Page 33 of A Game So Reckless

I can’t find him. I can’t find any of them. Trying to spot Mateo or Lucia or Giulia in this mess is going to be impossible, and any head start I have on Darragh must be dwindling down to nothing by now. We have to get out of here. And get out of herenow.

More than one man tries to catch my eye and stop me as I push my way by. One of them even reaches for me. While attempting to avoid his stretching hand, I stumble to the side and bash into the wall. My shoulder has hit on something hard and protruding. I squint at it, and when a well-timed strobe of pink light passes, I know exactly what it is.

It’s a fire alarm.

I don’t stop to think. I take one of my shoes into my right hand, hoist the heel up like it’s a hammer, and bring it down on the glass.

It breaks. I find the latch inside and yank.

The music cuts, lights come on, and the screeching alarm punctures the air. In an instant, chaos takes hold of the place and shakes it like a child with a snow globe. People disperse wildly, pushing and shoving and some of them screaming. The alarm system must be connected to the sprinklers, because suddenly it’s pouring, like a storm just let loose and there’s no roof to keep it at bay.

I plaster my back to the wall and stay out of the way as everyone scrambles for the exits. No one notices me in their frantic rush for the nearest door. At first, I try to scan the roiling crowds for my friends, but quickly give up on that. It’s even harder to peel people apart now that they’re running than when they were dancing. I’ll just have to wait until everyone is out and hope that the sheer number of people fleeing distracts Darragh long enough to get the hell out of here.

In what feels like only a couple of manic heartbeats, the place is entirely empty.

Empty, except for one lone man.

And he’s coming straight for me.

Chapter17

Darragh

It takes about two seconds for me to ascertain that Valentina has pulled the alarm and there’s no real emergency. A few swipes on my phone turns off the alarm and the sprinklers, but by that time the place is soaked, I’m soaked, and so is she.

She stands there, haughty as a queen even though she’s in her bare fucking feet on the wet and filthy floor, her white dress so see-through and plastered to her body that she might as well be naked. I can see the outline of her panties against her hips, see the electrifying dip of her navel. She doesn’t have a bra on, and I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood when my gaze snags on the dark, taut points of her nipples. Her hair, which had been straight outside, hangs about her shoulders like tumbling strands of black seaweed, bits breaking off into individual curling clumps that I have a sudden and visceral desire to twirl in perfect loops around my fingers.

What the fuck is it about this woman when she’s wet? Makes me feel like I’m confronting some mythical creature. I want to know what water tastes like when it drips down the length of her throat. I want to know what it would feel like to back her up against that wall, hike up her soaking dress and-

“Mateo doesn’t matter. Really. You don’t have to do anything to him.”

My jaw screws shut. My tongue bleeds.

Damn this Titone. Coming into my property with another man’s name in her mouth.

And damn me twice for letting it get under my skin this way. For lettingherget under my skin this way.

“You act like I was going to kill him,” I say lightly, closing the last distance between us. Wet hair falls over my forehead, dripping in dark red spikes as I look down at her. She tips her small chin up to maintain eye contact, then narrows her eyes. Slits of brown and gold.

“Weren’t you?”

I don’t have an answer for her. I don’tthinkI would have killed the idiotic fuck just for showing up with her tonight…

But as tension twists my spine, I have to admit that I might have. Might have put a gun in his mouth, just for the audacity of letting Valentina say his name.

I ignore her question and hammer back at her with one of my own.

“Are you fucking him?”

Her gaze goes wide. Her mouth falls open, revealing pink wetness that makes my cock stiffen against the soaked fabric of my jeans.

“What kind of a question is that?” she cries. She slams her purse and shoes down on a table glistening with moisture beside us then throws her hands onto her hips. “No, I’m not fucking him! Not that that’s any of your business!”

I don’t think she’s lying. There’s a toxic twitch of relief when I realize that I believe her. And I do not fucking like it.

“Everything about you is my business,” I remind her. The words come out like acid. They burn up my throat, make smoke of the air. “I decided as much the moment you put your life into my hands.”

“I didn’t put my life into your hands!”

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