The Man in Black_A Standalone Mafia Romance Page 10

  “But why did you give one only to me? Why didn’t you give one to Marliya, for example? You seem to be...friends too?” Turning, I look up at him through my lashes.

  “Are we friends?” he answers with a question, as usual.

  “Are we?” With the help of some liquid courage, I go on my tiptoes a little, my lips only a hairsbreadth from his.

  “Don’t do that,” he whispers, his chest rising and falling.

  “What?” I tilt my head.

  “You know what I mean – as you would say,” he points out, glimpsing at my dimple.

  “What’s wrong with a little harmless flirtation?”

  “You think this is harmless?” he returns.

  “Do you not?” I throw back, our eyes locking as I inhale his fresh musk scent.

  “No,” he answers with conviction and steps back to leave the kitchen in a few fluid strides.

  The attraction I’ve been feeling grows instead of shrinks, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but I scrap his warning of last Thursday that this is a bad idea. Determined, I shadow him, yet everyone has congregated at the other end of the bar beside the banquette. I join them, stopping opposite Michael as he sinks down on the cushion with self-assurance, crossing his ankle over his knee and concentrating on Adriano, who’s standing at the bar.

  “Is everyone here?” Adriano asks Gianni, who nods, so Adriano focuses on the group gathered around him in a circle. “Guys, Palermo has been a huge success ever since opening night two weeks ago. You’ve all worked hard, and on behalf of the entire management team, we’d like to thank you.” Then he addresses Gianni next to him, “Thank you for your food, of course.” And he looks at me. “Thank you to our pastry chef, whose desserts are quickly becoming famous in the Loop.”

  I feel my lips bowing upward, sensing a familiar bond forming between me and Adriano, who’s the nicest boss.

  “Brielle has developed a new cake dessert that we’re adding to the menu, and she’s made a batch for us to taste.”

  “That’s awesome. I’m starving! What kind of cake is it?” Marliya’s clearly tipsy, just like me.

  “Rum cake,” Adriano answers as I study Michael, his astounded ashy-grey gaze hitting me like lightning before a crease wrinkles his forehead.

  Then he mouths, “My cakes?”

  I nod once, and he sends me a lopsided grin as we watch each other as if no one’s in the room with us. He eyes me with a lazy, confident smile that holds all the promises in the world.

  Adriano lifts his glass. “Gianni will bring out the dessert. Enjoy your night off. Salute.”

  Everyone brings up their beverage just when Fallon halts beside me and hands me another champagne flute.

  “Thanks,” I say as she finger-combs her side-swept bangs. “But I’m not sure I should drink more champagne.”

  “You don’t have to drive, do you? So enjoy.”

  At that moment, Gianni returns from the kitchen with two large cartons. When he reaches the bar where we’re all assembled, each employee grabs a cake, and I snatch one up.

  With my cake and champagne in hand, I wander over to Michael, who’s nursing a scotch and hasn’t moved from his position, seated like a royal, lazing back with his ankle crossed over his knee, his black jacket handsomely hanging open.

  “Didn’t you get a cake?” I keep standing since he’s on the end of the banquette with Luca on the other side.

  “I’ll get one in a second.” He jerks his chin at the line. “If there are any left.”

  I hold out my plate. “Have mine.” Yet he simply stares at it. “This one’s really good. I added a little twist to make it worthy of being on Palermo’s menu.”

  Michael’s eyes crinkle. “No, you eat it. I think you need some sustenance to absorb all the alcohol.”

  “I think we all needed some sugar,” I retort and survey the familiar atmosphere – everyone’s letting loose.

  Without thinking, I go back to the bar and grab a fork, and when I return, Michael takes my glass and places it on the floor. Then I dig into my cake and offer some to him again. Instead of shrinking back, he folds his fingers around my wrist, igniting my nerves, and opens his mouth to accept the bite. Sliding out the fork when he releases me, I wait while he chews and has a moment of reflective silence.

  “There’s an orangey taste,” he says.

