Her dark salvation, p.11
Her Dark Salvation, page 11
“Would you care for some dessert? Coffee?” David reached across the table for my hand.
Mr. DeVita held out his hand to help me out of the Range Rover. The image was quickly replaced by a closeup of his angular jaw. A muscle there twitched when his dark eyes settled on my breasts. A shiver went down my spine, and I blinked myself back into the moment.
God, I’m a horrible person.
David was being so sweet, trying to respect my boundaries. Ironically, that was part of the problem.
“No, thank you,” I said and carefully pulled my hand away.
He turned to the waiter. “Just the check, please.”
“Of course, sir,” the man replied and walked away.
The bend of David’s smile was sad but resigned. “This isn’t working, is it?”
“No,” I said with as much regret as I could muster despite my relief. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded and trailed his finger along the base of his water glass. “I thought you might say that.” He lifted one shoulder and gave me a half smile. “It was worth a shot though, right?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “I think so.” I scrunched my face. “I hope it won’t be weird at running club.”
He laughed. “No. It won’t be weird. I promise.”
I believed him. He was too kind and too boring to create any sort of drama.
Horrible. Person.
The waiter returned with our check, and David paid, waving me off even as I reached for my purse. We walked out of the restaurant, and he kissed my cheek, thanking me for a pleasant evening. Then, he stepped to the curb and hailed a cab.
Apparently, my midlife awakening wasn’t taking any prisoners. Tonight’s lackluster dinner had put an exclamation point on the fact my career wasn’t the only thing in need of a makeover. In terms of dissatisfaction, my love life came in a close second.
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and took off in the other direction, cursing myself for not wearing gloves. The crisp night air felt clean and refreshing against my face, like I’d broken free from another shackle holding me back. I wanted to soak in the freedom. My condo in Harvard Square was only two miles away. At least I wasn’t wearing heels.
I loved walking through Cambridge at night. It was so much quieter than during the day when students carpeted the sidewalks like ants and cars raced and honked their way from one university to the next. It was peaceful at night and gave me a chance to reflect and enjoy the city’s old-world charm.
Old-world charm. Mr. DeVita wore old world charm like cologne.
This was starting to become a bad habit, but I couldn’t get the images of him offering me his arm out of my mind. Or how we’d connected in the backseat of the Range Rover. He’d understood me on a level I knew went deeper than the shared experience of people our age. I wanted to know more, but he’d thrown up his walls almost as soon as they’d come down.
And the undercurrent of danger that followed in his wake? It zipped through me like electricity. His unfiltered intensity was as sexy as it was intimidating.
Something tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. I snapped my head around to look over my shoulder. The street was empty aside from a handful of pedestrians and cars. But half a block later, I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched. My paranoia snowballed, and I darted across the street, speed-walking for Mass Ave, constantly checking my back.
The lights, traffic, and Saturday night bar crowd on the busy street eased my paranoia but didn’t take it away. My overactive imagination had me on high alert ever since Don Valenzano had walked off the elevator with his meathead bodyguard. The visit to city hall and Siobhán’s talk about “connections” hadn’t helped. Despite assurances to the contrary, Mr. DeVita exuded mafioso, or at least, what I imagined was mafioso based on the movies.
I didn’t want to be involved in anything illegal. I didn’t want to put myself in danger. But a part of me I found appalling was excited, intrigued, and wanted answers. What was real and what was fantasy? What was the truth and what was my imagination? What would it feel like to be touched by a man whose very presence made my body come alive?
Anger and comfort. Outrage and lust. Fear and excitement. Marco DeVita caused such a conflict of emotions, I almost forgot he was my boss. He’d done what I’d grown to believe impossible. He made me feel, and I couldn’t go back to unremarkable.
Chapter Ten
Anna
Mr. DeVita walked off the elevator Tuesday morning dragging a leather carryon behind him, a coat draped over his arm. He wore a pair of dress slacks and a long-sleeved button-down, which, despite him having clearly come from the airport, looked perfectly pressed. The only hint he’d traveled across the Atlantic was the thick stubble covering his jaw, and the sexy salt-and-pepper growth gave him an even rougher, don’t-mess-with-me look than he normally wore.
He didn’t spare me a glance, though I watched him like prey might track a would-be predator. He stopped in front of the double, wooden doors on the opposite side of the foyer and rifled through the top compartment of his carryon.
“Anna.” My name on his lips was a command, and my body obeyed, coming to life in answer, desire zinging through my belly.
“Good morning, Mr. DeVita. Welcome back. I wasn’t expecting you until after lunch.”
“The pilot made up time in the air,” he mumbled, distracted by his search. “Customs were fast. No traffic.”
He triumphantly extracted a set of keys from the carryon, wiggled one into the lock, and pushed open the door. He glanced over his shoulder, finally making eye contact. “I’ll take my Americano and a cornetto,” he said with unadorned demand. “Pistachio if they have them this morning.”
