But I killed that impulse quick. I rode the rage instead.
“Why the hell did he tell you to follow me?”
With another shrug, the man said, “He wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to his offer.”
Shaking my head, I took a step back. “Take me to him,” I snapped. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
“Sure. I will have to call him first, but sure. Climb in.”
I laughed darkly. Did he think I was an idiot? That I was just going to climb into a car with a stranger? “No, thanks. I’ll follow.”
I marched back to my car, seething, and watched in the rearview as the man talked on the phone. He gave me a thumbs-up and then pulled out ahead of me. I followed, rehearsing all the things I would say to Angelo. He needed to know it wasn’t okay to send his goons after me. And yet, at the same time, there was a small part of me that was glad for the excuse to see him again. That was the same part that wondered if I was gripping the steering wheel too hard in lust, not anger.
Finally, the man pulled up outside a high-rise apartment complex. I took out my phone and called Angelo.
“Yes?” he said.
“So I’m here. I’m just making sure I’m not being tricked and I’m not about to walk into a fricking dungeon or something.”
“Felice?” He laughed lightly. “He wouldn’t dare. No, Dani. You are all mine this afternoon.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I answered. “I’m actually here to tear you a new one.”
I could hear him grinning. “I look forward to it. See you soon, mia signora.”
Mia signora: my lady. Searching my senior-year Italian, I growled, “Yeah, see you soon, a quella succhiacazzi.”
He suddenly burst out laughing, as though he couldn’t control it. “Do you have any idea what you just said?” he asked.
“I called you an insufferable asshole,” I snarled, and I swear to God I tried to stop the corners of my lips from twitching upward. I tried to remind myself I was supposed to be angry. “Why? What did I say?”
“You called me a chicken-head slut.”
I guess my senior Italian lessons weren’t that great, after all. “Well,” I said, keeping my cool. “Maybe that’s what I mean.”
I hung up the phone and followed his man—Felice—into the marble lobby. There were pillars, sculpted busts, expensive oil paintings on the walls. Absurdly lavish, the kind of thing you decorate with when you don’t know what to do with all your money. He took me past the regular elevators to one at the back that he opened with a key. Waving a hand, he said, “After you, miss.”
“You know, for a potential kidnapper, you’re a pretty nice guy,” I remarked.
He just smiled, but he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. What was it Angelo said? He wouldn’t dare. Why not? Who was Angelo? Was it normal for club owners to have men who followed women in cars?
The doors opened right onto the most ridiculous apartment I have ever seen. A real-life prince’s palace, with the works, like he ordered it straight out of a magazine for obscenely rich people. Chandeliers, glittering marble, bone-white piano, view of the entire city, bearskin rug, a bar area twice the size of my bedroom. The TV was absurd. It must’ve been two hundred inches, a wall-sized monstrosity.
Angelo walked out from behind the bar in his suit, unbuttoned at the collar, his tie wrapped around his fist. There was something sexy about that, like he was waiting to see what ideas he might dream up for how to use it on me. He saw me looking, and smirked as he laid it aside.
“You know how out of line it is, right, having people followed?”
He bowed his head with mock seriousness. He couldn’t stop smirking. “Would you expect more from a chicken-headed slut?”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you? Stronzo.”
“Ah, well done! Asshole. You got it right that time.”
“Yes.” I looked at him meaningfully. “I did.” I walked right up to him, standing so close I could smell his cologne, his sweat. His dark eyes looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept all night. I wondered what he had been doing. Was he with a woman? Crazily, I felt a pang of jealousy. I snuffed it. “I’m serious, Angelo. Call off your little lapdogs and leave me the hell alone.”
“Where did you learn your Italian?” he asked.
“School,” I told him. “My teacher was a rebellious type and liked to teach us curse words to annoy the principal. She got fired right after I graduated.”
“I can’t imagine why.” He reached a hand out to stroke at my hip.
I took an immediate step back with a fuck-you toss of the head. “Do you really think I’m going to fuck you, Angelo, right after you’ve had some weirdo stalking me?”
“Felice is not a weirdo,” he said. “He is a loyal man, a good man.”
I stalked to the bar. “Whatever,” I snapped. “I’m getting a drink.”
“I’ll take a beer,” he called.
“Good to know,” I laughed. “But why don’t you tell someone who gives a shit?”
But I got him the beer anyway. Without discussing it, we moved to the cream-colored couch and dropped down in front of the crazy-big TV. As I sipped my beer, I nodded at the TV. “Do you think it’s big enough?”
He shuffled up the couch closer to me. Before I knew what was happening, we were entangled, our bodies pressed close, his hand wedged between my thighs so close to my center that it ached.
“Actually,” he laughed, “I was thinking of getting a bigger one.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, giving him a stern look. “No more following. It’s weird, Angelo. Okay?”
“It was just a bet,” he said. “But fine, if you are going to throw a hissy fit about it …” He was smiling to let me know he was joking. “But Dani, if I didn’t ask him to follow you, you wouldn’t be here. And I think we’re both happy you’re here.”
He slid his hand further up my thigh. I let out a sighing breath that was both wordless and full of meaning.
I parted my legs ever so slightly, telling him with my body that I wanted more. I had to put my drink down when he pressed his fingertips against my clit. I leaned back in a delicious twist of pleasure and shock, grabbing onto his wrist.
“Softer,” I whispered, and he softened. Then I said, “No, harder, harder.”
He was sipping his beer as he did it, his dark eyes locked on me. There was something fucking irresistible about that, like I was his plaything, like he was driving me crazy without even giving me his full attention. The feminist in me had several choice words to say about that, but the dirty, horny part of me screamed out in ecstasy. I shifted my hips, finding his touch with firmer and firmer contact.
He fingered me faster, faster, and then it felt as though the whole apartment—no, the whole world—came crashing down. The orgasm tore through me with vicious and delicious speed. I opened my mouth wider, trying to let the moans loose, and then Angelo was nipping at my neck.
But then there was a loud knock at the door, three bang-bang-bangs.
“What is it?” he roared.
“I’m sorry, boss,” a man grunted. “But it’s your father.”