Page 93 of Ruined Vows
Finally, I sigh. “You always travel like a Bond villain?”
He smirks. “Only when I’m trying to impress dangerous women.”
“Oh, so just on Tuesdays and hostage scenarios?”
“Exactly,” he chuckles.
I made him crack a smile, and he didn’t object.
I glance out the window as the city fades behind us. “This isn’t a kidnapping, right? Because I didn’t leave a note.”
He rests one arm along the back of the seat,body turned toward me now. “Bianca, if I kidnapped you, there wouldn’t be a return policy.”
My stomach does something I’m going to pretend is nausea andnotof interest. Because inside, I’m melting, like the chocolate inside a lava cake, melting.
“Charming,” I snark defensively.
“I thought so,” he chirps. Then silence.
“You nervous?” he asks casually, like we’re discussing dinner plans, not my impending doom.
“About spending three days alone with a man who’s fantasized about burying my attitude in his backyard?”
“Yes,” his deep voice caresses my ears.
God, even his voice is sexy. I’m wet and I’ve only been sitting beside him for a minute.
I shrug. “No. But I’m wondering what your plan is when I don’t fall in love with you by Sunday night.”
He laughs—low and real—and for a moment, I hate how much I like the sound of it.
“You don’t have to fall,” he says. “Just lean.”
I turn to him, deadpan. “If I lean, I kick.”
“Noted,” he smirks.
God, I can’t even piss him off!
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he enjoys me shooting down his advances.
I look out the window as we approach a security gate. We drive onto the tarmac, where a sleek, silver jet waits like it knows it's better than everyone else. It has an attitude, just like its owner.
He steps out first and lifts my suitcase like it weighs nothing, gesturing toward the plane. It’s massive. Too sleek. Too elegant. Too…him.And definitely bigger than the Borrelli jet.
Of course it is.
I narrow my eyes. “Overcompensating?”
Then, in his low and sexy voice, he murmurs, “Overdelivering. It sounds better.” He grins at me—the nerve.
He opens the door, and I let him help me out.
The man doesn’t just walk—he stalks toward the stairs like he built the plane himself with grit and control issues.
I follow. Reluctantly. It’s as if I can smell my defeat.
Inside, the jet is a fever dream of luxury and power. White leather seats. Dark wood accents. A stocked bar. A discreet staff member who greets me like I’m royalty.
