Page 33 of Married With Malice

Luca’s eyebrows shoot up. He evaluates me in the mirror. A smile spreads across his face. “When I want to go clubbing and fucking I don’t pick seventy-year-old Italian men.”

“Then who did you pick, Luca?”

Just listen to me. I sound jealous. Possessive. I should have grabbed the charger and left without saying a word.

He roars out a laugh. “Damn, Anni.”

“Shut up,” I mutter. My cheeks are burning. He can stay here all alone and laugh himself unconscious for all I care.

But Luca blocks the exit. His stupidly muscled body is impossible to bypass.

“Anni,” he says again.

“Move.” I push on his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t even bother to fend me off. To him, this probably feels like being attacked with spaghetti noodles.

“I had a meeting in Miami,” he says. “Just like I told you. That’s all there is to it.”

“I do not care.” I’ve stopped trying to push him out of the way. There’s no point. I’ll only tire out my arms.

His smirk of victory falls away. His expression turns serious. “I thought we could both use a day to cool off. I’m not out there fucking anyone else and I don’t plan to. I promise.”

“Are you waiting for a medal of honor? I’m fresh out of those.”

“It would be wasted on me anyway.” With no warning, he switches gears and touches my shoulder, rubbing my skin with the pad of his thumb in an erotic circle. “Looks like you got a little too much sun today.”

That’s not true. Though the Florida sun is strong, even this late in the year, I don’t burn easily. Luca would burn more easily than I would.

But I wasn’t prepared to deal with the electric effect of his touch. That must be the reason why I don’t instantly shake him off.

Luca watches my reaction. His eyes are a rare shade of green, very arresting. He’s just inches away and still half naked. Up close, his chest is even more absurdly defined and his six pack is downright ridiculous. He must log a hell of a lot of hours at the gym.

A sudden shiver strikes and ripples down my arms. I blame my bikini. And the air conditioning. The feeling keeps traveling, tugging lower, unspooling a rush of heat between my thighs. My breath catches in my lungs and my heart flutters.

Luca drops his hand. “I know exactly what you need.”

I’ll be horrified if this is true. Luca, with his uncanny intelligence and shrewd perception, can probably guess that I’m struggling not to gawk and salivate over his body.

“You need some aloe,” Luca says. He promptly turns me around and steers me back to the sink. “I’ve got some in my bag. It’ll take out the sting of the sunburn.”

I’m not sunburned and there’s no sting.

So why am I just standing here like a mannequin while he rummages through the small blue canvas bag beside the sink?

My reflection in the mirror looks equally dazed by this abrupt turn of events.

Luca withdraws a green tube of aloe. “Got it.” He squirts some into his palm, briefly rubs his hands together and stands right behind me. “I’d hate to mess up your hair. Might want to move it aside.”

Is this a dream? Am I suffering from heatstroke? Is Luca a magic wizard?

Any of these possibilities seems far more likely than the idea that I’m obediently sweeping my hair over my right shoulder to give Luca better access to my back.

He goes right to work, massaging the slippery aloe into my shoulder blades. His hands are huge with long, thick fingers, the sort of hands built for laying bricks or chopping down oak trees. I’m hypnotized by the sight of them on my skin.

Luca towers over me in the mirror. As he stands there with his chest bare and his pants open and something risky flashing in the depths of his green eyes, he looks like some irresistible god of seduction.

And the guy must have taken massage lessons at some point. His fingers knead with expert pressure. The effect is downright sinful. I’m lost in a cloud of erotic sensation and all he’s done is rub aloe on my shoulders.

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