  “Yes! Do you like it?”

  “It’s delicious,” he answers and scoots over, inviting me to sit beside him.

  Elated, I perch on the edge of the cushion, practically leaning against him, so he lifts his arm and places it on the back of the banquette. Falling backward a little, I end up in the crook of his shoulder and just stay there.

  Then I hear one of the waiters as he stands opposite Luca. “And you, Luca?”

  “I’m not playing this game,” Luca comments.

  So the guy addresses Michael, “And you? One-night stands. How many have you had?”

  Michael and Luca exchange a sneaky glance, and I assume that Michael is probably going to refuse as well, but he replies, “Too many.”

  To which the waiter grins salaciously and looks at me. “Brielle, you?”

  “I’ve had one.” I take a bite of my cake, feeling more sluggish by the second.

  “Really?” Michael asks.

  “Yes, one, and I hated it, so I don’t do one-night stands. They’re awkward.” I slice off another piece of cake and bring the fork to his lips.

  Michael dips his head and opens his mouth to eat it. Our gazes meet and I can tell by the red veins in his eyes that the reason he seems less guarded is because he might be a bit drunk too.

  “It’s the walk of shame the day after that’s awkward,” the waiter puts in, causing us to chuckle.

  I whisper to Michael, “So how many are too many?”

  “I’m exaggerating, but it’s more than one,” he replies right before I give him another bite.

  Jealousy blisters in my gut, although I knew he had to have a past with numerous women. And since no one has managed to make him want to settle down, maybe he is just a womanizer? Deep down, I don’t believe it. Or perhaps my infatuation with him prevents me from believing it.

  “I guessed it would be more than one,” I accidentally mutter out loud, and his stare shoots to me as he lifts a brow, his perpetual scowl gone, probably due to the alcohol.

  Before he can reply, the waiter interrupts, “We’re going to a club. Are you coming?”

  “No,” Michael and I respond in harmony and then smile at each other as I realize we have more and more in common.

  “Not a dance club kind of guy?” I probe.

  “Not really, but why don’t you go?”

  “I hate clubs. I went to a lot of them when I was eighteen and got it out of my system.”

  “So you don’t go out?”

  “No. Not to clubs.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “I go to as many restaurants as I can; that’s my form of going out. My life practically revolves around food.”

  He barks out a laugh. “That’s a good hobby, I’d say.”

  “What do you do to relax?”

  “We go out to dinner a lot too. Adriano, Luca, and I. And I kickbox.”

  “I’ve been wanting to do that too. They say it’s great for muscle toning.”

  He glances down my front and takes a sip of his scotch to hide a grin while I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Resting against him, I suddenly realize that he hasn’t tensed up and that I’m actually feeding him just as I give him the last bite of rum cake. At that moment, I catch Luca frowning at our familiarity, so I lean forward, my thigh still pressing against Michael’s.

  “Come on. Come with us,” the guy insists as everyone else is gathering at the front entrance across the room, putting on their coats.

  “No thanks,” I repeat as Michael shakes his head and I place the fork on the banquette.

  All of a sudden, Luca stands up and points at us. “Are you two drunk?”r />
  “Probably,” I answer.

  “Slightly,” Michael replies.

  “Get a cab then.”

  “I was planning on it,” Michael agrees, and I frown as he hands his scotch to Luca.

  But Michael grabs my hand and pulls me upward, seizing my arm and effortlessly steadying me when I stumble on my heels. “We’ll take a cab together.”

  “Oh, okay.” His words make me forget everything going on around me.

  My vision a little blurry, I blink and blink, gripping his hand when he turns to lead the way. Michael freezes for a split-second before he entwines our fingers, and I’m achingly aware of his large, warm hand around mine as he tows me forward.

  When we near the kitchen, I sluggishly motion toward it. “My coat and purse.”

  Michael stops at the table closest to the entrance and releases my hand. “I’ll get it. Wait here.” Going straight to the door, he disappears through it and quickly returns with my salmon coat and purse.

