Page 66 of For Your Eyes Only
Size?
My brow furrows, and again, I type a quick reply.Seven medium.
A new chat window pops up on my screen, and BigBoi is back.You’re welcome to cry on my shoulder any time. Just don’t tell my wife.
Ew! I groan loudly. “Why am I doing this again?”
Bianca doesn’t even look up. “Because you make more money in a day than you would in a month—two months—as a housekeeper or a seamstress. Because it allows you to live in this awesome condo. Because it’s going to help you get home.”
My lips twist, and I realize I’m not as excited about getting home as I used to be. I still don’t have a work visa. One of the ways we’ve kept it a secret is The Rhino pays me in cash, and we used PayPal to set up my Private Eyes account. I’m not sure if working online through a service based in the UK is a technicality that would save me from deportation, but hopefully I’ll never have to worry about it.
“Can I stop now?” I give Bianca puppy eyes.
She looks up at the clock. “You’ve been online for an hour.” With a shrug, she returns to her nails. “If you want to stop you can. It’s long enough, but you might offend them.”
I’m already slapping my laptop closed. Bending my knees, I rest my forehead on my hands. Three weeks ago, all I could think about was getting back to Italy. Now, the thought of leaving makes my stomach hurt.
I can’t go on this way, but what choice do I have?
CHAPTER19
TRIP
“Someone’s trying to find her.” Franco stands at his laptop, frowning severely. “They’re using a bot to ping every password on the Private Eyes site.”
“Fuck. Who would do that?” My brow furrows.
“I have a guess.”
“You think that guy has the resources for that?”
“Only one way to find out. Our security team is trying to isolate it, so we can trace the location.”
My phone pings, and I glance to see a text from Grish.Call me.
Grinding my jaw, I slide the phone in my inside pocket, but I can’t keep ignoring his texts.
It's been a week since our first night together. A glorious week—a week of breakfast in bed and late-night suppers and orgasms and thinking crazy-big dreams.
It’s another week I shouldn’t be away from Manhattan, but it’s a week I wouldn’t have missed for my life.
God, Gia is amazing. I love getting out of bed in the morning to find her in my kitchen making coffee. I’ll go to where she’s standing, move her hair off her shoulder and bury my face in the scent of honeysuckle on her skin. Her shoulder rises and she giggles, and my stomach tightens like a fucking drum.
Thursday night, she made spaghetti for me. Authentic, hand-rolled, spaghetti with crushed tomato and basil sauce. I’ve never tasted anything so good—not even at the finest restaurants in New York. I found a bottle of expensive red wine. It was heaven, but the best part was watching her with her hair tied up on her head, barefoot in a wrap dress with a plunging V-neck, pulling the long strands of noodles out of the pot. She would hold them over her mouth, and my dick would stand at attention.
Franco found out I was sleeping with her in the most mundane way. He came by my apartment to drop off the new building contracts and saw her in my bed.
His black eyes met mine, ice cold, and for the first time since I’ve been old enough to care, I couldn’t meet his critical gaze.
Fuck him. I know what I’m doing.
I’m sleeping with one of our dancers. I’m crossing every line. I’m being unprofessional and undisciplined, and what happens if things don’t work out? The thought tightens my throat. I can’t let her go.
Now he’s standing in front of me telling me someone is stalking her?
“Who’s trying to find her?” My tone is less controlled than I’d prefer.
I’m not the same person with her. In New York, I’m an unreadable wall. If anyone gets too close or threatens me, I slip the mask in place. Poker face.