Page 70 of The Woman on the Jury

“This is ridiculous,” I said, watching him sigh and tuck his phone away.

“What is ridiculous?” he asked, finally giving me his full attention.

“Oh, I don’t know. Everything here. The champagne. The personal shopper. Thepriceon the pants.”

Brows pinching, Cosimo pushed off the wall, and moved into the dressing room, making a beeline for the racks of clothes, picking up a tag, and checking the price himself.

“I’m not seeing the problem,” he said.

“They’re six hundred dollars. Forpants. Pants. What? Are the stitches made out of spun gold?” I asked.

“They’re well-made pants. They will last. Why do you care?” he asked.

“It’s too much,” I insisted.

“That’s for me to decide,” he said.

I’m not proud to admit this, but some part of me was, well, feeling a little swoony. I mean, you can’t be spoon-fed fairy tales and romantic movies since you were a little girl without harboring at least a small amount of wishfulness toward the fantasy of a rich, successful man wanting to pamper the hell out of you.

But the adult, practical woman that I was, knew that there was nothing for free in this world. That people didn’t spend their well-earned money to buy you an entire wardrobe of designer clothes without something being expected in turn.

And, well, the last kind of man you wanted to be indebted to was one who was in the business of, you know, breaking kneecaps and murdering people.

“I’m not picking anything,” I said, chin jerking up.

“Then you will get everything in here, whether you like the items or not,” he said, stalking over toward me, towering over me.

I’m not proud of this fact, but I totally took a step back.

Then another.

Until the wall prevented me from going any further.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, hearing a tightness in my chest, but comforting myself that only I would know it was from desire. He probably heard fear or something like that.

“Why are you being so stubborn?” he countered.

“I could buy clothes at literally any other store.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you get some sort of thrill out of acting like a petulant child?” he asked, making me jerk back.

“What? I’m not acting like a child. I’m actually the only one being reasonable here. You want to buy thousands and thousands of dollars of clothes that I don’t want, that’s on you,” I said, trying to take a step to the side, only to find his hand slamming down into the wall, trapping me.

“You’re gonna try to tell me,” he said, the fingers on his free hand pinching the hem of my shirt, “that you don’t love how this feels on your skin?” he asked, the knuckles of his hand sliding up over my belly, then my breast.

My breath caught, and an involuntary shiver coursed through me as his finger slid over my nipple.

I could feel my lips part even as my gaze slid up to his, finding his eyes heavy-lidded as they looked down at me.

“I mean, if you really don’t like it…” he said.

His hand was off my breast then.

And the other was suddenly off of the wall.

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