Page 72 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
Someone had to have done so, for her to be so brazen on the outside but innocent when that tough outer layer of hers is scratched. I look at the rumpled bed and Bonnie’s clothes lying around, and I automatically start to straighten the room, even though no bolt of anxiety drives that need for once.
I’m about to knock on the bathroom door, worried she’s taking too long, when the door opens. I see that she’s had a shower and gotten dressed.
“Bonnie.” I go to her, but she holds herself rigidly away. She’s asking me not to touch her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Our flight leaves at nine. I need to go.”
She's freaking out alright.“You can hop on my jet. I’ll take you back home.”
She pins me with a fierce look. “So just because we had a little romp in bed, you think you can call the shots? Well, Harvard, that's not how it works.”
She swipes her now neatly-folded nightwear off the bed and roughly stuffs it in her bag, then turns to leave.
Heaven, give me the strength to deal with this woman.
“It’s okay to be vulnerable, Bonnie. Whatever happened in the past to make you think otherwise was wrong.”
She whirls on me “Don’t attempt to psychoanalyze me, Ethan. I don’t do clingy. It was an orgasm, get over it.”
“Well, Bonnie, I don’t do fake. I told you weeks ago that I want the real you, not the front you put up when you’re feeling out of your depth. If you can’t show me that, then you’re right, maybe you should go.”
She huffs, then leaves me standing in the middle of the room.
She ran like a bat out of hell and never once made eye contact with me.
Fucking hell.I stare at the spot she was a minute ago. I know exactly why she’s running. Too bad there’s nowhere for her to hide anymore. I see her now, clear as day.
I'd spent the last few months avoiding her, dodging this exact scenario for so many reasons.
But the hat’s over the damn wall now. I'm already stuck in this sexy, bratty, brilliant, messy ride that’s Bonnie Russo.
As soon as Bonnie leaves, I go into the office and make a call. I'd been in the middle of a meeting when Bonnie came in last night and I had to leave the video chat abruptly.
"Gino" I say when he finally picks up, "just checking in."
Giovanni 'Gino' DiStefano is one of my clients. He's only thirty-three years old, but he rules the underbelly of New York with an iron fist.
Five years ago, Gino approached me, offering his friendship and protection, but I already knew who he was and exactly what he wanted.
He wanted me on his security team, not only because of my skills but specifically because of the access I have to the Federal Cyberintelligence Bureau, FCB, database.
I expected threats, instead, he wooed me for months. By the fifth month of gaming, chatting, and playful ribbing, we'd become unlikely friends, and I'd already started looking out for him, even in the absence of a firm agreement.
Now I secure all his devices, protect his accounts, websites and online transactions. I encrypt his emails and telephone calls and monitor his digital footprint. Most importantly, I keep an eye out for what the Feds have on him. In exchange, I have his loyalty. Ensuring my security is just a perk that comes with the territory.
You could call me his FCB mole among other things. He has another person like me in the CIA, and possibly the NSA.
"You're checking in twice in less than twenty-four hours?" Gino replies, "You must really love me. Oh, I already know you're in L.A., you told me last night."
He sounds just as tired and groggy as he did last night.
"It's just in case you didn't remember, we got cut off last night—"
"Oh did we? I went in for a meeting after that." I'm surprised since Gino was barely holding up his eyelids during our meeting last night.
"You shouldn't have Gino, you were dead on your feet. Anything I need to know about?"
"Doesn't take any brain cell to threaten someone." Gino says.