Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance (13 page)

L
ike a real life fairy tale
, a limousine pulls up outside my apartment complex at exactly nine p.m. It feels a little silly watching out the window, but I do it anyway. Despite not having given Mr. Masters my address, I knew he’d find me.

It was a given. That’s how these things work, Hollywood taught me that much.

Curious what he’s driving, I take advantage of my perfect view of the carport below to find out.

He doesn’t get out of the limo. His driver does and disappears into the entrance. Rushing to the oval mirror in my short entry, I check my appearance for the hundredth time. The turquoise wrap dress I’m wearing hugs my breasts and my waist before it flares over my hips. The color is good with my warm blond hair and makes the green in my eyes pop. Nude heels and a simple heart-shaped pendant necklace finish my outfit. Not too bad, I think, considering I wasn’t sure
what
to wear.

The intercom buzzer goes off, pulling me from the mirror. I rush to answer it, hating how my hands shake. It’s not a date. It’s just dinner, a condition of my continued employment. Part of the job. No matter how many times I tell myself this, I can’t stop trembling.

I answer the intercom, “Yes?”

“Your car is here Ms. Lundgren.”

A thrill goes through me. My car. It’s so glamorous—every girl’s dream, right? To be whisked away in a fancy car by a gorgeous man. Disgusted with myself, I reply that I’ll be right down, and grab my clutch off the kitchen counter.

There’s no room in my life for silliness. A man like Brent Masters is no Prince Charming.

There’s no such thing as Prince Charming. Hollywood couldn’t get
that
one by me.

I mull tonight over as I head downstairs. My nerves get worse as I leave the building and approach the car. The driver opens the door for me and I duck my head to slip in. My breath catches as I get a first glimpse of Mr. Masters, and I realize that I don’t want a prince when a devil would be so much more fun.

Settling into the seat next to him, I can’t quite even out my breathing. Devilish he
is
, decked out in a suit the color of coal with a white button-down beneath. Even sitting, I can tell his outfit is bespoke and my mind goes nuts with longing to see him unfold that tall, muscular body so I can devour the entire image.

His expression is impassive if not a little bored. His eyes flick over me and a smirk pulls one corner of his mouth. I let out my breath at the gesture. So he’s acknowledging me. Sort of.

“Hi,” I say when he remains silent.

“Good evening, Ms. Lundgren.” His tone is a little breathy. It raises gooseflesh on my skin and I find myself leaning into him, just to get closer to the source of my excitement.

But then I remember that this isn’t a date, and I have no damn good reason for snugging up to him like a desperate cat. I have no idea what
he
thinks this is. I’m here on his terms and I’m not supposed to question it.

“Erica,” I say quietly. “My first name is Erica.”

“I know.” He looks amused now.

“You wouldn’t call your date Ms. Lundgren. Unless, of course, this is completely business, in which case you would.”

He threads his long fingers together. “Correct.”

So it actually
is
a job? But what kind of job requires an employee and not an actual date? Frustrated by my lack of progress, I adjust my place on the seat to keep a good amount of distance between us. He’s watching me with a clear dose of heat in his eyes. A tiny shiver wrenches through me.

Determined to focus on the topic, I tip up my chin and slide my hair over my shoulder.

“How shall I address you tonight, then?”

“With respect.” His tone is tight, but his features are soft and I have the sudden impression that he’s playing with me. Time to get right to the point.

“I won’t date my boss.”

“This isn’t a date, Erica.” My name. He flicks up one eyebrow, challenging me … teasing me. The hunger in his eyes says there’s more to it as well. I want to find out, but first, I want to smack him upside the head for leading me down a rabbit hole.

“You’re accompanying me to a business function. That’s all. Dinner. Drinks. Socializing. And then you go home.”

Alone? The word almost falls out of my mouth, but I catch it at the last minute. For some reason, the play-out of this fairy tale in my mind includes Mr. Masters fucking me hard against a wall in his penthouse. My nipples perk at the image and I move my arms to cover them. It’s not graceful, but letting him see my peaked breasts through the thin satin of my dress is worse.

