his finger at me playfully. “I knew I heard a touch of twang.”
I can feel the red creep up on my cheeks, and Dario looks at me inquisitively. “I’ve been trying to hide it,” I admit.
“Why would you do that?”
I shrug. “People seem to have a preconceived notion about people with my accent. Like we aren’t smart enough to accomplish great things.”
Dario lifts my chin—I didn’t realize I had tucked it down. “Anyone who doesn’t see you as brilliant is a damn fool, Miss Baker.”
I stare into his eyes for long enough that my belly begins to flutter and pull away. He takes this as an opportunity to ask more questions. “Did you move here for the job?”
I nod, then, figuring he’ll expect me to elaborate, expand my answer. “I worked at my dad’s law firm back home but always knew I wanted more than what the small town had to offer.”
“Do you miss it?”
I think about his question and decide to be honest with both of us. “No. I mean, I miss my family. My parents are great and have always been supportive. I worked with my brother, and I suppose I even miss him. But the job? No. It was mundane and repetitive. I wanted more.”
“And you think you’ve found that at Jorgensen & Munson?” he asks.
“I guess we’ll see. I’m hopeful it will take me where I want to go.
There’s a lot of opportunity here.” I give him a small smile.
I’m only two days in and have already met one of the most frustrating, yet fascinating people I’ve ever come across.
I can’t wait to see what else this position brings me.
We walk past a restaurant that smells absolutely delicious, and I stop to look at the menu. Dario halts his movements along with me, bending down close enough I can feel his breath against my ear. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head.
“Perhaps I can take you to dinner sometime when you are.”
I stop a shudder from running through me and cough to clear my throat. “That would be inappropriate, Mr. Caruso. You’re my client.”
“Are your clients not allowed to eat?” he teases.
“Not with me. Not alone in an expensive restaurant.”
He tilts his handsome head. “Why is that, Miss Baker?”
“I don’t date my clients.”
“And going to dinner with me would be a date?”
I contemplate his question. “Yes. Maybe? I don’t know.”
Dario’s tongue darts out over his bottom lip, then he straightens his posture to his full height. “If I took you on a date, Miss Baker, you would definitely know.”