Page 63 of The Contract

“Mr. D’Angelo’s expecting me.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, breathing life into the lie. Bimbo Number Three, reporting for duty.

The guard narrows his eyes, skepticism etched deep in his expression. “I don’t think so.”

Before he can hustle me back out the door, I pull an ace straight out of my ass—Dante’s sleek, arrogant business card, complete with its obnoxious gold lettering. His name. His number.

I flash it between two fingers, offering up my sweetest, most deceptive smile.

The guard studies the card, then me, suspicion tightening his expression. “Mr. D’Angelo isn’t here.”

I pout dramatically. “Oh, I know. He specifically said he wanted me waiting in his office until he returns.” I pause for effect, my voice dropping suggestively. “Naked.”

Then I flick the coat open just enough to let him glimpse a bare shoulder and an enticing hint of thigh through the slit.

Thank god Kennedy has at least one dance outfit with a single strap.

What’s weird is the bouncer doesn’t leer. He jerks his gaze away like looking at me for one more second might turn him into a pillar of salt.

It’s not gentlemanly—it’s fear. Pure, unmistakable fear. And I roll with it.

“Which way to his office?”

Wordlessly, he points up the sleek staircase.

I climb, each step echoing louder in a pair of stilettos currently cutting off my circulation. At the top, I slip into Dante’s office and freeze on the threshold.

Totally dumbstruck.

The space is immaculate. Neat as an operating room. My plan was to snap a few shots of damning evidence or Netflix-worthy true crime pics. Not the cover shot of a Restoration Hardware catalog.

Everything is pristine—expensive artwork, gleaming stone floors, and a ridiculously stunning rug large enough to discreetly stash at least three bodies.

I yank open his desk drawers. Empty. All of them.

“What kind of sick, psycho neat freak is he?” I mutter under my breath.

“The suspicious kind who doesn’t appreciate people snooping through his shit,” comes a familiar voice from behind me.

My heart stutters violently, then plummets straight into my stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, I turn.

Dante.

Jeans, black T-shirt, dark hair my fingers usually ache to fist.

Yet something’s off.

He leans casually in the doorway, smile unfurling slow and sly. The broody bastard who usually ignites my lady parts like the Fourth of July is nowhere near as broody, or bastardly, as usual.

My pulse isn’t roaring in my ears. Heat isn’t flooding my cheeks. At this point, my usually traitorous nipples would need jumper cables to fake interest.

It’s like staring at a poster of Dante. Not the living, breathing inferno who could torch my panties straight off from fifty yards away.

Bewildered, I blink and stare. Maybe the dark, delicious spell of Satan’s favorite warlord has finally worn off.

Apparently, the feeling is mutual. He isn’t eyeing me like a coyote sizing up rare steak. No, this look is something else entirely.

Curiosity, spiked with a double shot of amusement.

He moves closer, rubbing his scruff thoughtfully. My gaze snags on his cheek. The lickable dimple…gone. The faint scar above his brow…missing. And the Alpha-male scent—leather, spice, and sin—that usually trails him everywhere? Completely absent.

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