Page 89 of Dark Romeo

“You look familiar,” Abel said. He hadn’t moved. His gaze hadn’t left mine.

My skin broke out in a cold rash. I was about to be exposed. And it was all my fault. I didn’t dare look at Roman.

Abel took a slow, measured step towards me. I fought the urge to turn and run. “Who are you?” he asked. His fingers twitched as if he was thinking about snatching my mask off.

If he exposed me I would be in serious trouble. I had no weapon with me. I had no backup. He couldn’t harm me here. Not in front of all these witnesses. He had to take me somewhere quieter to do that. I couldn’t let him take me.

I already knew where the exits were; I had noted them all when I walked in, a force of habit. I readied myself to run.

Roman stepped between us, his wide back like a shield. “Run along, dog, and stop bothering the pretty lady. You’re ruining the mood by showing her your face.”

Abel snarled at Roman. I tensed as I watched the two of them glare at each other, aggression rolling off both. This was a pressure cooker and it was about to blow. I had to do something. Anything.

I touched his arm. “Roman,” I said in a Russian accent. I almost cringed at how fake it sounded. God knows where that came from. “It iz too beautiful a night for fighting. Besidez, blood vill ruin zis dress.”

Roman spun slightly to look at me over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at me, the hint of amusement on his lips. “You heard Natassia,” he said to Abel.

Natassia? Right, the Russian floozy that I was pretending to be.

“Natassia?” Abel peered at me over Roman’s shoulder.

“An old friend from Europe who’s in town to visit. Now scram.”

Abel studied me, suspicion clouding his eyes. “Sure. Natassia. Enjoy your stay in Verona.”

I sniffed and turned my head away from him, a dismissal. I felt his one last searing look before he disappeared into the crowd.

I let out a long breath of relief. Roman’s face twisted into a scowl. “Are you happy? You almost got yourself killed.” He grabbed me and began to tug me across the room. I pulled against him. “What are you doing?”

“You’re dancing with me.”

Bossy arrogant brute. “You know, most men would ask a lady if she’d like a dance.”

“Last time I checked you liked it when I told you what to do.” He yanked me flush against his chest, securing me there with a possessive arm around my back. His fingers felt like they were searing through my dress.

The memory of our night together flashed before my eyes, flooding my body with heat. I shivered as he laced the fingers of his other hand through mine. He began to move to the music, a slow house instrumental with a mix of Caribbean drums and brassy saxophones. I resisted for a second before I gave in to it.

Of course the bastard could dance.

Damn, he smelled good, too good, his familiar dark cedar perfume surrounding me. I resisted the urge to lean my head against his chest, to press closer, to melt against him as we swayed to the music.

“You have some nerve coming here,” he hissed in my ear.

“I wanted to talk to you.” To see you again. To hear your voice. These things I could not voice. Admitting I wanted to talk to him was enough.

“Talk. You have my full attention.” He spun us farther away from the crowd and closer to the far edge of the tiny dance floor.

“Let me help you.”

He tensed but he didn’t miss a beat. “You want to help me? Leave me alone.”

“You say that, but I don’t think you mean it. If you really did, why do you keep finding reasons to contact me?”

He let out a short laugh. “Why do you women always read too much into everything?”

I flinched at his insinuation.

“I ask you to come to Paris and you think it’s a relationship. I hide you from Abel and you think I’m protecting you. I send you a rose and it means I’m in l—” he broke off.

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