Page 50 of Sinister Intentions

I didn’t expect the puppy to move, especially not since it appeared to be wary of me, but inch by inch, it emerged from its crate until it was close enough to sniff at my fingers before nuzzling against my palm, wagging its tail.

A wave of warmth washed over me as the friendly creature greeted me with unbridled affection, and even flopped down to get its belly scratched. “Hey, cutie pie.”

I couldn’t resist the temptation. I gently scooped up the puppy and carried it to the sofa, cradling its fragile form against my chest. The little one squirmed happily, lapping at my face with its tiny tongue.

I chuckled. I was a dog person through and through, although Dad never allowed me to have one.

One more reason to gain some freedom to finally live exactly the life I wanted.

I stroked its fur, and in that moment, all the fear and uncertainty melted away, replaced by a simple, pure connection with this innocent creature.

For a few precious seconds, I allowed myself to bask in the warmth of that unconditional love.

The peace of the situation…until my eyes fell on my ball cap and my wig in the middle of the coffee table. Shit.

I stared out of the window and absent-mindedly caressed the pup.

Vince Salvini knew more about me than any other man. Had seen more than any other man.

I turned my head at a noise, and I met his eyes across the room.

Dark, contemplating eyes staring at me as if he could see right through my defenses and straight into my soul.

I stared back at him, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. Images of him in the shower flashed through my mind, and I felta flush creeping up my neck. How could I have been so bold and stupid to walk in on him like that?

Leveling the playing field…as if there would ever be anything level between Vince Salvini and myself.

He slowly approached me, looking unfairly sexy with his wet, slicked-back black hair, the white button-down shirt clinging to his muscular frame, and jeans that hung perfectly on his hips.

And to top it all off, he was still barefoot.

Damn. How could that simple detail make him seem more approachable, more human?

My first instinct was to look away, ashamed and uncomfortable by the events of the past couple of hours. I couldn’t believe I had gone from being kidnapped to witnessing something so intimate and personal. It was all too much.

“I see you met Picca.”

I looked up, and he was suddenly much closer than I’d anticipated. “Picca?”

He nodded at the pup in my lap. “Short for Piccolina.”

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. Piccolina was my number one choice for naming a pup after I overheard a grandfather call an endearing little girl that way in a cafe in Italy. I narrowed my eyes. He named his dog Piccolina? Apart from it being obviously an Italian endearment, the name—and the dog—didn’t fit Vince at all. Not dark, not badass, not even a little fear-inducing. “You named your dog Piccolina?”

He held my gaze. “Yes, you got a problem with that?”

I continued to stare at him, but when it didn’t look like he’d back down anytime soon, I became overwhelmed and severed the contact.

“We just recently found each other.”

I looked back up. What an odd phrase to use. Was Picca a rescue dog, or did he kidnap her from somewhere, too? “Found each other?”

Vince gave a nudge to my wig and ball cap on the coffee table, a silent acknowledgment he was onto my secret. He took a seat in an armchair opposite me and scrutinized me with those intense eyes of his.

“What?” I met his gaze head-on, surprised to find that he didn’t look furious. In fact, his expression was unreadable, revealing nothing of the thoughts surely swirling behind those dark eyes.

“I think we got some talking to do,” he finally said, his voice low and steady.

We sure did. Not that talking about what had just happened in his shower was something I necessarily wanted to do. I felt a flush creep up my neck. “Or I could just leave, and we’ll talk some other time,” I said, pushed Picca from my lap, and got up.

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