Laurie slides across the locker room bench and into view, her question cutting through the girlish chatter around us.
“Never better.”
“Hey.” Her elbow slams my locker shut. “Don’t give me that shit. What’s wrong?”
Oh, I don’t know, Laurie. Maybe it’s because the ghost of our boss’s hands squeezing my tits feels like a third-degree burn?
Of course, I don’t say that. Partly because I have no idea how Laurie would react to such a ridiculous claim, and partly because I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t a fever dream.
He’d slunk out of the shadows like a black panther, steeling my spine and snatching my breath. By the daggers he’d been shooting me all night, I expected him to toss me overboard, or at the very least continue walking. I never expected him to stop and drape his jacket over my shoulders.
I don’t know what was more surprising: his chivalry or the fact his hands had…lingered.
Christ, who am I kidding? They did a whole lot more than linger, and a cold sweat coats my skin at the mere memory. His knuckles grazing my breasts could have been accidental, sure. Not that the possibility of it being innocent stopped my nipples from tightening. But when those large fists skimmed to just below my bust and gripped me there, I almost lost my fucking mind. His large palms burned like hot irons against my rib cage, and fuck, it was barely a squeeze, but just from that pressure alone, I know, I just know, that no girl could fall into that man’s bed and make it out alive.
A cold hand slides over my wrist. I look down and meet Laurie’s concerned gaze. “Are the girls being bitches?”
I choke out a laugh and slip my dress off over my head. “They’re fine. Don’t think Freddie likes me, though.”
“Doesn’t matter, Rafe just fired him.”
I fist the fabric in my hand. “What? Why?”
Laurie shrugs, already distracted by something behind me. “One thing I’ve learned working for the Viscontis is that they do whatever the fuck they want. Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason; other times, it can be over something super petty. He probably added ice to a whiskey, and you know around here that’s practically sacrilege.”
I busy myself with folding my dress, but inside, my heart is pounding. Shit. The moment Freddie asked me to knock out a vodka martini and I responded with nothing but a blank stare, he knew my resume was a lie. He got increasingly more pissed with every cocktail I hadn’t heard of, and with every tumbler that slipped through my fingers, until he eventually demoted me to glass-collecting duties.
He’s a bit of a dick, sure, but he’s good at his job and picked up my slack all night. So, I wonder why Raphael fired him?
“You coming, Pen?”
I glance up and realize Laurie and the other girls have already changed into their regular clothes, with their bags and coats slung over their shoulders.
“To where?”
She jerks her chin toward the ceiling. “We’re having a few drinks in the sky lounge before the staff boat leaves.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my bra and tights. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
The girls filter out, and when left alone, I close my eyes and drop my forehead to the cold metal frame of my locker. It does nothing to extinguish the flames licking my skin.
What’s wrong with me? Anger twists a knot in my stomach but for all the wrong reasons. I should be angry he groped me without permission, and it’s crazy that I’m not, because when I was ten, I made a vow in the alleyway behind the casino that if a man ever groped me again, I’d bite down on his hand until I tasted blood.
But no, I’m angry because I liked it. Wanted it. Wanted more. Angry because the moment his pinky fingers skimmed under the band of my bra, I dropped the four beer glasses I was holding and my iron-clad wall fell with them.
His hands on my body made me vulnerable, and that’s what he wanted. He didn’t gloat but I felt it anyway, trickling over my shoulders, hot and sticky like syrup and just as hard to wash off my skin.
I sigh into the silence. Somewhere beyond my closed eyelids, a shower head drips onto marble tiles and muffled laughter floats down from the ceiling.
Jeez, the thought of conversing with Anna and Claudia—the not a fucking chance bitch—over a vodka soda without putting at least one of them in a headlock seems near impossible. I’m going to take as long as I can to get ready and hope nobody comes down to find me.
I push off the locker, head to the sink, and splash my face with ice-cold water. Some of the girls have left their toiletries by the mirror, so I rummage in Anna’s sparkly makeup bag and find a cleanser that appears to be more expensive than my rent. I squirt six pumps into my hand, another ten down the drain, and scrub my makeup off. As I dry my face with a towel, heavy footsteps cut through the sound of running water, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
No shoes on deck.
Unless you’re a guest. Or, you know, the man who makes the rules.
I tense. Drag my gaze up to the mirror just in time to see a dark silhouette emerge from behind the row of lockers.
White shirt. Gold collar pin. Carved-from-stone features.