His eyes slid down to the neckline of my red sweater, and for the beat they lingered on my breasts, I could have sworn they grew darker, almost glowing in their intensity. He blinked and walked through the door, closing it behind him.
Ordered around and ogled like a personal serving wench. But the really messed up part? My body was tingling with the anticipation of being submissive to his demands and the subject of his desire. I grabbed my coat but left my scarf and gloves, needing the winter air to ice my fiery insides.
The walk to the café and back burned off most of the heat, and I returned to Terme and my second week of work with Mr. DeVita determined to keep things professional.
I set his breakfast on my desk to fluff my hair, straighten my skirt, and smooth the fitted lines of my red sweater. The sweater I’d worn the first day we met. The sweater I knew would draw his attention. The sweater I’d washed the night before so I could wear it.
Oh, yeah. Totally professional.
I knocked on Mr. DeVita’s office door.
“Yes,” he called.
I balanced the coffee and cornetto in one hand to open the door and closed it behind me, impressed by my new-found stability in heels. I transferred the pastry back to my other hand and—
My breath caught and I froze.
His face was cleanly shaven, and the musky scent of expensive aftershave and cigar smoke filled the office, a custom aphrodisiac meant just for me. He leaned back in his chair, feet resting on the edge of his desk, one ankle crossed over the other. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and dark hair peeked out from beneath the dip of his undershirt. His elbow rested on the chair arm, and he held a cigar aloft between the first two fingers of his left hand and his thumb. His sleeves were rolled up and an intricate pattern emerged from beneath the cuff of his white shirt, a winding track that traveled down his muscled forearm and stopped at his wrist.
All plans for focusing on work died with black ink etched into tan skin.
Smoke trailed from his parted lips making him inexplicably more sexy. He surveyed the length of my body through the cloud, and my nerve endings sparked from the unapologetic appreciation behind his hooded eyes.
I forced my legs to move and set his breakfast on the desk. I wiped my sweaty palms down my skirt, and his eyes followed my hands to my hips, reigniting the heat in my belly.
He tapped the glowing end of his cigar on the ashtray.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow and brought the cigar back to his mouth. He bit its end and held it between his teeth while he took another puff.
“You shouldn’t smoke.” The challenge flew past my lips before I could cage it. I’d never say something like that to anyone but Jeff or Michael or my parents. But Mr. DeVita baited my boldness and made me reckless.
“Why not?”
I frowned. “It’s not good for you.”
He smiled around the cigar. “I’ll take my chances.”
I huffed. “What about secondhand smoke? It’s not all about you, you know.”
He wrapped his forefinger around the cigar and removed it from between his teeth. “This room has a top-of-the-line ventilation system.” He placed the cigar between his lips and took a long, slow drag, never breaking eye contract. He made an O with his mouth and blew a lazy train of smoke rings into the room. Biting the cigar between his teeth again, he leveled me with the most arrogant, shit-eating grin imaginable. And damn, if I didn’t find it sexy as hell.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re blowing it in my face.” I glared at him and folded my arms. His eyes traveled to my breasts; I’d inadvertently pushed them together with my defiant gesture. I dropped my arms and balled my fists, heat surging up my neck.
He chuckled, plucked the cigar from between his teeth, and ground its glowing end into the ashtray. He gave me a look that said, “Satisfied?” and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach.
I narrowed my eyes, and we stared at each other for several heartbeats before he broke the standoff.
“How’s your model coming?”
Thank God he wanted to talk about work. I needed to cool down. In more ways than one.
“I finished the preliminary draft on Friday,” I said and relaxed into one of the chairs opposite his desk. “You have a sound organizational structure, each office with its financial autonomy. It made the base elements easy to construct. I’m impressed.”
He nodded, acknowledging the compliment. Which he deserved. Privately owned companies were often a spaghetti mess of financial and organizational interdependencies. DEI’s structure was clean and calculated, just like Mr. DeVita. He had a sharp tongue, but he also had a sharp mind for business and finance.
My curiosity got the better of me. “Where did you go to business school?”
He looked at me like I was from another planet. “The school of hard knocks.”
My cheeks heated, and I groaned inwardly at my awkwardness. Classic Anna.
“I—I’d never have guessed.” Not the most graceful recovery, but I cleared my throat and shook my head, determined to stay on track. “Anyway, it’s a matter of refinement. The more details we add, the higher the fidelity. I want to capture as accurate a representation as I can before I run the Monte Carlo analysis. That’s the best chance we have at pinpointing any deviations and their sources.”
“How long?”
I scrunched my face and stared at the ceiling, running down the list of elements I needed to add. “Another week? Then I’ll work out any kinks using test data before I start the simulations, so…” I rocked my head. “Two weeks before we start seeing results?”
“That’s faster than I thought.”
“To be fair, the preliminary results will only provide a list of discrepancies, deviations between predicts and actuals. We’ll need to investigate to see if they’re false positives. And, of course, that doesn’t include how it’s being done. Or by whom, for that matter.”
