Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
He pours a glass of water and puts it in front of me. “It looks weird if you sit at the bar without a drink in your hands.”
My lips quirk. “Not if you’re the owner.”
“How is it?” He chucks a dishcloth over his shoulder and crosses his arms. “The physio?”
“Physiotherapists are demons straight from hell. They love to torture people, and they do it with a smile. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
He chuckles. “In that case, I want one myself.”
“Masochistic much?”
“Submissive.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Actively looking for a sadistic dominatrix.”
“Maybe you should try a sex club, but if I hear of someone, I’ll let you know.”
“Much appreciated, boss,” he teases.
The elevator doors open. A tall bulk of a man with graying sideburns enters. He wears a black shirt under an expensive charcoal-gray suit with even more expensive shoes. A thick gold chain hangs around his neck. The man behind him is dressed in gray too, but this one is a guard.
I narrow my gaze at Benson Bennett, my spine going stiff and my body tensing in the way it does when my fighting instinct kicks in.
Adjusting his cuffs, he looks around the room. His silver eyes are observant. Intelligent. He takes everything in at a glance, from the security on the floor to the willing single females.
When he moves forward, the guard at his heel follows. He weaves across the floor and makes his way to the bar.
Choosing the spot next to me, he leans his elbows on the counter and shoots a polished smile at Roy. “Your best scotch, neat.”
I study his profile—the straight, hawk-like nose and sharp jaw. The crinkles at the corner of his eye are a giveaway of his age. Other than that, he looks like a man in the prime of his life. Maybe a little over his prime but definitely in the most powerful phase of his life. He carries himself like a man who amassed power and fortune, a man who can have anything he wants. Except for my wife. And if that’s why he’s here, to accuse Anya of cheating, I’ll be forced to gun him down right here in front of all these witnesses.
He drums his fingers on the counter, drawing my attention to the gold ring with the coat of arms on his forefinger. It’s either a family crest or a gang emblem. I’ve never been interested enough in him to find out.
Turning my way, he crosses his ankles. His stance is both casual and arrogant. “Mr. De Luca, I presume.”
I laugh, sipping my water, wishing it was something stronger after all. “It’s hard to get that one wrong.”
He points a finger at my face. “You mean the eyepatch.”
I don’t validate that with a response.
“Congratulations on your wife’s victory. She has extraordinary luck.”
I hold his eyes squarely. “She does.”
“A remarkable woman.” He takes the drink Roy puts on the counter and lifts it to his lips. “Beautiful too. And a body that begs to be worshipped.”
Clenching my hand on the counter, I scrutinize him. Maybe he didn’t come here to make accusations. Maybe he came in the hope of catching a glimpse of my wife.
My wife.
“Anya already left,” I say, studying him closely.
“Pity.” He takes a sip and watches me from over the rim of his glass. “She intrigues me. Like any good opponent who’s worth his salt, I did a check on her before the game, and I was…” he smiles, “…let’s just say pleasantly surprised.”
I see green in a flash. If he’s here for my wife, I’m going to break his straight nose so badly it’ll be crooked for the rest of his life. Then I’m going to make sure he wears an eyepatch like me.
“In fact,” the fucker continues, “your wife is so good on the eye I made her an indecent proposal.”
That’s it. Forget about green or red. I see fucking black. I reach for the knife I carry under my jacket because I’m going to skin this cocksucker alive.
“Before you stab me with that knife,” he says, looking pointedly at where my hand disappeared, “she rejected the offer. Told me she was married and wouldn’t consider cheating.”
Good for Anya. My chest swells at how loyal she is, but my anger is a long way from being abated.
I shouldn’t ask. The answer is probably going to unhinge me. But I can’t help myself. “What did you offer her?”
“To triple her winnings if she won.” His mouth curves up in the corner. “If she lost, I would’ve won myself one night between her legs.”
I’m going to blow my top. I feel it in the violence that bubbles to the surface. What matters though is that Anya refused. She chose to be faithful to me over fifteen million dollars plus the loan she owed. And she knew she was going to cheat and win. But it’s the principle that matters, and that makes me the proudest, luckiest, happiest bastard alive. It’s the only reason I don’t gut the slime ball in front of me.