Page 15 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

I grabbed the bottle of bourbon from his hand.

“Hey.” The bartender reached for the bottle, but I slammed a few hundred-dollar bills on the counter and shot him a cocky grin paired with a glare that could crack through granite.

“Fine,” he conceded and slipped the money into his pocket before he walked away.

I tossed back a large gulp of bourbon and refilled the glass myself when I noticed from the corner of my eye a woman taking the seat next to me.

“Martini, please,” I heard her say, then snuck a glance.

Fair skin. Blonde hair. Skinny. Too skinny. But I suppose most men preferred their women all tiny and petite. Me, on the other hand? I liked my women with sexy curves I could grab in my palm, feel their flesh burn for me.

My gaze dropped to her dress. A red fucking dress. I rolled my eyes and focused on the drink in front of me. Were there no other color dresses in New York, or was this just the universe’s way of tossing me a giant fuck-you?

“I haven’t seen you around here.” Her voice was light. Friendly. Yet I shot my gaze up to the ceiling. The universe was definitely fucking with me.

“Just moved into the neighborhood.” I gave her the best smile I could muster and tipped my glass in her direction before taking a sip.

“The accent,” she continued, “Italian?”

I sighed, not in the mood for small talk. “Yes. I’m from Italy.”

“I had one of my best vacations there in Milan a few years back.”

I let out a breath. Even though I wasn’t the best of company tonight, I decided not to be a dick and turned toward her, extending a hand. “Saint Russo.”

“Lillian Walters.” Her dark chocolate eyes twinkled under the soft light of the bar as she took my hand. “Saint. That’s an interesting name.”

“Not really.” I turned back in my seat.

“Business or pleasure?”

I glanced at her with a cocked brow.

She smiled, her full lips accentuated with cherry-red lipstick. “Are you in town for business or pleasure?”

I swirled the glass in my hand, studying her, already knowing her game. The way she sat with her legs crossed, ensuring her short red dress pulled up to expose the side of her thighs. The way she brushed her blonde her from her face every ten seconds while pursing her lips, then flipping her hair over her shoulders to draw attention to her naked neck and flawless skin. This woman was screaming late-night rendezvous and meaningless sex. She practically reeked of it underneath the scent of her expensive perfume. The large hoop earrings and gold Cartier wristwatch paired with her obvious youth had her fit the bill as a rich New York socialite. Her self-confidence that had her approaching me, starting a conversation with absolutely no certainty whether I’d respond, was an indication that the little princess was used to getting what she wanted. And right now, the way her leering gaze settled on me, it was clear what she wanted was the Italian man whose Armani suit and Rolex watch gave away the size of his bank account.

I had been in this game long enough to spot bad intentions a mile away. It used to be my favorite pastime, my distraction of choice whenever I couldn’t get a grip on my thoughts. A way to silence the demons.

Until her.

Until Mila. The woman who managed to change everything without even goddamn trying.

“Uh-oh,” Lillian tucked her hair behind her ear, “I know that look.”

I suppressed the need to roll my eyes yet again. “What look?”

“The I-just-got-my-heart-broken look.”

“What makes you think I’m not the one who broke a heart?”

“The fact that you haven’t offered to buy me a drink yet.”

I snorted and glanced at her martini glass. “You already have a drink.”

“Nothing like a shot of tequila to get the conversation started.”

Was she really going to make it that easy? Not even giving a man like me a chance to chase, and simply placing herself on a silver goddamn platter ready to get fucked. I’d bet her panties were already soaked, her pussy throbbing between those crossed legs of hers.

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