Page 20 of His Ruthless Vow

"You're ready." His eyes sweep over me, taking in every detail without a single change in his expression. But I catch the way his jaw tightens just slightly. "Good."

"Don't sound so surprised," I grab my clutch from the entryway table. "Some of us make it a point to be punctual."

"I wasn't surprised," he says, stepping back to let me lock my door. "I expected nothing less."

There it is again—that certainty, like he's catalogued all my habits, all my little tells. Like he knows me.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he guides me toward his car with a hand hovering near the small of my back, not quite touching.

"Dinner with some associates." The vagueness is deliberate, I'm sure. "Nothing too formal."

"Associates," I repeat, sliding into the passenger seat of his sleek black Audi. "Interesting euphemism."

His mouth quirks as he closes my door, and I watch through the windshield as he rounds the hood. Every movement is fluid, contained power, like a predator that doesn't need to rush because the prey isn't going anywhere.

When he slides in beside me, the car suddenly feels too small, his cologne filling the space between us—something woody and expensive that clings to my senses.

"Would you prefer I call them business partners? Colleagues?" He starts the engine, the car purring to life. "Friends?"

I snort at that last one. "I wasn't aware men like you had friends."

"Men like me?" His eyes stay on the road, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. "And what kind of man am I, Kendra?"

I turn to look out the window, watching the city lights blur together. "The dangerous kind."

He doesn't respond, and I don't look at him, but I feel his eyes on me at the next stoplight, a weight that raises goosebumps along my bare arms.

The restaurant is upscale but not ostentatious—the kind of place with no prices on the menu and waitstaff that appear and disappear like ghosts. Enzo guides me through the main dining area to a private room in the back, his hand finally making contact with my lower back. Even through the fabric of my dress, his touch burns.

Inside, two couples are already seated at a round table. The men rise when we enter—one older with salt-and-pepper hair, the other around our age with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Their companions are polished, beautiful women who smile at me with varying degrees of warmth.

"Kendra, this is Vincent and his wife Elena, and Marco with his date, Sophia." Enzo's introduction is smooth, his thumb tracing small circles against my back as he speaks.

I smile, shake hands, play my part. Over the next two hours, I watch Enzo navigate the conversation with calculated charm, slipping between Italian and English when speaking to the men about things they clearly don't want me to understand. I catch enough to know it's business—shipments, territories, profits.

Throughout dinner, Enzo's attention never fully leaves me, even when he's deep in discussion with Vincent. His hand finds my knee under the table, fingers trailing along the hem of my dress. When he leans close to ask if I want more wine, his breath tickles my ear, winding me so tight with a need I desperately try to control.

By dessert, I'm wound so tight I can barely breathe normally. Every accidental brush of his arm against mine, every time his thigh presses against my leg when he shifts in his seat—it's a deliberate assault on my composure.

When we finally exit the restaurant, I'm relieved to escape the scrutiny of the others, but then it's just us again, walking down a dimly lit hallway toward the back exit where his car is parked.

Enzo stops suddenly, turning to face me in a recessed alcove, backing me against the wall without ever actually touching me. He's so close I can see the tiny flecks of silver in his gray eyes, smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath.

"You were quiet tonight," he murmurs, reaching up to brush a curl from my face, his knuckles grazing my cheek.

"I was observing." I tilt my chin up, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. "Learning."

His lips curve into that maddening half-smile. "And what did you learn?"

"That you're exactly who I thought you were."

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, challenge. He leans closer, one arm braced against the wall beside my head. His other hand catches my wrist, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point.

"I think you're learning how much you want me," he says, voice low and smooth.

I huff a laugh, ignoring the racing of my heart beneath his fingertips. "That's just wishful thinking."

Enzo smirks, a slow, knowing thing that makes heat pool low in my belly. "If I kissed you, you'd never forgive yourself." His thumb drags against the inside of my wrist, pulse pounding beneath. "You'd like it too much."

---