Page 20 of Seeking Vengeance

I snatch her wrists. Tight. Her mouth gapes with the impact, her eyes wide. “I said, this isn’t fucking happening.” I shove her arms away. “So lower your goddamn dress and go find your friends.”

She blinks. Slow. Stupid.

“Fucking walk,” I growl.

She snaps rigid, her chin hitching a notch. “Fuck you.” She glares as she scrambles to lower the hem of her dress. “You’re crazy.”

No argument there.

“You’re a piece of shit, too.” She raises her voice, no doubt attempting to bait me into an argument. “Fucking weirdo.”

The bartender comes into view at the end of the hall, his eyes on me. “Everything all right, boss?”

“We need security.” I start toward him.

“You wantedme, motherfucker,” the woman rails. “Youwantedme.”

No, I wanted Denver.

This piece of fluff is nothing in comparison.

The bartender jerks his chin at me in understanding, then focuses on the woman as I continue walking away. “I think you need some fresh air.”

“I don’t need anything, you son of a bitch.”

I don’t listen to the rest of her plight. I get the fuck out of the VIP area, opening the door to the consuming noise of the lower level, then don’t stop until I’m in my car.

The days pass.The obsession doesn’t.

I can’t quit going over my time with her, rerunning our conversation, trying to work out her angle. If she’s a scorned lover, why eavesdrop in a packed restaurant? Why risk being recognized?

I don’t bother attempting to sate myself in another woman. Instead, I shuffle my tight schedule and fly back across the country.

I return to the Italian restaurant where the Costas have a weekly standing reservation and make my way through the staff entrance at the back. Emmanuel may have claimed his favorite seat in the house, but I’m the one who pays to watch every minute of his meals.

“You’re back sooner than usual.” The head chef shoots me a glance as he flips something in a sizzling frying pan. “I might be able to retire early if you keep this up.”

“Maybe.” I slip a folded stack of cash into his pocket as I pass and continue to the swinging doors leading to the dining area with Bishop at my back.

Usually, I don’t have to make my presence known. I can sit in my rental from the street out front and eavesdrop on their conversation via earpiece thanks to the listening device under their table. But this time, I’m not here for them.

It’s her I’m after. The woman who doesn’t fucking show.

I’m forced to walk out of there like a chump while Bishop wordlessly questions my motives, his judgmental stare increasing my annoyance.

I repeat the trip the following Wednesday, my impatience building when dreams of blue eyes haunt me on the daily. It’s not normal. Denver triggered something and I’m not sure how to shut that shit off. But again, she doesn’t show.

By the third week, I’m agitated as fuck.

It’s not often I lose, at least not since my teenage years, yet here I am. I lost Denver. Without a trace. She slipped through my fingers and I can’t figure out why the hell it matters.

Was it the challenge of bedding her? The thrill of a common enemy?

“How many times are we going to do this?” Bishop asks from the driver’s seat as we sit in the rental parked on the other side of the road from Perfezione’s entry. “I fucking hate Denver.”

“We both fucking hate Denver, but we’ll do this as many times as necessary.” Until I get answers. Closure. “If you have a problem with the working conditions, feel free to fuck off.”

He huffs a low chuckle. “You know this is messed up, right? It can only lead to drama.”

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