“I have never worked with your father.”

A bitter sound escaped me, making it clear I didn’t believe him.

His jaw ticked. “I dealt with Antonio only. As you know, they happened to be in the same circle.”

What he said made too much sense. I’d jumped to conclusions because I always assumed the worst in men. But that wasn’t only it. I wanted to believe the worst in him. Because he made me feel like I was spinning out of control, as if that life raft was slipping from my fingers every time he put his hands on me.

I hated these feelings.

Gratefulness. Uncertainty. Relief.

Because, eventually, I was going to drown in them.

And he was going to let me.

Anger came back full-force, burning my veins and the backs of my eyes.

“Liar,” I cried, and then pushed him again. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him feel what I’d felt when that gunshot had cut through the air.

I beat on his chest until he pulled me against him, shackling my wrists in one of his hands behind my back. I struggled but, with the heat of his body warming mine, weariness suddenly pulled on my muscles.

“Breathe,” he demanded.

I inhaled deeply.

“Let it out.”

I leaned against him, breathing deep, silent tears running down my cheeks. I wanted to hate myself for crying in front of this man again, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anything but how good, how right, it felt to be pressed against him.

“I heard a gunshot,” I said, the relief evident in my voice.

Four simple words cut out my heart and displayed it for him to see.

It was bleeding, dripping to the floor at his feet.

He nudged my chin, pulling my gaze to his. His face was close, blurred through my wet eyes.

“I thought you hated me, malyshka.”

“I do,” I breathed against his lips. But it was too raw, too desperate, to sound convincing.

Just when I thought he would press his lips fully against mine, he stepped away. I inhaled an uneasy breath, feeling the loss of him like a cold draft beneath my skin.

His voice was distant. “We should go.”

“Wait,” I said. “My mamma’s cookbooks. I need them.”

“Make it quick. I don’t think anyone will be inviting us to stay for coffee,” he said dryly.

I was curious about what had happened in my papà’s office after I’d left, especially regarding that gunshot, but at the moment, I couldn’t find the energy to question him.

Guccio shot to his feet when we found him eating a sandwich at the kitchen island. He watched, wide-eyed, as I searched the cupboards above the microwave where Mamma had kept her books. I knew my papà well enough to know he hadn’t gotten rid of her things. He’d loved her in a disturbing, oppressive way.

When I came up empty-handed, I turned to my cousin, who’d only been seven when I last saw him. “My mamma’s cookbooks? Where are they?”

He frowned. “He won’t be happy with you taking—”

“Where. Are. They?” Christian’s tone was impatient.

Guccio swallowed, then blew out a breath. “Guestroom, upstairs.” Then, he slumped back in his chair, defeated.

Ten minutes later, we were each carrying a dusty box of cookbooks out to the car that waited at the curb. I stared out the window on the way to the airstrip, the moment in the parlor stretched between us like glue; messy, and hard to remove.

Apparently, after such a long period of celibacy, I couldn’t figure out how to balance the act and the feelings part. It was a basic sexual attachment, I imagined, kind of like Stockholm syndrome. There was only one real solution to this problem: I needed to stop sleeping with him.

There. Simple. Problem solved.

But I should have known, nothing about Christian Allister was simple.

We weren’t expected to fly home so soon, but after my date had casually admitted to shooting one of my relatives, I’d decided it was best if we skipped the reception.

It felt like a heavy weight had been released from my shoulders from standing up to my papà after all these years, and I knew, I would have never had the guts to do it if Christian hadn’t been nearby.

He reclined on the couch while I sat in the chair opposite him for take-off. He’d been distant for the last hour, but now, nothing about him felt uninterested.

His gaze licked at my skin like fire as it trailed up my bare thigh exposed through the slit in my dress. I tried to ignore it, but my body still responded. My breathing slowed. My breasts tightened.

As soon as we were in the air, I felt his rough words between my legs.

“Come here.”

A flush drifted down my body.

I shook my head.

I was turned on by just the way he was looking at me. There wasn’t a chance I’d hold my ground if he was touching me.

“Women don’t tell me no, malyshka.” His voice was dark and lazy at the edges. “They’ve always done whatever I tell them to do. Anything I can think up. Yet none of it has ever been as satisfying as being inside you.”

A wave of jealousy flared in my chest, but some other confused parts of my body had grown hotter with every stupid word from his mouth. I wanted to give in already, and we were only five minutes into our flight. There was one thing I knew that would set a boundary and keep it there.

I raised a brow in challenge. “Take off your shirt.”

His gaze narrowed at the corners, holding mine. His jaw ticked in thought, and then what he said next made my heart still.

“Come take it off yourself.”

Temptation pulled and tugged inside me.

I fought the impulse for a solid three seconds, because who was I kidding?

This battle was over before it had even begun.

Getting to my feet, I closed the distance between us. I stood between his legs, looking down at him, yet it didn’t feel like I had the advantage.

“Thank you for coming with me today.”

His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, pulling me closer to straddle him. A sigh of approval escaped me at the contact.

Pressing his face into my neck, he said, “You can thank me by letting me fuck you missionary.”

Oh, God.

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it, malyshka?” He nipped at the hollow behind my ear, and I moaned. His lips skimmed down my throat. “You probably want me to kiss you while I fuck you.”

Yes.

He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his erection. My blood was burning up as he kissed my neck and I rubbed his length through his pants.

“Take off your dress.”

I had my dress unzipped and down to my waist before I realized what he’d done. Pulling back, I glared at him. “You distracted me.”

He chuckled. And it was such a deep, sexy sound I couldn’t even hold on to the anger.

“Fine.” He ran a hand across his jaw and put his arms on the back of the couch. “Have at it, Gianna.”

Swallowing, I suddenly felt like I was about to begin a much bigger venture than just taking off a man’s shirt. I started at the bottom and had no idea I would be unleashing a masterpiece with each button. A slightly crude if not fascinating masterpiece.

His torso was covered in black and white tattoos, from a Madonna and child on his stomach to a dagger weaving through his collarbone from shoulder to shoulder. A cross on one of his pecs, and a rose on the other. A domed church on his side. A lighthouse on his right arm.