Page 30 of For Your Eyes Only
“Right.” Again, I’m reminded how rich he is, how far apart our worlds are.
I give his phone back, and I’m lost in thought when my phone buzzes. Studying the screen, I try to figure out who I know with a 212 area code. “Now you have mine.”
My lips part, and I look up at him. “Thanks.”
That grin curves his lips again, and he’s looking at me like he wants to say something. God, I hope it’s not that I’m cute.
When he turns to take a call, I quickly save his number asMaritinoorHubbyin Italian. My cheeks flush, and I tuck my phone in my pocket, grinning as I trot to catch up with him.
CHAPTER9
TRIP
Idon’t know what to make of the beautiful girl standing in front of me. She’s bright and open like a sunflower, lighting up the world. Her sweetness is intoxicating, and when she speaks, her accent is adorable. Every word is laced with honey, and I’m the bee ready to consume her.
I’m a selfish prick, more like it. Gia knows nothing of my life in New York, the dirty deals and the underworld I’m entangled in. I’m not here for romance. Still, if I were… I could hardly keep my eyes off her curves in those leggings and that loose sweater.
I’m a sucker for naturally voluptuous women, obviously, ones with tiny waists and full tits and ass. Hourglass perfection. Now I’ve got two of them occupying space in my mind, sweet Gia and sinful Glitter Girl. One is a flight of fantasy, unreal, distant, disinterested, but the other is the real thing.
Gia looks at me like the man I want to be, honest and real. Curiosity, fascination, at times, I think even hunger is in the depths of her brown gaze.
And I need to get my head out of my ass.
Standing in the street, I tell her goodbye, deciding that's the end of it. Seeing Gia again would be a colossal mistake. She’s trying to get back to Italy, and even if she weren’t, an innocent little seamstress like her has no business getting mixed up with a guy like me.
She should be with a good, upstanding citizen. A man who does something useful like bake bread or make shoes.Make shoes? What the hell kind of fable am I casting her in? And why the hell does the thought of her with that fictional cobbler make me want to break things?
I don’t recognize myself these days. I’ve always been in complete control of everything and everyone, most of all myself. I’ve never been on edge like this, my blood hot at all times.
Walking up the palm-lined boulevard between the designer shops to my penthouse condo overlooking the intracoastal waterway, I think about our morning, what I learned about Gia.
It’s her birthday. She was carrying shopping bags from Carolina Herrera and Valentino. I smile at her expensive taste, then I stop in my tracks. My brow furrows.Expensive taste…
If her family can afford to send her thousands of dollars for clothes from top designer stores, why is she trying to earn money to get home?
She said her mother is dead. She wouldn’t let me drive her home or tell me where she lives.
Pulling out my phone, I scroll to Franco’s number and hit call. “What’s up, boss?” His voice is groggy, like he’s just waking up.
Squinting up at the bell tower, I see it’s almost noon. Instead of charging right into my suspicions, I start with the most pressing issue. “Any word on the guy from last night?”
“Nobody seems to know who he is.” Franco groans, and it sounds like he’s walking. “The waitresses said he paid for everything in cash, and he ran after the bouncers pulled him off her. They lost him.”
“I want his name, description, everything we have at the door. He’s not allowed in the club again.”
“Already done.” The sound of water running makes me think he’s making coffee. “It would help if we had a photo. Not everybody saw him.”
I don’t like it. “If he’s stupid enough to show up again, I want him detained. I want to know who he is, and I want him handled.”
“Consider it done.”
The line falls quiet, and the only noise is coffee preparations. My mind drifts to Gia… she loves coffee of all kinds.
“Hey, tell me what you know about these girls, Bianca and Gia.”
More silence. The sharp slam of a cabinet closing and things moving around fills the space between us.
The longer he doesn’t respond, the angrier I grow. “Franco?”