Page 238 of Stalking Ginevra

“You can’t go around attacking my male colleagues and forcing them to resign!” I slam the letter into his chest.

His jaw tightens, and emotion flickers in his dark eyes. Wishful thinking says it’s guilt, but it’s probably impatience. Impatience at me coming here after all this time to disrupt his fine casino.

“We’re not doing this here,” he says.

Before I can protest, he takes my hand, his touch unlocking a floodgate of old memories. Benito leading me through the woods, eager to show me our new tree house. Those fingers curling around mine as he proposed on my twenty-first birthday.

I don’t pull away, letting him guide me through the staff reception, up an elevator, and through the hallways that lead to his office.

My gaze darts to the second desk he set up for me, which still has the laptop and files I used on the day we worked together.There’s even the pen I chewed, as if I haven’t been gone in over a year.

When the door clicks shut behind us, I’m the first to talk. “Why the hell would you attack my colleague?”

Benito steps closer, making the air between us thicken with tension. Heart pounding, I stiffen, waiting for him to speak. “I tolerated your association with Marcello Demartini because you said it was platonic. That bastard from last night used dinner as step one in getting you into bed.”

Frustration mounts in my belly as I glare into his dark eyes. “You don’t get to interfere with my livelihood!”

A vein pops in his brow. “I’ve been working behind the scenes, trying to restore everything I took from you. I even bought you a fucking law firm.”

“What?” I hiss, my blood running cold, my mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his claim. “Are you meddling with my career again?”

His hands fly up as if he has the right to be frustrated. “Of course not. I bought your partnership in secret because I didn’t want to use it to lure you back.”

I swaying on my feet, my mind reeling, and all thoughts of Ian evaporate under the heat of this new revelation. Does this count as Machiavellian or not?

“Believe me, I never stopped trying to be a better man for you. Not for a minute. Staying away has been agony, but I’m still working with that therapist, trying to get to the root of my need to control.”

My breath stills.

Benito steps even closer, his gaze earnest. “I’ve changed,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “But every time I think of you, all I see is the abuse, the manipulation, the danger. And when I heard you were out with another man?—”

“He’s just a colleague,” I snap.

“He set up last night’s date to get into your pants,” he says.

I fold my arms across my chest. “And how would you know that?”

“He admitted to planning future late nights with you to get you drunk and in his bed. I made sure he wouldn’t try again.”

“Did you force the confession?”

“My man cornered him in the bathroom,” Benito replies. “That’s where he admitted he had a plan to get you out of the friend zone. He also confirmed that when I went to his apartment.”

I search his features, looking for signs of deception, but his eyes burn with the truth.

“I protect what’s mine, even if that means stepping in front of a bullet or chasing off a horny asshole with my fists.”

A laugh bubbles up in my chest, and I force back a smile. “What are you, my own personal superhero?”

Relief crosses his features, and he steps even closer. His gaze, dark and intense, locks onto mine as though our souls finally connect. “Your husband,” he says, the words breathy. “I never stopped loving you. And I’ll never stop striving to become the man who’s worthy of your love.”

Emotion clogs my throat, stealing my breath. I nod, unable to muster a reply. The sincerity in his words is overwhelming, but more than that, terrifying.

His fingers brush against mine, igniting a spark that races up my arm and settles in my heart. The touch is familiar, yet spine-tinglingly electric, stirring months of suppressed desire. This time, when his hand slips into mine, our fingers intertwine as if they’ve been starved of each other’s touch.

“What do you want, Ginevra?” he asks, his voice desperate and hoarse.

“Mom miraculously stopped drinking,” I say. “She called me several months ago from some rehab clinic in Ravencliff Island, apologizing for putting me through hell. Was that you?”

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