Then it got worse.
He laughed, generating a mile-wide smile bracketed by deep dimples.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye while trying to keep most of her attention on the crowd. She felt breathless and dismayed. That was no normal smile. That smile had fifty percent more width and wattage than the average human smile. Plus, the husky sound of his laughter aroused her as though he’d trailed his fingertips across her inner thighs.
So that was all bad. Exceptionally bad, matter of fact.
Luckily, his amusement also perversely infuriated her enough to jar her out of the weird wave of overwhelming desire.
Thank God.
“Such bad language, Carmina.”
He had a fascinating and easy-on-the-ears way of inserting an ah between his words, stringing them together with no breaks in between, as though he was reluctant to let them go from his mouth. Such-a-bad-a-language. And it wasn’t the irritating caricature of an Italian accent that she’d seen American actors attempt a million times on TV and in movies.
It was pure music.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Bad attitude,” he continued. “You drink. You swear. What a nightmare! Mamas all over Italy pray to the Madonna that their boys never come home with a woman like you.”
Her brain told her to ignore him. Her hot temper refused to listen.
She abandoned her indifferent routine and turned to face him, hiking up her chin. She had no idea who this Nick guy was, but she had a serious urge to throw her club soda and lime right in his smug face before taking a swing at him.
“There’s so much wrong with what you just said that I don’t know where to start, Domenico. Last I checked, this is America. Where free speech is encouraged. Plus, I’m thirty-eight years old. Which qualifies me as a whole grown-ass woman. Therefore, I’m allowed to say what I want.”
“Ah, but you did say you’re single again. I heard it myself.” He shrugged, blithely unaware of his pointed words hitting the bull’s-eye in the dead center of her chest. “Maybe this is the issue. You’re too outspoken.”
She tried to stop her wince and failed spectacularly.
“Maybe the issue is that men are snakes.” She flashed as much of a smile as her dead soul, unemployed and unmarried status and failing reproductive health allowed. “No offense.”
All his glittering amusement vanished. Like magic.
“I’m sorry, Carmina.” His voice sounded husky now. Chagrined. He put a warm hand on her arm, and it felt good. Way too good. “Forgive me if I go too far. I’m teasing. And your eyes are much too spectacular to be sad like this.”
Once again, there were so many things going on in those few sentences that she hardly knew where to begin.
First, she appreciated his apology, which—surprise of surprises!—seemed sincere.
Plus, she found his insight and responsiveness every bit as disturbing to her equilibrium as his sexiness.
Then there was the fact that she wasn’t big on flowery compliments. Because, seriously. Who talked like that? But, on the other hand, it had been a while since Leonard bothered to make her feel like a desirable woman, so that was an issue.
Most of all, there was the heady experience of staring him dead in the eye up close.
She could only pretend not to notice how spectacularly handsome he was for so long. And she’d just slammed headfirst into her limit.
If some Hollywood bigwig put out a call for actors to audition for the role of Mark Antony in a new production of Cleopatra, this would be the guy they prayed would show up. He ticked all the boxes. Olive skin. Dark hair, wavy and luscious. Thick brows and long eyelashes framing light-colored eyes. Sleek nose. Angled cheekbones and jaw. A hint of a beard. A lush and inviting mouth that had undoubtedly kissed the dozens—hundreds?—of women who were foolish enough to let their heads be turned by his pretty words.
And she’d just added her name to that long list of idiots.
“Don’t even try it.” She pulled her arm free because 1) the sudden heat surging between them felt hot enough to burn his fingerprints onto her flesh; 2) it now seemed vitally important for them never to touch again; and 3) she’d used up her lifetime supply of gullible on Leonard and therefore now had none left to spare for him. “I’m actually insulted that you think I’m foolish enough to fall for this routine.”
He blinked. Frowned. “Routine? What routine, you say?”
She had to laugh. He seemed so bewildered.
“Why don’t we save everyone some time. Let’s cut to the chase.”
He eased closer, still frowning, his attention dipping to her lips. “Let’s.”
“You’re like a glorified fisherman. In a great suit. You come to a target-rich environment like this”—she gestured at the crowd—“cast your net and see who you can catch for the night. Then you throw her back in the morning and sail your boat to the next hot spot.”
Amusement clicked back on in his eyes, making them glitter. “And…?”
“And I’ve had a tough week, Domenico. I don’t feel like playing with your net.”
A flash of that dizzying smile. “Worse things have happened, Carmina.”
Copyright 2023 by Sally Young Moore
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