His energy had shifted while I rambled. He regarded me curiously, as if impressed by my progress but preoccupied by something more important than the finances of his multi-million-dollar company. He seemed distracted, but he was so difficult to read with his impenetrable poker face.
“How was your date Saturday night?” His question came out like an accusation, and my mouth fell open trying to process how wrong it was on so many levels.
The old Anna resurfaced, flustered by a sea of racing thoughts and unable to form a coherent sentence, much less sharp reply. “Wha—What are you talking about?”
“You went on a date this weekend. To Lombardi. Not the best Italian in the city. Not even the best in Cambridge. But they do have a decent view of the Charles. How was it?” There was an edge to his voice, like I’d done something wrong by going on a date.
A flurry of reactions played tug-o-war with my emotions. Flattered by his possessiveness, outrage at his presumption, alarm at his knowledge of my whereabouts—
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You had me followed.”
Lava traveled up from my belly and headed for my face. I ground my teeth to suppress the impending eruption. “You had me followed.” This time the words came out throaty and molten, and I surged to my feet.
The corner of his mouth kicked up as if he found my outrage amusing. “There’s that spark.”
“I knew it!” I squeezed my hands so tightly my nails cut into my palms. “I knew someone was following me! How dare you? How dare you invade my privacy? You had no right!”
“No right?” His eyebrows lifted, and he removed his feet from the desk. He stood and prowled like a cat until his powerful body loomed over me.
Adrenaline electrified my insides, and I stiffened, nerves slicing through my anger to paralyze me.
“I had every right,” he growled.
My breath came fast and heavy, anger burning my cheeks as I stood my ground against the righteous authority flashing in his eyes.
“You signed an agreement granting me permission to utilize surveillance to protect my company’s assets, and I am exercising that right. I need to know if you are at risk, if someone thinks they can use you to get to me.” His breath came faster now, his voice low and gravelly. “That’s my end of the bargain, and I take that responsibility seriously. I will protect you.”
“Protect me from whom?” I shouted. “Seems to me, you’re the one I need protection from!”
He looked at me like I’d slapped him across the face, and his eyes went dark with menace. “There’s more danger around you than you know, Anna, and I will do whatever I deem necessary to ensure your safety.”
The promise in his voice created fresh turmoil, the invasion of privacy taking a backseat to his declaration he’d protect me. My pulse pounded in my ears, an incessant drum of confusion. I was so emotionally flustered I couldn’t move or speak or think. It was like my brain had disconnected from my body.
He must have sensed my deep freeze because he backed off and moved to retrieve the coffee from his desk. The second he broke eye contact, I released the hold on my shoulders and sagged against the side of my chair, unsteady on shaking legs.
“So.” He reclined against the edge of his desk. “How was it?” He sipped his coffee, giving me whiplash with his charming smile and mild tone.
I scoffed and turned my attention to the bookcase.
“That good, huh?”
My head snapped back to meet his taunt, and I scowled at the amusement in his black eyes.
He shrugged, a surprisingly easy gesture on his powerful frame. “You wouldn’t be so put out if you’d had a good time.”
He was right, of course, and it rankled. Especially since I’d spent the majority of the night thinking about him.
I lifted my chin in defiance, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit the nail on the head. “It was lovely,” I lied, cold and haughty, and ran my fingers back and forth along the length of my necklace.
“You’re a terrible liar, Anna.” A playful menace danced in his eyes, and they travelled to where I fidgeted my necklace. “More tells than a sinner in church.”
I dropped the necklace, but his eyes lingered, focused on where my chest rose and fell to meet the demands of my rapidly beating heart. Maybe the red sweater hadn’t been the best idea.
“Stop that,” I whispered.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that. I—I can’t think when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
My mouth went dry. I licked my lips, searching for an answer, but my brain had lost the ability to form words.
“Like what, Anna?”
“I…”
He pushed off the desk and stepped forward until his face hovered inches above mine. Cigar smoke and aftershave and masculinity dominated my world, his energy humming with an unapologetic and desirous intent. “Like I want to worship your breasts with my eyes?”
My lips parted in shock.
“Maybe you’d rather have me use my hands. Or my tongue?”
I sucked in a ragged breath, his brazen words conjuring images of him running his tongue over my nipples. Aching need pulsed between my legs, and I swayed under its merciless attack. A groan formed deep in my chest, but I caught it before it escaped.
“That’s—That’s sexual harassment.” The whispered words sounded ludicrous, but I needed to douse the flames threatening to engulf me.
His chest rumbled with deep, cynical laughter. “No, it isn’t.”
“Then what is it?” I asked, my voice breathy with desire.
He leaned forward, and for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me and end my silent torture.
“It’s called flirting.” His gaze travelled to my breasts again, and his warm breath tickled the naked skin of my chest. “And if you don’t like it, maybe you shouldn’t have worn that sweater.”
My cheeks flared with heat, embarrassment and lust battling for control. I scrambled for a pithy recovery, but all that came out was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He backed away with a devious grin. “You started this game when you put that sweater on this morning.”
A hysterical bark of laughter escaped me. Was I that obvious?
