Page 13 of The Proposal

“Does it matter?” he asks, glancing at me over his shoulder.

“What’s it for?”

“The pristine white sheets,” he answers, jutting his chin towards the bed. “Did you forget that I told you I had a plan?”

“So you’re not going to have sex with me?”

“I don’t waste my time on women who aren’t interested,” he scoffs, his voice laced with a quiet dismissal.

With that, he strides into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

I’m left standing here, completely stunned … and a little embarrassed.

Chapter 4

Arabella

Since I’m unable to undo all the hooks and eyes that run down the back of my wedding gown, I sit on the side of the bed, nibbling nervously on my thumbnail as I stare at the small vial of blood beside me.

Whose blood is it? His, or someone else’s? One of his victims, maybe. The thought turns my stomach.

My eyes flicker from the bed to the bathroom door when I hear the water in the shower turn off.

A few minutes later, when the door opens, my heart rate kicks up a notch. Dante is standing there, shrouded by a cloud of steam and wrapped in a white towel that hangs low on his hips.

He looks like a sculptured god. I know I should turn away, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from him. His body is ripped, with a chiselled torso. Every muscle is defined and taut. But what surprises me most are the tattoos. His arms are covered in vibrant, colourful ink. Full sleeves that were concealed beneath his clothes. A few more mark his chest, each telling a story I’m not privy to and probably never will be.

When he clears his throat, my gaze snaps up to his, only to find him watching me watch him. Embarrassment floods me,and I quickly turn my face away, feeling my cheeks heat again.

“Do like what you see,Bellezza?” he asks over a chuckle.

That cocky attitude of his gets under my skin. “No,” I bite, which is a complete lie.

I’ve never seen a man naked—or half-naked in this case—before. My father has kept Lucia and me sheltered all these years, locked away from the rest of the world. We were homeschooled, and neither of us was allowed a phone or computer. We didn’t have friends … we only had each other.

That thought makes my heart heavy. When I go, she’s going to be all alone.

He moves past me through my peripheral vision, but I don’t dare look. But when he stops in front of the dresser, my traitorous eyes flicker in his direction, just in time to see him drop his towel.

My eyes widen, and thankfully, I manage to swallow my gasp as I take in his bare, round, hard backside. For some reason, the sight gives me a tingling feeling down below. A strange sensation … something I haven’t experienced before. It’s like a pulsing need, but I push that feeling aside in disgust. I don’t want or need this man.

He grabs a pair of white boxer briefs from the drawer and bends slightly to place each foot through the holes. When I unintentionally get a glance at the long, thick thing that hangs heavy between his legs, I clench my eyes shut. I feel like a voyeur watching him dress.

My eyelids flutter open just in time to see him reach for a can of deodorant, lifting each arm to spray his armpits. The delicious scent lingers in the air once he’s done.

His back muscles ripple with each smooth and controlled movement, and only then do I notice the small, round-shaped marks that dot his skin. Each one is about the size of a button, with slightly raised edges and a faint indentation in the centre. They are red and tender-looking,showing signs of recent healing. A flash of concern runs through me.

“What happened to your back?” I find myself asking.

He briefly glances at me over his shoulder and frowns before bending to scoop up his wet towel from the floor.

“I got shot.” His words are more of a growl, low and rough, and hang between us for a moment.

Without waiting for a response, he moves past me again, his steps steady despite the unspoken weight of his confession, as he disappears back into the bathroom.

When he returns, he has a neatly folded pile of clothes in one hand and the shiny dress shoes he was wearing in the other. His belt is coiled on top, and his cufflinks and gun sit in the centre.

He drops the shoes beside the chair, where his tuxedo jacket and bowtie are already laid out, then carefully places the rest of his clothes on the seat. It surprises me. I’m not used to seeing a man pick up after himself … that’s something my father has never done.

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