I can’t recall the last time a man affected me physically like this. Passion, I’ve experienced. But I swear the pulsing need between my legs hasn’t stopped since yesterday. My body feels almost feverish, my skin over-sensitive. I’m walking an edge that falls only one way. This isn’t passion. This is unadulterated lust.

And it’s getting stronger.

I tear my gaze from his to try and get control of my thoughts. Suddenly, he touches my arm, pulling it away from my chest … and then the other. His eyes drop to my breasts, his hands holding my arms away so I can’t cover myself again. Not that I want to. Satisfaction seeps through my nervousness as he wets his lips with his tongue and pulls in a tight breath.

He moves closer, his breath hot against my cleavage. I go completely still, my pulse beating in my ears as heat from his body electrifies my skin. I want him to kiss me, right between my breasts … run his tongue between the mounds of flesh, ripping my dress aside so he can take my nipples deep into his mouth.

I arch into him as a small whimper escapes me. He brings my arms above my head and holds my wrists in one hand. My breasts push together and I’m silently begging for him to run a finger down my chest, to cup my breast, to touch me any way at all just as long as he does it.

“Mr. Masters, we’ve arrived.”

I jerk at the unexpected voice through the intercom on the partition. He startles a bit too, pulling away from me like he’d been in a daze. With a small shake of his head, he releases me and rights himself against the seat. I scramble to get control of my breathing as the limo comes to a stop.

It’s wrong, what I’m doing—letting him touch me, wanting him to. I never wanted to be a pawn again after the last time, being manipulated again and again. Yet as the imprint of his touch pulses on my skin, I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed.

Determined to shake off this hold he has on me, I grip my clutch tightly and slide out of the limo. The driver takes my hand to help me out, and then promptly offers my hand to Mr. Masters. He looks away, clearly rejecting me. I pretend to fix my hair, recovering the best I can in front of the driver though humiliation heats my cheeks.

He was looking at my chest as if he was about to feast on my tits at a fucking buffet, but now he can’t take my hand like a gentleman? Conflicted by his changing moods, I paste a neutral smile on my lips and follow him inside. That’s when I realize where we are. Doing a double-take at the sign near the door, I momentarily forget that my date is a certified, bi-polar asshole.

Avra is an exclusive Greek restaurant, noted often for celebrity sightings and winning high-profile dining awards. I’ve always wanted to eat here, but of course, it’s been out of my reach.

He takes my hand and places it on his arm, surprising me, as a hostess greets us. My fingers curl into his sleeve instinctively as we’re led down a back hallway to a beautifully decorated private room. Tables and chairs are artfully arranged around the perimeter, leaving plenty of space for the crowd inside to mingle.

We’ve no sooner stepped inside the room when a sudden and noticeable hush takes over. He pauses, as if giving everyone a chance to look us over, before leading me forward. I hear people talking about us, their voices craftily low enough to be discreet, but loud enough to be heard. The guests, I realize with a chill, are mostly male. He takes me to the edge of the room where a splash of color dots the sea of black suits.

A small group of women mingle together, their eyes widening falsely as we approach. He smiles at them, but there’s no warmth in it as he slides my hand off his harm, nods at me, and walks away.

Dumbfounded … speechless, my mouth drops open as I watch him leave. Realizing I’m being stared at, I clamp my jaw and take a breath, willing a smile that waves this all off as typical.

If the group is shocked by his cold behavior, they don’t show it. Whatever chatter they’d been tossing around starts right back up again. The group widens a bit, enveloping me as if they’re used to accepting whatever tossed-off woman happens to be thrown into their midst.

Since I’m not sure if these women are actually wives, dates, or professional girlfriends, I have no idea what to say, think, or do.

“Dana, he bought you a Gucci?” A glossy-haired blond coos and swishes her hand at a petite brunette. I look at them,
really
, look at them all for the first time. Casual, my ass. Each of them is dressed to the hilt—designer dresses, spiked heels, jewelry that glitters dollar signs in the soft lighting.

Discreetly, I glance down at my no-name wrap dress and curse myself for not choosing something a little more expensive from the back of my closet. Apparently the word casual doesn’t mean ‘from Macy’s’ when you’re wealthy.

“Who are you wearing, darling?” The blond turns to me. “I don’t recognize the dress.”

