Page 52 of Beauty and the Daddy
"Luca, darling," she purrs, air-kissing both his cheeks. "And this must be your fiancée. How lovely to meet you, dear."
I paste on a smile.
Maria launches into a monologue about Italy, how we must have a proper wedding, and how I simply must let her introduce me to her favorite designer in Milan.
I try to focus, but fuck, she sounds dull.
"...don't you agree, my dear?" she asks, looking at me expectantly.
I blink. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
But my voice sounds far away, even to my own ears.
My eyes start drooping, right there on territory Luca doesn't know yet to call enemy.
Luca's arm locks around my waist. "I think my fiancée needs to rest," he tells Maria. "The long flight, you understand."
She nods, and I know she doesn't care. "Of course, darling. We'll continue this conversation tomorrow."
Luca practically carries me out to the car.
Inside the car, Rome slides past like a painting. I should be impressed.
Instead, my body feels like it's chewing me alive in its quest to stay awake.
I'm twisting my hands in my lap like I'm cramming for a pop quiz, when Luca's gaze flicks down.
Uh-oh. Busted.
Then it happens. His hand drops heavy on my knee. Warm. Possessive.
Electricity zips through me so hard I swear I feel it between my legs.
Awesome. Exactly what I need when I'm trying not to fall asleep.
"You okay?" he asks, soft like velvet.
No, I'm not okay. I'm sitting next to the Beast of New York, who looks like he eats popes for breakfast and somehow manages to make history lessons sound sexy.
"Fine," I croak. Lie of the century.
His thumb drags slowly over my knee, and my whole body jerks like he just flipped the breaker switch.
I haven't yet gotten the reality of how all those people saw me out of my head.
I can't just bring myself to tell him what they said about me because no way in hell he will believe I heard it right.
And here's the filthy truth—if I need to win his trust and their respect, really earn it, there's only one way I know how.
I need to be the good wife to him all young mafia dons want.
It's dirty. It's reckless. And God help me, it's exactly where my mind goes.
At my door,he hesitates. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then slides lower—throat, collarbone, the valley between my breasts that the dress just barely conceals.
"You should rest," he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges.
"Should I?"
