Page 16 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

I look down and sure enough, I’m still wearing my brown coat. Huh, I hardly noticed. It’s warm enough inside the house that I don’t need to be wearing it, though. I slowly slide it off to reveal my clothes underneath. I’m wearing a simple off-shoulder black dress that hugs my curves. As soon as the coat comes off, the temperature in the room goes up a notch.

When I look at him, his piercing gaze is already on me. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s checking me out. His eyes slowly glide from my face down to my body. Heat simmers within me and I realize I might have made a mistake.

Once he’s done undressing me with his eyes, he points to the couch beside him, gesturing for me to take a seat. I make sure to put enough space between us when I sit down. Our fingers meet when he hands me a glass of wine and I feel a zap of energy at the contact. I check to see if he felt anything, but his face is still the same blank, emotionless wall it is always is.

“Why did you save me?”

The words tumble out before I can stop them, a question I’m not sure I want answered. His unreadable gray eyes meet mine as I sip the red wine, trying to avoid the feeling as my chest tightens in the silence that follows.

Damn, that’s really good.I check the label but it’s in French and I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.

“Why did I save you?” he repeats.

“Yeah. You don’t seem like the knight-in-shining-armor type.” He’s more like the prince of darkness. “And you especially don’t seem like the type of person to dig his nose in other people’s business.”

“I’m not.”

“So why?”

He shrugs. Seriously? That’s all I get in reply. A shrug?

“Alright, fine. Next question. What do you do for work?”

He glances at me. “Why do you want to know?”

Evasion is an art and the man in front of me has mastered it to a T.

“Hello? We’re standing in an apartment that probably costs ten times more than I earn in a year.”

“And?”

“I just want to know how you can afford it. You don’t seem all that old.”

“Still trying to figure out my age?” he questions with an arched eyebrow.

“Are you going to keep evading every question I ask?” I say in frustration.

He thinks on that for a moment. “Would you like to answer my questions instead?”

“What?”

“I have questions, too. Are you going to answer them?”

I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “That depends on the questions.”

He smirks, studying me intently as if trying to peel off my skin and peek inside of me. No one has ever looked at me that deeply. Then he looks away and I inhale some much-needed air, finally able to breathe.

“You work for the FBI,” he starts.

My eyes widen and I shoot him a sharp, suspicious look. “How the hell do you know that?”

He rolls his eyes. “You yelled it at the men who tried to assault you earlier. Remember?”

“Oh, right. You were there for that long?” I relax slightly. He simply looks at me without saying anything, and I sigh. “Alright, fine. What was your question?”

“How did you find yourself in that line of work?”

“What? The FBI? I submitted an application. I’m good with computers so I got hired to be an intelligence analyst. It’s mostly a desk job so nothing too glamorous,” I tell him.

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