Raphael Visconti strides around the corner, looking at his cellphone. He takes three steps toward the sinks, before his eyes shift to my tight-clad feet and he stops in his tracks.
Click. The sound of his cell phone locking. Displeasure coasts over his perfect features, but by the time he slides his phone into his pocket and lifts his gaze up to mine, it’s dulled with that all-knowing, all-seeing amusement.
We stare at each other for three restless heartbeats, and the ghosts of his hands flare up below my bust like a nasty rash.
“This is the women’s locker room.”
“I have eyes, Penelope.”
“Well, it’s not very gentlemanly to burst into the women’s locker room, is it?”
His stare darkens to a stormier shade, and slowly his eyes carve an electric trail down my throat, across my collar bone, and settle on the pendant around my neck. They snap down to my cleavage for half a breathless second, before moving back up to the four-leaf clover. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it.
Christ, this time I wish I’d blinked.
“Lucky girls don’t drop eight glasses on their first shift.”
Well, then. I suppose we’re just going to ignore the fact I’m next-to-naked. I’m in nothing but my bra, panties, and a pair of black tights, yet Raphael’s expression suggests he could be waiting for a fucking bus.
Well, two can play apathetic, even if only one of us actually feels it.
Despite my body buzzing with anticipation, I give a well-practiced eye roll and pluck out Anna’s moisturizer and slather it all over my face. “Did you get lost?” I ask, tone dripping with boredom.
He leans against the locker behind me and gives a lazy glance at his watch. “I was looking for someone else.”
Someone else. Annoyance grates my chest like sandpaper, and I slather cream over the area, as if it’ll help soothe the burn. “She’s not here,” I snap.
His eyes spark. “Who’s not?”
Silence. I bite my tongue to stop myself from exposing the chink in my armor of indifference, because I’d hate for him to catch sight of the raging green monster underneath. It shouldn’t even be there, anyway.
Of course, I can only assume he’s here to meet Anna, and the thought of him coming into the locker room in hope of finding her in her bra, panties, and tights, makes the idea of putting her in a headlock all the more alluring.
Seconds pass, each one drip, drip, dripping onto my skin like Chinese water torture. It’s near impossible to feign nonchalance when there’s a six-foot-four man with large, hot hands standing less than a meter away from me.
It annoys me how polished he always looks. It’s nearing midnight; he’s nine whiskeys down—I counted—and his suit jacket is currently stuffed in the back of a kitchen freezer. I know, because I put it there. But still, he looks as crisp as a winter morning. The crease down the front of his trousers is sharp enough to slice my skin, and even with a magnifying glass, I doubt I’d find a wrinkle in his bright white shirt.
Bet he irons his bed sheets. Well, has one of his minions do it for him, anyway.
I pump even more cream into my hands, desperate for something to do. Just as I’m about to conjure up a smart-ass remark, simply to poke a hole in the heavy tension weighing down on my head, a dark shadow shifts over the sink.
Self-preservation kicks in. Raphael’s quick, but I’m quicker, because the memory of him trapping me against the railing from behind is as raw as an open wound, and I refuse to put myself in such a vulnerable position again. I spin around and press my back against the counter, just as his hands touch down on either side of me.
Our gazes clash. His mouth curves. My lungs tighten.
This was a bad idea.
I suck in a shaky breath and a satisfied smirk deepens his dimples. His amused gaze searches mine. “How was your first shift?”
I recoil at the polite and professional tone tickling my nose; it’s at odds with the dizzying warmth of his body brushing against my chest. I can’t say I’ve stood this close to a man while being half naked and had him make pleasantries. Especially not as my breasts graze against the cold buttons of his shirt every time I breathe.
Fuck. Of all the days not to wear a padded bra.
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
I swallow and steel my jaw, trying—and failing—to ignore the static crackling against my nipples. “That’s what I said.”
He licks his lips, slowly nodding. Then, with a steadying glance to the ceiling, he dips his head and looks at my chest.
Finally. The word pops into my head, unwanted and pathetic, and I clench my teeth in an attempt to rid my brain of it. Since when was I the type of girl who craved men’s attention for any reason other than to get money out of them? But no amount of rationale can stop my head from spinning.
I try to slow my breathing while he runs an objective eye over my breasts, from the hem of my lace bra to my tip money poking out of it. When he lets out a small breath of amusement, I feel its heat flow between my cleavage and settle like a weight between my thighs.
