Page 18 of Ruthless Love

The girl next door with a notorious mobster?

My gut sinks at the disturbing thought of her being his. Of him having her.

I have no right to this woman, but based on the electricity that zings between us every time we’re close, I feel like I do. Like I already own her. I try forcing down my wants and desires, and remind myself I’m here for a reason. To find a weakness.

Focus.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

“There you are.”

Dimitri’s voice precedes him, but not by enough that I can get on my bike and race away from here before he’s next to me. His statement isn’t for me—it’s for her. He’s talking to the spry baker girl, but his hand claps my shoulder again, spurring me to dart him a glare. Smartly, the asshole releases me and backs up.

“What’s ... going on?” she asks, her gaze bouncing between him and me with a suspicious squint that, for whatever reason, relieves me.

“Well,” Dimitri says as he wraps a hand around her slight waist and pulls her close. “You said this place didn’t feel like home, so I figured we’d get someone to build you what you want. The sky’s the limit.”

Compared to the last woman in his arms, this one is elegant and sexy in a way that’s demure. The differences between the two make me realize this little one is way out of her element and a far cry from her comfort zone. She’s tense. Fidgety. And her hand on his chest isn’t soft or caressing. More like pushing him away.

He goes in for a kiss, and she turns her head, fixing her eyes on mine as his lips land on her cheek.

The move makes me blow out a breath. Of frustration. Of irritation. Of an unsettled amount of possession that I have no right to. Dimitri seems to share my sentiments, huffing out his own quiet breath.

“You’re an architect?” she asks, understandable confusion lacing her question. When she pulls from Dimitri’s rough hold, my pulse rattles for a second. If she asks too much more, I’m screwed.

Acting as though we’ve never met, it occurs to me that technically, we haven’t. I might have let her in my house, made her coffee, bantered with her with my morning wood in full salute behind the counter, but not once did I give her my name. Or occupation. Though I might not have denied the whole gigolo angle.

“I—” I have no idea why, but I can’t lie to her. Nixing the I’m an architect angle, I decide to wing it. “Honestly, I’m not exactly the right guy for this job.”

“You’re leaving?” she asks, a sad ring to her voice as those eyes that are normally wild and bright go dim.

I’m leaving. I know I’m leaving. But she’s batting her eyes and pouting those gorgeous full lips, and I shrug undecidedly.

Dimitri’s hand slides down her hip, wiping the smile right off my face. “Of course he’s not leaving. You two have to ... get together.”

His bold hand lowers before pushing Evie forward, so close to me I smell wisps of a scent that’s a mix of some floral perfume and her warm body in the Texas heat.

I don’t know what the hell’s happening, but the previously mentioned threesome suddenly flicks at the hungry parts of my brain, and a strange feeling comes over me. Like I’m on display. We’re on display.

Taking in the curves of her body again, I’m at a loss. A man would have to be insane to think about sharing a woman like this.

Fucking insane.

I whirl around, the confusion on both our faces making me wonder if she spoke with him about me being a gigolo. I look at her, and she looks at me, and it’s apparent we’re both wondering the same thing.

Thankfully, Dimitri continues. “Austin, remember I said money’s no object? It’s because I would do anything for this woman. She loves your work.”

“Dimitri,” she says, shyly scolding him, trying to downplay something she must have confided in private.

“What?” he asks, oblivious to her embarrassment as he speaks to me. “And she gets whatever she wants. Meet my fiancée, Evelyn.”

Now all that talk about discretion flashes back, and I now have confirmation that I’ve managed to land between a man and his wife-to-be.

“Evie,” she says, grabbing my big hand in both of her slender ones for a heartfelt two-handed shake.

Despite my irritation bubbling over and the tragedy of this woman somehow being attached to this sleazebag, I squeeze hers back, becoming more worried by the second. “Austin.”

The more I feel this woman’s warm grip and examine her tender gaze, the more I know she has no idea what she’s dealing with. And it’s not my place to say. Is it?

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