Page 20 of His Dark Vendetta

“It’s…” I rocked my head from side to side. “An after-hours club. Members only.”

She arched one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

I shrugged a shoulder. “You’re the GM of my zio’s flagship resort.” I leveled her with a serious look. “He trusts you. I trust you.”

“Gotcha.” She made a zipping gesture across her lips. “The NDA I signed when I started working at Terme was epic.”

I laughed. “No doubt.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” Her lips twitched around her declaration, and the wariness reached her eyes. They darted around the room as if she’d walked into a lion’s den and was looking for an escape. “Besides, Marco has been nothing but good to me.”

“Come on,” I said and pressed her forward. “Let’s get a drink.”

We sat at the bar, and her tension eased as we talked about Marco, Terme, and the resorts I operated in Italy. We drank. We laughed. Conversation came natural and easy, and after a year of thirty-minute lunches, coffee breaks, and quick how-are-yous, we didn’t stop until we’d drained two cocktails a piece and were the only ones left in the club. I was wide awake with jet lag, and Siobhán didn’t appear to be flagging at all.

“You want another one?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she said with a sultry turn to her voice.

I gave her a once over. “I don’t know where you put it.”

She laughed and swatted my arm. “I’m Irish. I have a reputation to uphold.” She stuck the tip of her tongue between her front teeth, and fuck if I didn’t want to kiss that mischievous expression right off her face.

“Enzo.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Grab us another round and then you can go for the night. I’ll lock up.”

His eyes darted to Siobhán and back to me. “You sure?”

“I’ve got it.”

“All right,” he said. He pulled the bar rag off his shoulder and pointed it at me. “Don’t fuck up my bar.”

I chuckled and held up my hands. “We’re going to play some pool, then we’re outta here.” I looked at Siobhán and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes!” She hopped off the barstool, made a beeline for the pool table, and started racking the balls. I stared after her in awe.

She’s perfect.

Enzo poured a dirty martini and raised an eyebrow, the slow movement full of judgment.

“Relax,” I said and sipped my scotch.

He washed out the shaker, put it in the drying rack, and grabbed his keys off the back counter. “Later, Luca.” He walked around the end of the bar toward the break room.

Siobhán started chalking a cue. I handed her the martini, and we clinked glasses. “Salute.”

“Sláinte,” she replied with a wicked grin and sipped her drink, never breaking eye contact.

I set my scotch on one of the high tops. “You want to break?” I rolled up my shirtsleeves.

She shrugged. “I’ll do my best.”

She placed the cue ball on the felt, lined up her shot, and without releasing me from her mischievous stare, broke.

The balls scattered across the table in a perfect break. Siobhán walked around the end of the table and lined up her next shot. “Stripes,” she declared and sank the number fourteen in the far corner pocket.

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