Page 4 of Tainted Love

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hart.”

“Dante is fine,” he says.

I rest my hand at my side, keeping my eyes on his. They’re a startling shade of blue, like the sky just before a thunderstorm. Not the kind I’d expect to see in the head of a psychotic mobster.

He smiles at me and a shiver trails my back. “You’re just as beautiful as your portrait.”

“Oh.” I glance over his shoulder at the photo on my father’s shelf and red blushes my cheekbones. “Thank you, sir.”

Dante looks at my father. “Mr. Vaughn, if you don’t mind, may Ms. Vaughn and I have a moment alone, please?”

“Of course,” he answers, laying one last pinch of warning on my elbow. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.”

The door opens and closes behind me. Dante shifts toward my father’s desk and leans back to sit against it. He checks me out again with a single smooth glance from my head to my toes.

I swallow the bile back down. “So, my father owes you money?”

“He owes my employer money.”

“And you’re here to collect it?”

“No.”

I wait for him to explain but he says nothing more. “Okay…” I force my smile a little wider. “So, what—”

“Relax.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Relax,” he says again. “You’re tense.”

His eyes charge down my body again and I bite my cheek. Really wish he’d stop that.

“I’m not tense,” I say. “This is just how I stand.”

He pushes off the desk and circles behind my back. His cologne strikes me as he draws closer. It’s light and fresh, not at all too strong or repugnant like I expected. He lays his hands on my shoulders and puts the slightest of pressure on my muscles. They bend to his will, smoothing out beneath his touch, alerting me to how tense I actually am.

Motherfucker.

“Relax,” he whispers. His breath runs across the back of my neck, tickling me softly.

I take a quick breath and exhale it out slowly to loosen my body. “Sorry,” I say.

He drops his hands and steps around to face me. “Don’t be. You don’t have to be nervous, Ms. Vaughn. I’m not going to hurt you unless you want me to.”

“Unless I what?”

“Your father has expressed some concerns,” he continues, ignoring my question. “I would like to spend the evening with you, but he seems to think you’d object to the idea. Is this true?”

I search his eyes, but I can’t find a single bit of malice in them, nothing that indicates a need for me to lie.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Why do you object?”

“Because I am not an object.”

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