Page 18 of Heartless Sinner

When another two Italian men join the man I’m staring at, I look away, deciding I can’t keep staring. It’s silly to look for the man I’m here to steal from.

It’s also silly to assume that every Italian I see is part of the Delarosa family. They could simply be regular guests here. Like me—at least the part I’m playing.

This has to be another joke from the universe. I want an acting job, so I get to play myself in the biggest role of my life.

My hand turns clammy around the glass, so I down the rest of my drink.

I think I’ll just grab a glass of ice water before I head back up to my room. I don’t think I should be around people in this state of nerves.

Releasing the heavy breath burning my lungs, I set the glass down on the counter. Before I can even think to look up, a glass of water with ice cubes inside and a slice of lemon hooked on the rim slides across the counter to me.

The bartender who’s been serving me has been great, knowing exactly what I’ve wanted. It’s cheered me up.

I lift my head to tell him as such, but when my gaze locks with a pair of bright hazel eyes and the sculpted face of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life, I freeze.

My lips part and although I know I run the risk of seeming rude, all I can do is stare up at him. I don’t think I can be blamed for that, though. He has the type of perfection that compels you to stop whatever you’re doing—even breathing—to look at him.

His olive skin speaks of his Italian heritage and his jet-black hair is styled but has that sexy just-got-out-of-bed look. The flicker of a smile dances across his lips, drawing my attention to its sensual shape and the sharp cut of his jaw and killer cheekbones that looks like they could slice glass.

His brutal beauty is the kind of handsome that belongs in Renaissance paintings of fallen angels and stories about warriors from the past.

Rigid muscles ripple beneath his black button-down shirt, showcasing wide shoulders and thick forearms with a fine dusting of dark hair weaving alongside inky tattoos of scorpions and Japanese characters. And he’s tall. A least a foot taller than my five feet and four inches.

How long has he been standing here? Right in front of me.

More importantly, how the hell could I have been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’tnoticehim? He gives the term sexy bartender a new meaning.

Lucy is always sending me pictures of the guys she hooks up with, many of which are ice hockey or football players—she has a thing for athletes.

None of them come close to this guy.

Liquid fire that I shouldn’t be feeling heats up my body, and I realize I’m still staring. But he hasn’t taken his eyes off me either.

“Hey, there.” His voice is sinfully sexy and as deep as the bass keys on a piano.

I have to think first before I speak. “Hi.”

“I guessed you wanted water. Was I right?” The smirk on his face sets me on fire.

“Um, yes. You were. And thank you.” I take a few sips of the water, appreciating the coolness as it hits the back of my throat. “How… did you know?”

“Intuition. Or maybe I’m hoping you’re here by yourself and you’ll join me upstairs for your next drink.”

Holy shit.Hewantsmeto joinhimfor a drink.

Oh God. What do I say?

Wait... this is simple. I should say no. There is no question or choice here because I’m here for business. Not pleasure. I’m way too nervous to trust myself not to burst into tears and ruin everything.

That aside, this man is a whole other level of gorgeousness I’ve never experienced—honestly way too good looking to be a bartender. He should have some supermodel on his arm. Not me.

I just about managed to scrub myself up to look halfway decent to travel. I still look nothing like myself from a few years back.

“Silence.” He smiles, taking note of my hesitation.

“I was just going to head back to my room and call it a night,” I reply with a little smile.

“At eight thirty on a Friday night?”

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