Page 66 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Something feels off. Do all clubs have a voyeuristic control tower like this one? I doubt it.
My skin prickles as though someone’s watching me and I let the curtain slowly fall, closing off the view. I turn around, about to walk over to one of the sofas when a figure in the center of the small room makes me freeze. I would scream but my breath is caught at the base of my throat.
The angle of the light makes it impossible to pick up facial features but I don’t need them to know who’s standing in front of me. His silhouette is, annoyingly, etched on my brain.
Benito Bernadi.
It doesn’t make any sense. He can’t be here because of the message I sent him. I sent it less than six minutes ago, and it surely couldn’t have been obvious from the photo where I am.
I can’t restrain the contempt in my tone. “What areyoudoing here?”
He steps forward and the lights illuminate his scowl, along with the moody cut of his jaw and too-beautiful hooded eyes. “I should be asking you the same thing.”
“I’m here with a friend. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Where you go and who you’re with isallof my business.”
Anger singes my skin. “Do you know what? I don’t want you anywhere near me, Bernadi. I don’t care what Cristiano says. I am not your responsibility and I don’t need to be chaperoned wherever I go.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
I force out a laugh. “If you don’t care, why are you here?”
“That photo you sent me… What did you expect would happen? You think I’m just gonna let that go?”
I jerk backward with a frown. “Let itgo?”
“Like it or not Contessa, I’m responsible for your safety. I cannot let you be somewhere—anywhere—dressed like this, without someone looking out for you.”
“But this isn’tnext to nothing. I’m wearing actual clothes and quite a few of them too, as a matter of fact.”
“That dress is too…”
I’m so sick and tired of him telling me what to do, and the rejection still burns. I stamp my foot in frustration. “Too what? Too blue? Too pretty? Too flattering?”
He stares at me like he can’t find the words.
“Come on, Bernadi, what exactly is it? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
His jaw is clenched and I see his fingers flexing by his side.
“Come on,” I goad, spitefully. “What’swrongwith it?”
He explodes. “It’s too fuckinghot, Contessa,” heshouts. “Andno onegets to see you looking like that but me.”
I gasp and stagger backward. “What?”
“You heard me.”
My brain scrambles to make sense of his words. “But… this is just a game to you.”
He chuckles, darkly. Takes a step toward me. I take one back. “This is no game, Contessa.”
I wonder how far the drop is from the balcony to the dancefloor below because I’m certain the only safe way out from under his predatory stare is to jump.
“I’m tired of your behavior Contessa. You need to be taught a lesson.”
“What do you mean ‘my behavior’? What lesson? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
