I blinked. Folded. Lost the round.
I quickly looked away from those startling eyes. Eyes that seemed as if they might hold all the answers to the universe. As I took the clutch, I focused on catching my breath while attempting to explain away the bizarre sensations ransacking my body.
Unlike Chanel, I’d gone head-to-head with more than one billionaire businessman before I could even drive. I’d sparred with men twice my size. Her father treated her like a glass doll to be shelved and observed. My father taught me to inspect dolls for listening devices.
But this life was the price that came with being the daughter of the Italian leader of La Lega dei Fratelli, The League of Brothers. Our family took down bad guys for a living, and as a result, we had a lot of enemies.
So, for being so tough, it was hard to believe my heart was stuttering and my breathing suspended all due to this man and his bold, blue eyes beneath slanted brows, pinning me with a curious look.
I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath, finding myself pleasantly gathering in the Irishman’s masculine cologne, a contrast to the perfume I wore. White petals, honey, and ivory wrapped my limbs like a blanket. The only sweet and pure thing about me tonight was my scent, as I was dressed in all black save for my red heels and lips.
The man’s cologne and my perfume clashed in the air. Masculine versus feminine. And now, I was longing for a stranger to touch me.
“I’d like to get laid tonight.”
Chanel’s abrupt statement had the Irishman clearing his throat. It was loud in the arena, but his surprised reaction made it clear he’d heard.
“Oh, really?” I eyed Chanel, amused by her bluntness. She’d also offered me a reprieve from my confused feelings about the stranger off to my left.
“I think you should, too. Birthday sex. Or at least, a midnight kiss when you turn twenty-one. You know, something sexy and romantic. Very fairy tale-esque. That’s what I want when it’s my big day,” Chanel went on, oblivious to the ogre off to her right staring at her like he might throw her over his shoulder and hightail it to his suite if she kept it up.
I lifted my chin and snarled on instinct, a warning to back off. He quickly returned his gaze to the fight as if he knew I was dangerous just by looking at me.
And hell, I was dangerous, wasn’t I?
Papà was a good man, fighting for justice, but there was still blood on his hands. Eventually, there’d be blood on my hands, too.
As Papà’s only child, I was expected to take the path he’d designed for me. It was meant to happen the day I turned twenty-one, too.
But for tonight, I wanted to follow Chanel’s advice and stop worrying. Stop assuming the hot Irish guy was sent to kill me. I wanted to momentarily forget the shackles of my family name.
“Honestly, you should be having a minimum of two orgasms a day, and preferably not by your own hand,” Chanel continued her sex lecture since I’d yet to respond. “I’m worried your uptight look means you haven’t even been getting yourself off.” She twirled a pink-tipped fingernail my way, swiveling on her seat to face me.
I rolled my eyes at her attempt to draw natural color to my cheeks when she knew damn well I was like her. We didn’t get embarrassed.
A flash of light had me turning on my seat and finding the man who’d taken a snapshot of the audience as he stood near a camerawoman panning her lens on the crowd.
I lowered my head and lifted the clutch in front of my face until the lens pointed another way.
That camera was probably more dangerous than the Irish guy or anyone else in the arena, for that matter. We were way too close to the action, and the last thing we needed was to wind up on television. Wow, I had not thought this night through.
Chanel whispered a mishmash of her mother’s native Greek and her father’s French beneath her breath, her assessment of my “situation” evident by the concerned expression on her face, and I remembered what we’d been talking about before my thoughts had taken a sharp turn.
Right. I need to get laid.
She dropped her eyes to my outfit and her mouth tightened in disapproval. “You’re too intimidating. I think you scare men off. That black halter top dips into a sharp V and shows your cleavage, but men are too damn afraid of you to actually check out your tits. Probably fear you’ll break their neck for looking.” She grinned, knowing I could and would hurt a man if he were to bother me. “And those tight-fitting black trousers paired with that ‘stay the fuck away’ smoky eye makeup scares them off. I’m just saying—”
“I’m not wearing all black.” I had to raise my voice over the music as Brock Lesnar, one of the main fighters, made his entrance, his theme song blasting.
“You should’ve gone with pink like I suggested. The red heels and lipstick are killer, but they scream that you’ll gladly grab a man by the balls and not in a good kind of way.”
“I’m not that intimidating.” Only when someone knew of my father did they back away. Well, usually. “Also, we can’t all have your flair.” I pointed to Chanel’s bright gold sequin top and matching gold shorts. Her boots were the show stealer, though. A mix of cowboy and porn star.
She popped up one shoulder and said first in French and then in English, “‘In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.’”
“Mm.” I smiled. “You and your Coco Chanel quotes.”
“What? Mama named me after her favorite designer. Coco’s an icon, and . . .” Her words faded as a frown formed on her lips. “Sorry.” Chanel was unnecessarily sensitive when she talked about her mother since she knew I didn’t have one, and she always felt guilty when she mentioned her.
I shook off the shitstorm that attempted to grab hold of me and let it drift away.
I chanced a look at the Irishman, still deciding whether or not we should stay for the main event or if we ought to make a quick exit.
He had a hand gripping the nape of his neck, his jaw clenched in obvious discomfort as he viewed the cage.
He must have sensed my gaze because he quickly lowered his hand to his lap, brushing against me in the process.
A quick, barely there touch of our pinky fingers, but that little shock of something—we’ll call it static electricity—zipped up my finger, and I hurriedly set my hand atop my clutch.
I’d seen and witnessed a lot in my almost twenty-one years, but this truly was the first time skin-to-skin contact and a pair of blue eyes had me feeling caught in the middle of some cataclysmic event.
His lips slowly parted, as if hesitant to break the spell of this strange moment between us, and then he spoke. “Hi.”
There was so much packed into that little word. I couldn’t quite determine what it was exactly, but I felt as though I’d just been KO’d in that Octagon. A quick punch, and I was down. Didn’t even see it coming. Blindsided.
I’m a fighter. A winner. A damn Calibrisi, I scolded myself to try and get my head on straight. I was only on edge like this whenever I risked hanging out with my best friend, which had to explain my reactions to this man.
The smile that crossed his lips was slow, somehow caught between surprised and intrigued. And that hot-as-hell smile transformed to a sexy, wolfish, take-no-prisoners grin.
He was about to speak again. Maybe offer his name. His lips were poised and ready to go, and then the strangest thing happened—goose bumps peppered my skin as though a sudden chill had coated my body.