Page 12 of Claimed By the Possessive Mafia Prince
“What?” she says.
“What?” I counter.
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“You’re interesting, Siena, that’s all.”
She smooths down her dress, then fidgets with her hands in her lap. My memory saves the moment her hand presses down against her breasts, her stomach, her legs. She makes me feel savage for one hungry, insane moment.
“I can’t eat with you watching me. So, if you want me to fuel up like you claim, you should probably leave me alone.”
I stand. “Your wish is my command,” I say with a bow.
Another smile – another correction. “Are you always this cheesy?”
“You bring it out of me, beautiful.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she mutters.
“What?”
“Beautiful. Gorgeous.”
“I can’t point out the basic fact that you’re an attractive woman?”
She looks up at me, scowling. “I’m here to do a job, not… not whatever you’re trying to do.”
“What I’m trying to do is woo you.”
She stands. “Good luck with that.”
As she walks away, I watch the sway of her hips. She looks over her shoulder, smiles like it’s a reflex, then storms off.
CHAPTER 5
SIENA
After the boat tour, I head back to my room to grab a quick nap before seeing to the evening’s arrangements. There’s nothing major tonight–just dinner at the bespoke restaurant the Bianchis had built and scouting the photoshoot location for tomorrow.
As I walk down the short pier that leads to my hut, I think about Dario. He seemed genuinely concerned that I was running myself ragged, forcing me to sit and eat. Sure, I ran away before I ate–he was making me feel too… well, too anything–but the concern was charming. Even if I wouldn’t admit that to him.
He looked even more handsome on the beach, wearing a crisp white shirt open to his chest, showing his firmly muscled chest, his dark yet playful eyes watching me like I was fascinating to him.
When I arrive at my door, there’s a small card pinned to it.
‘Siena – your massage is booked for 5:30. We look forward to seeing you!’
This is a mistake. I definitely didn’t arrange a massage.
Forgetting the nap, I walk back down the pier. I can’t afford to take up a spot one guest might want to use. Finding the wellness center–a collection of huts scattered amidst the palms–I approach the main desk. Before I can reach it, however, Dario emerges with a smirk on his face.
“I was wondering if you’d make it on time.”
Standing close, I can smell his cologne, his sunscreen, him. The proximity stirs something in me.
“So, this was you,” I say.
“You almost sound as mad as you want to,” he replies.