Busted. “Oh … it’s…“ Quickly, I offer her my hand. “I’m Erica, by the way. Nice to meet you all.”

“You’re here with Brent Masters!” Blondie chirps, and the group seems to close in around me. “You must tell us how the two of you met.”

“Wasn’t he with that redhead not long ago?” The curvy girl next to me asks. “What was her name … Nora or something?”

They all toss around name suggestions and I can’t help but see this as the perfect opportunity to slink away. A waiter comes by with champagne and I snag a glass, and then a small plate of hors d’oeuvres from the second server that passes. The women go on talking, having moved on to some inane topic I could not care less about.

Taking a tiny bite of a fancy-looking wedge of cheese, my ears perk up as the clipped tones of Brent’s voice sound behind me.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Don’t be childish, Brent. Everything is up for discussion.”

Curious, I glance over my shoulder. My boss has his back to me as he converses with a small group. Their voices drop low and I turn back to the women, not wanting to be obvious as I quietly strain to hear. He never said what tonight’s gathering was for. Some business thing, apparently. And by the tone of their voices, it isn’t going well.

I’m just about to sip my champagne when he appears next to me and takes my wrist. We spin into the group he’d been talking to, and I’m an accessory draped over his arm. Figuring this is where I smile pretty and stay quiet, I do. I’m pleased that I’ll be able to hear the conversation. I’m not nosey by nature, and I don’t really have a reason for listening in on his business, as long as it doesn’t affect what I do for him.

Except that my boss intrigues me, and knowing his past makes my curiosity stronger.

I’ve often wondered the significance of that secretly delivered ring. What had Brent needed it for? I tried so many times over the years to convince myself that it was simply a lost-and-found family heirloom. That was a nice way to non-criminalize it and leave me with a satisfactory ending.

But I never believed it.

Movement near the door catches my attention. A tall, commanding figure cuts through the crowd. For a second, I’m stunned. I know that outline … I know it so well I’ve had nightmares about it for years.

Sweat slicks my palms, my scalp tingling like embers are being dropped on top of my head. It can’t be.

Please, no.

Georgios Vargas barely pauses to acknowledge people as they fawn over him. He’s heading straight for us, his eyes planted firmly on my boss.

Panic sets in, flashing me back to memories I’ve tried so hard to forget. Tugging on Brent’s sleeve, I hiss into his ear.

“I’m leaving.” I don’t wait; I turn to walk away but he threads his fingers through mine and stops me. With a firm tug, he has me right back at his side.

“
We’ll
leave when I say we do.” He slips an arm around my waist, snugging me tight against him. My blood pressure is rising, that scream in my head
pleasepleaseplease
,
I need to run. I’m too terrified to be aroused by the contact of his body against mine. Instead, it’s almost comforting. Reassuring.

That feeling doesn’t last long. Georgios steps into our group, his eyes raking ice cubes over my chest and down my body. My knees go weak with fear as I wait for him to meet my eyes, but he doesn’t. He turns from me without acknowledgement, as if I’m insignificant.

At first, I think this means he doesn’t recognize me. But as he moves closer to Brent, I’m keenly aware that Georgios is observing me from the corner of his eye. He’s watching every breath I take.

He knows me.

He sees me.

And I don’t know what that will mean for
me
after tonight.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it, Mr. Masters.” Georgios offers a hand and they shake with the politeness of two bulls butting heads. “I’m pleased to see you. The business we’ve discussed previously is long overdue, wouldn’t you say?”

He moves in closer, creating a tight bubble between the three of us. “Expect a package to be delivered early tomorrow at your office.”

Another package … his words have me reeling as if I might faint. I whip Brent a look but his eyes are riveted to Georgios.

I thought I was done with that life. And here I am, swept right back into it, with the same damn men. I’ve jumped from the pot right back into the same fire, only it may even be more dangerous now with the white-hot coal of Brent Masters causing me to smolder.

My flight instinct is strong and I struggle against it. The comforting press of Brent’s arm around my waist gets tighter. His fingers lightly dig into my side and he positions me slightly behind him. It’s subtle, but I get the sense that he’s protecting me.