2. Matteo #3
She picks up a telephone in front of her and presses a button. There seems to be no answer on the other end.
“I’m sorry sir. It seems she isn’t in the penthouse at the moment.”
I nod. A part of me had been expecting it. Seeing as I have confirmation that she’s currently in the hotel, there’s probably only one other place she could be right now. Which serves me well.
Considering the day I’ve had, I need a drink.
“Thank you,” I tell the receptionist before heading to the elevators and getting a ride to the third floor.
The bar is dimmer than the lobby, lit in low amber that softens everything. I scan the room and find her immediately. She’s sitting alone at the bar, on a stool with a drink untouched in front of her. Her fingers rest lightly against the glass like she’s forgotten it’s there.
I watch her for a couple of seconds. She stands out in a room like this. Although I get the sense that Lindsay Beaumont stands out anywhere she goes.
My mind flashes to the sight of her walking down the aisle as the maid of honor at my brother’s wedding. There had been stern resolve in her expression, but her eyes displayed the happiness and love she felt for her friend, despite the reservations I’m sure she has.
Her dress clung to her body like it was made for her, soft and elegant.
Now she’s sitting here wearing a black dress that skims high on her thighs, tailored within an inch of perfection. It’s definitely designer. Lindsay Beaumont doesn’t wear anything less, according to her best friend, my sister-in-law Valentina.
She’s wearing a short jacket above it, also black, and, if I’m guessing the logo correctly, Chanel. Her blonde hair falls loose and unrestrained as opposed to the wedding when she had it in an elegant bun.
The woman is beautiful. The kind of woman people turn to look at twice before pretending they weren’t staring.
She also possesses a subtle air that makes her intimidating to approach, which is why most men in the bar are currently sneaking peeks at her.
But they don’t seem to have the balls to approach.
I don’t have such reservations.
I start toward her, my steps quiet against the floor. Her back is turned to me so she doesn’t notice my approach. Not until I’m standing behind her.
“You’re an extremely easy woman to find, Prosecutor. You should work on that.”
She turns around and her eyes widen slightly. For an infinitesimal second, I find I am robbed of breath at the blue of her eyes. Perhaps it’s the low light of the bar, but they seem impossibly blue and deep. Deep enough to sink into.
It unsettles me, my reaction to her. For a moment I’m thrown off kilter. I can’t remember the last time that happened. I inhale a sharp breath, trying to dispel whatever it is going through me.
“Matteo Vitale?” she says my name like a question.
I can’t help but note the gentle rasp in her voice. It’s also impossible not to notice the uncertainty and slight fear in her eyes.
I manage to feel in control again. She has been completely caught off guard. Which is good. Briefly, I wonder at her lax security. She’s coming after my family, after all; she should be scared for her life. No one should be able to sneak up on her.
It’s a good thing I’m here now. To remind her exactly why she should be afraid. And exactly what I’m capable of.
And yet, even as I slide into the chair beside her, a part of me feels like we’re on a level playing field. She might have just as much control as I do. She just doesn’t know it. My gaze travels over her face.
Her plump pink lips are slightly parted revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth, rosy cheeks. The dress she’s wearing offers a modest view of the curved slope of her round breasts.
I catalog every part of her in mere seconds, and when my gaze connects with her eyes again, they still have the same startling effect. I feel my trousers tighten, and I shift in my seat, trying to temper my arousal.
She’s stunning, but I’ve been with countless stunning women before and none of them have ever had an effect like this on me. I need to get to the bottom of it. But now that I’m here, I might as well change tactics.
Lindsay Beaumont isn’t going to win this game, whether or not she knows she’s playing. It’s not the game I planned to play when I walked in here, but I’ve always been great at adapting when a curveball has been thrown in my path.
The case she’s building will cost me, if I let it get that far. I’ve run the numbers. Fourteen months to trial, conservatively. Three of my holding companies exposed, possibly four. Eighty-two million in assets that would require restructuring under scrutiny.
It’s manageable. I’ve absorbed worse.
What I haven’t yet managed to quantify is her. The specific cost of her, the way she sits with her drink forgotten and her spine straight like she’s already in a courtroom. I know how to dismantle a case. I don’t have a clean model yet for dismantling the prosecutor.
That’s new. I don’t like it. I also don’t want to leave.
This should be interesting.