“My patrons seem to like you, at least,” he says softly, dragging his gaze from the faces of Hamilton and Jackson peeking out from beneath my bra to my own. It hardens with something unreadable. “I wonder why.”
Annoyance flares up against the walls of my stomach. What an asshole. I’d rather he just called me a slut than insinuate it in that velvet-and-nails way. He straightens to his full height and takes a step back, but not before turning his palm inward and brushing it over the dip of my hip as he pushes off the counter.
It’s barely a touch, but it snatches my next breath and I press my back harder into the counter to stop myself from swaying. He says something, but I don’t hear it—I’m too distracted by how the ghost of his palm burns.
“What?”
He cocks a brow. I look down to see he’s holding out a fifty-dollar bill in the space between us.
“What’s that for?”
“You lasted all night.” His gaze comes to mine, bored. “Against all odds.”
Jesus, and so I did. It’s very unlike me to forget about a bet, especially one I was certain I wouldn’t win. I should feel a lot smugger about finessing money out of Raphael Visconti, but the triumph doesn’t taste as sweet on my tongue tonight. I’m too distracted, too feverish.
I lean against the counter in an attempt to cool my sizzling skin. “Told you I was lucky.”
There’s that displeasure again. Raphael wipes it off his bottom lip with a swipe of his thumb, and shoves out the bill with the other. “Take it,” he says sharply.
A beat of tense silence passes. Swallowing, I lift my palms up on either side of myself. They are coated in Anna’s expensive face cream.
Raphael’s brows draw together in his confusion as his focus darts from one hand to the other, before settling on the money in my bra. Then realization settles on the planes of his face like a thick blanket of dust.
His jaw tightens. He rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a huff. I, on the other hand, don’t dare breathe. Can’t. I’m too stupefied under the weight of what if and maybe so. My nipples tingle in anticipation, and there’s suddenly a new pulse in my clit, its throb fast and maddening.
But then he gives the tiniest shake of his head. He skims his stare up to meet mine. It’s dark and dangerous, void of any light or humor.
I doubt any good could ever survive in there.
“That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, Penelope.”
“You’re not a gentleman,” I whisper back.
Tension crackles like static. It’s so heavy I could stick my tongue out and fucking taste it.
Raphael rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, stare intensifying. “You seem to be obsessed with the idea of me not being a gentleman.” He takes a slow step forward, still holding the bill out between us. “It’d be wise of you to get that notion out of your head.”
The buttery drawl doesn’t fool me; I know it’s a threat rather than a suggestion.
Still, it slips from my lips before I can consider the consequences. “All right, you are a gentleman then.” My eyes narrow. “To everyone but me.”
He stills. His free hand curls into a fist just before he slides it into the pocket of his slacks.
“Do you want me to be a gentleman to you, Penelope?”
My heart skips its next beat. I can’t focus, can barely fucking see. The air is too thick and my pulse is too loud. I feel drunk and high at the same time, like I’m spiraling out of control. Maybe that’s why I’m stupid enough to shake my head.
A hiss escapes Raphael’s parted lips. It’s low and slow, and I don’t like the way it sizzles against my skin. But then he swallows. Glances at the ceiling, and lets out a bitter laugh. It rains down like an icy mist, spraying me with both disappointment and humiliation.
He tosses the note on the counter beside me, and my heart drops with it.
He steps away, looking at himself in the mirror behind me. “Nice dick by the way.”
I blink, snapping myself out of the lust-induced trance. “What?”
“On my mirror,” he says with a dry, sardonic smile. “It was true to size.”
My throat clots. “Was it?”
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
My gaze drops to his slacks.
Fuck’s sake.
His laugh washes over me, but there’s nothing smooth about it. It grates me in places it shouldn’t, and I know when I’m staring at my dark bedroom ceiling at five a.m. I’ll still be thinking about it.
With a tight smirk, he turns and strides toward the door. I hate the feeling that he’s won this round—as well as the last—and in an attempt to level the playing field, sarcasm shoots from my mouth before I can stop it.
“Is that all, boss?”
He slows to a stop. Pops his knuckles.
Triumph. But it only tastes good for a second, before his calm, smooth voice slices through the locker room and assaults me.
“Careful calling me boss when you’re half naked, Penelope,” he drawls. “I might just get the wrong idea.”
The door slams shut louder than usual, and its echo reverberates around the hollow cavity in my chest.
Scratch the laugh. That’s what I’ll be thinking about at five a.m.