  As I start to walk toward him, he rushes up to me, placing my coat on my shoulders, and since I’m still unsteady, I plant my hands against his strong chest. He grips my waist firmly, and when I look up at him, I notice that his gaze looks unfocused as well.

  While we stumble out the entrance to the curb, he loops an arm around my shoulder. An icy wind blows my hair around my face and I clutch my coat as he raises his arm to hail the cab that’s driving by. When the driver brakes right in front of us, Michael wrenches free from me and opens the door, motioning for me to get in. I climb inside and he claims the seat next to me, our legs not touching.

  “We need to go to Riverdale first,” Michael says to a middle-aged, overweight cabdriver, who nods before pulling onto the darkened street.

  My eyelids get heavy as the car speeds on, and when my head falls back, I inch over slightly to let it drop on his shoulder.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” Michael speaks, and my lids fly open as I glance up to find him peering down at me, more relaxed than usual.

  Casually, he loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his black dress shirt, and as I move to rest my head against him once more, he arcs a brow in inquiry.

  “Oh, sorry.” I sit up straight, an inch separating us. “I forgot that touching is forbidden,” I say just as the cab takes a sharp turn, and when I slide into Michael, I quickly add, “That wasn’t my fault.”

  Amusement wreathes his face. “I’m used to it by now from you.” Then he grimaces as if he’s taken aback that he said it out loud.

  I look up, bringing us nose-to-nose, and I wonder why it is that we find ourselves alone together so often. Before I have a chance to think about it, my stomach rumbles and I purse my lips. “Ooh, I’m nauseous.” I straighten, my hand flying to my belly.

  Michael’s eyes widen as I bend forward, and I hear him saying, “Take a left here and stop at the Blackhall. She’s nauseous. Hurry.”

  “Hey! I don’t need anyone puking in my car!” the driver snarls.

  “She won’t. Now hurry,” Michael returns in a low tone, and the driver doesn’t respond.

  Unexpectedly, I feel a warm palm rubbing my back, soothing me. Within what feels like seconds, the car brakes and Michael leaps out, rounding it so fast that before I can even grab the door handle, he yanks it open and extends his hand, which I accept and step out. I see that he’s still clutching my purse as he winds his arm around me again, and I lean all my weight against him.

  “Wait here. Keep the meter running,” Michael orders.

  I examine the impressive glass high-rise as he escorts me through an enormous reception area with sparkling beige tiles covering the floor and walls. We pass a female receptionist who’s professionally dressed in a black suit on our way to the far side of the lobby where there are four elevators.

  After Michael pushes the call button and one of them slides open, he guides me in and has it take us to the fifth floor. Within a moment, the doors swoosh open into a wide grey-painted hallway and Michael and I go to the first door on the right, which he unlocks, and I follow him inside.

  Immediately, I’m distracted by the spacious living room that has two seating areas with black leather couches pushed against the tall floor-to-ceiling windows with charcoal drapes. When I inch forward, my heels click off the hardwood floor as I eye a cedar staircase in the middle of the room that runs up to a mezzanine level. Along the wall to my left is an aquarium without any water that’s at least six feet long and almost as wide.

  “Your house looks like a museum,” I burst out, then I glance over my shoulder to catch Michael grinning. “Beautiful, but a museum, nonetheless.”

  Michael disregards me and goes in the opposite direction, walking beneath the staircase and to the right into the L-shaped black designer kitchen where he grabs a coke from the fridge. Returning to me, he pops the top and hands it over. “Here. It’ll help with your nausea.”

  “Thanks.” After I down a few huge gulps, I let out a soft burp, feeling relieved instantly, and I motion to the aquarium. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a terrarium that I’ve made into a temperate woodland habitat,” he explains, moving beside me as I inspect the miniature green jungle that he’s created with pebbles, leaf litter, plants, and soil, yet I don’t see any animals.

  “It’s stunning. Are there any animals in it?” I scrutinize the soil.

  Michael takes my chin in hand and turns my head to the right.

