Page 22 of Indigo Deception
"Mr. Bellanti." I nod professionally, clutching my briefcase.
His eyes rake over me, lingering on my lips. The memory of what happened the last time hangs between us, electric and unacknowledged.
He scowls. “I've been inside you, Sarah, don't insult me by calling me that.”
Heat rises to my face. "I'm here for work." I'm painfully aware of how we've been orbiting each other since what happened at his father's estate. He's seemed on the verge of bringing it up ever since then, but I haven't given him the chance. It’s clear he doesn't like it, so I'm grateful that he doesn't push it.
"Of course you are." He gestures to a dining table covered in papers. "Hong Kong's a mess. We need to restructure before the Kovacs get their hands on our shipping operations."
For the next few hours, we pore over documents. I try to memorize every detail for my report to Kaif. This is exactly what the SEC needs—concrete evidence of the family’s international money laundering operations.
Every time Angelo leans close to point at something, his cologne intoxicates me. When our fingers brush over spreadsheets, electricity shoots up my arm. I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm absorbed in the numbers, his gaze heavy with unspoken desire.
Outside, the sky darkens. Thunder cracks, making me jump. Angelo glances at the windows where rain now lashes against the glass.
"Terrible storm," he mutters, pulling out his phone. He scrolls through something, frowning. "They've issued flash flood warnings. Roads are already underwater in parts of the city."
I check my watch. "I should go before it gets worse."
"Don't be ridiculous." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You're staying here tonight."
My pulse quickens. This is simultaneously the worst thing that could happen and the best opportunity I've had.
"I couldn't impose—"
"It's not an imposition. It's common sense." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look almost boyish. "I won't be responsible for you drowning in a flooded subway tunnel."
I nod, trying to look reluctant. "Thank you."
He steps away to take a call, and I instantly switch into agent mode. This is my chance. I pull a small transmitter from my purse and slip it beneath the edge of the coffee table.
As I approach his bookshelf, looking for another placement opportunity, I hear his footsteps.
"Looking for something?" His voice is casual, but I detect a hint of suspicion.
My heart races. "Reading material," I stammer. "In case I can't sleep."
He studies me for a moment, and I'm certain he's about to call my bluff. Then his phone rings again.
"Kovacs," he mutters, glancing at the screen. "Help yourself to whatever you want. Make yourself at home."
While he was on the call, I strategically placed two more transmitters around his office. Each one is smaller than a dime, virtually undetectable.
Later, Angelo insists I take his master bedroom while he sleeps in the guest room. I protest, but he just smirks.
"Even criminals have manners, Little Auditor."
I slip into his bedroom immediately overwhelmed by his scent—expensive cologne and something uniquely him. I change into the t-shirt he's lent me, which falls to my thighs. Sleep doesn't come. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the storm rage outside, mirroring the conflict inside me.
Around 3 AM, I give up on sleep and wander the penthouse. I find Angelo in his office, bathed in the blue light of his computer screen, his shoulders tense.
"Can't sleep?" he asks without looking up.
"Too much on my mind."
He finally turns to face me, and his expression transforms. For a moment, his eyes drop to my legs, bare beneath his t-shirt, and something flashes in his expression—hunger, definitely, but vulnerability too. Something raw and unfiltered that makes my breath catch.
"I know the feeling." He rubs his eyes. "There's Scotch in the cabinet."
