Page 6 of A Very Rossi Christmas
The thing was... no matter how much I tried, I couldn't make myself believe that Joseph Rossi would ever actually hurt me.
Though that didn't mean I was going to lay around and take the chance. When you'd lived with the mob as long as I had, you knew that nine times out of ten, those sorts of emotions—the kind where you thought some guy had feelings for you and wouldn't hurt you—usually turned out to be wrong.
4
JOSEPH
NOT MY FUCKING PROBLEM
I watched as Brooks said something, her eyes on me, and Sloane answered, her mouth caught up in a grim expression that could have been either suspicion or disappointment. I saw her hand go to the bag next to her and feel for something... then withdraw.
Good girl, I thought, though I suspected she hadn't found what she was searching for. Still, the fact that she felt for something in her bag meant that she usually carried something she'd be grabbing for if she saw someone she didn't expect on the beach.
I hoped it was extremely small, for those tiny hands of hers, and that it was at least strong enough to stop a man in his path if he was running at her.
And then I gave myself a mental slap for thinking any of that at all. Sloane wasn't my fucking problem. She wasn't my sister, she wasn't my charge, and I didn't think I could even call her a friend anymore. What the fuck did I care if she generally carried a gun in her purse, just in case?
Ididn'tcare, and that was that. It had just been a momentary slip-up. A lifetime of training on how to protect yourself, and appreciation for the fact that she'd obviously received the same training.
I glared at her, hating that I'd even wondered whether she could protect herself, and realized how stupid it had been to ever doubt it. Sloane had learned how to shoot a gun before I had, and I'd seen her go toe-to-toe with kids twice her size on the street if she thought they'd insulted her family.
The girl was tiny, but man did she pack a punch. Anyone who crossed her temper was in big trouble.
Not that I cared.
She wasn't my fucking problem. Not that she ever had been.
But for a girl who'd never been my problem... Lord in fucking Heaven, did she look good in a bikini. Back in New York, we'd worked hard never to go anywhere that anyone in our families might see us, and that meant that though we had swimming pools available to us, we hadn't exactly gone to them together.
I'd never seen her in so little.
And my body was definitely taking notice of those curves, which her tiny red bikini did more to enhance than hide.
I groaned and allowed myself a stretch, groaning anew as the semi between my legs rubbed against the sand underneath me.
Then I caught myself and jerked my attention from my cock to the girl in front of me. It wasn't the first time the tiny, red-haired spitfire had affected me that way, but that had been a very long time ago. A different life, really.
Two different people.
These days, I was the rising star in my family, and she was...
Leaving. She was leaving.
I narrowed my eyes as she and Brooks started hastily putting their things into their bags, their eyes still on me like they thought I was going to jump up and run over there to do who knew what before they got the hell out of there.
As if I didn't have anything better to do than go harass them when they weren't the reason I was in LA.
The two of them stood up, gave me long looks, and then deliberately turned their backs on me and walked away, their asses swaying with the action and their backs stiff.
The cocky bitches.
I growled again, and this time it didn't have anything to do with how turned on I was at the sight of my one-time friend in almost nothing.
This time it was frustration.
What the hell was Sloane doing in LA, and why was she walking around without any security? Where were the guys who should have been watching her back? Why didn't she have at least one guard?
Why was she on her own, but for her best friend?