  “I have two chameleons. There’s one,” he says at the same time I notice the slightly different green color and then the contours of the chameleon as he hides in plain sight.

  “Oh, wow. His colors are gorgeous. It looks like he’s painted green. So you have reptiles for pets?” I ask, and he just studies me for a moment as I blink repeatedly because my vision is becoming increasingly blurred.

  “Yes, I had them in New York – they’re the only thing I brought with me.”

  “They’re your dogs,” I say, teasing.

  He smirks yet moves to the side and searches for the second chameleon. “The other one’s always hiding.”

  “I don’t see him.” I take another sip of the coke and wander alongside the terrarium, placing the can on top before I halt. “There he is.” I gesture to a purple lizard with a long green tail behind a trimmed scrub of greenery.

  Michael stops right next to me, his movements lazy yet as controlled as usual. His glassy gaze meets mine, but he doesn’t back away. And even though I want to express my feelings to him, I simply say, “I had fun tonight.”

  “So did I,” he reveals, his stare drifting over my face.

  I lift my hand and slide his tie between my fingers, confessing, “I’m glad you had fun.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you needed it and because the fun was with me,” I confess, and his eyes widen for a split-second before silence stretches on.

  “You’re drunk. You should go home,” he murmurs.

  “Should I?” I dare to ask when he doesn’t move, and the alcohol gives me the courage to inch forward. “Do you want me to go?”

  “What I want and what is going to happen are two very different things,” he whispers.

  “I don’t want to go,” I mutter against his mouth, looking up through my lashes as his breath quickens.

  Apparently, it’s true that drunk people tell the truth.

  Anticipation pounds in my chest while I wait for his response.

  Will he send me away?

  CHAPTER 18

  Michael

  “I DON’T WANT TO GO.” Brielle regards me carefully and I drown in her intense green gaze that seems to see straight through me.

  Granted, I haven’t taken my own advice and stayed away, and all the champagne isn’t helping either. My mind is all over the place while I fight to concentrate and keep control over the situation, but the combination of that blue dress that’s snugly wrapped around her curves, teasing me of what’s hidden beneath, and her long, wavy blonde hair that ends at
her cleavage makes her an unconventional siren.

  Or am I already fighting a losing battle?

  Because she’s the first woman to be in my apartment.

  Because all I think about is how genuinely kind it is of her to still make the rum cakes, even after I rejected her. There’s a maturity to Brielle I didn’t notice before, and the more I get to know her, the more it shines through.

  For some reason, I caution her, “You should stay away from me, Brielle.”

  “It’s too late for that warning, Carrion,” she counters around a tempting whisper, and I like the way she uses my last name.

  Without thinking, I run my thumb across her plump bottom lip, making her breath lodge. While I wonder if she’s bold enough to make the first move again, she edges forward and slants her mouth over mine. My hands weave into her hair and I grip the roots, guiding her with desperation as our kiss deepens, our tongues entwining in a passionate foray. When her coat falls from her shoulders, I fold my hands around her narrow waist and slam her up against the terrarium, growling as she clings to me, her fingers grasping my nape.

  My cock stiffens at record speed and I lose control completely, cupping her full breast as we grind into each other. Then my lips find the curve of her throat, my tongue teasing along the line of her pulse. As I skim my hands down her sides, I hungrily grab her sweet, full ass again, forcing her on her tiptoes to feel her voluptuous body molding against my hardening groin. But when she strokes my face, something cold touches my jaw and I freeze, my stare locked on the silver bracelet that transports me back in time, trapped in a memory.

  “Why do you always wear that bracelet?” I ask Rachel.

  “It has sentimental value and reminds me of my old life.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes. When you’re busy and I feel lonely,” she confesses.

  I stay quiet, not knowing how to respond. She knew I was the boss of the New York Syndicate, even before she accepted my proposal, but occasionally, I wonder if she’s strong enough for my world.

  “Michael?” Brielle’s soft voice brings me back to the present, but the past won’t release me as I straighten, attempting to focus through my inebriation.