Page 2 of Wicked Sinner
“Maybe you should listen to the music.”
He frowns at me as if I’ve got a screw loose, and I wave a hand at him. “Never mind. We’re closed,” I repeat, for what’s starting to feel like the hundredth time. “Please leave, or I’m going to have to call the cops.”
The man snorts, and I feel a prickle of alarm. “I’m Caesar Genovese,” he says, and I blink at him.
“Cool. Nice to meet you or whatever. We’re still closed.”
He lets out a long-suffering sigh, one hand sliding into the pocket of his jeans. I see him pull out a gleaming metallic money clip, and my throat tightens slightly at the thickness of the wad of bills I see stuffed into it.
Maybe it’s just fives and tens, but looking at this man and his car, I doubt it.
“What would it take to get you to open back up long enough to look at the car?” He raises an eyebrow. “Five thousand?”
I blink at him. “What’s wrong with your car?” It’s not a question I should ask if I want him to leave, but I can’t help it. I can’t think of a job that would cost that much that would enable him to still be driving the car.
“I don’t know.” He huffs out an exasperated breath. “That’s why I’m here. The check engine light came on, but it shouldn’t have. The car is brand new, I bought it less than a day ago.”
Jesus Christ.The idea of waltzing into a dealership and buying a Ferrari like a new T-shirt is insane. I can’t wrap myhead around it. “You should probably take it back. Florida has a lemon law.”
“Maybe I’m attached to it.” He tilts his head, and I can see the long line of his throat. I can imagine running my lips down it, and the jolt of arousal that shoots through me is alarmingly strong.
Get a grip, Bridget. “We’re still closed,” I say flatly, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the cash in his hand.
It could just be a blown fuse. A job that I’d probably charge forty bucks for at most, especially since most of my customers aren’t exactly swimming in extra funds, and part of being a local mechanic is making sure my regulars are taken care of. He’s offering me five thousand. If I pushed, he’d offer more.
I could use the money. More thancould useit, Ineedit. There’s a stack of bills on the desk in my office that’s getting way too high, and while my father left me the shop and the house when he died, he didn’t leave me much else. It’s not paid off. Every month is tight, sometimes so tight that bills spill over into the next month. Late notices, late fees.
Caesar must notice that I’m still looking at the money. “I can write you a check for another five thousand,” he says smoothly. “I’m good for it.”
I almost snort out loud.Good for it?He drove in here with a Ferrari he bought yesterday. I can imagine five grand is like tossing someone a twenty for me. Maybe less, even. I swallow hard.
On the one hand, men like him need to learn that they don’t always get what they want. That waving money around and making demands doesn’t mean they can have anything, anytime.
On the other hand—I need that money. So maybe, in this instance, it does.
The thought rankles, but I think of letting ten thousand dollars drive off to satisfy my pride, and I let out a sigh.
“Fine,” I agree. “Pull into the bay. I’ll take a look at it.”
He smiles, satisfaction spreading across his face, and I want to slap it off of his smirking mouth. But it also brings another thought to mind—what it might look like for him to smile with that kind of satisfaction for a different reason, with his mouth between my thighs as I come on his tongue, as he hovers over me, pleasure coursing through us both.
I let out a sharp breath. I have no idea how long he’s going to be hanging around while I figure out what’s wrong with his car, but I need to get a fucking grip.
The last thing I need in my life is a man like this, even for a night.
2
CAESAR
One day earlier
It’s beentwenty years since I set foot in Miami, and I realize, as I step out of the car I bought this morning and hand the keys to the building’s valet, that it no longer feels like home.
It’s a sobering thought. Twenty years ago, when I was seventeen, all I wanted was to leave. To get as far away from this place as I could and everything that it represented. Then, when I wanted to come back home, when I felt that yearning for a place that I once wanted to put as far in my rearview as I could, I was denied.
Now, there was no one to stop me. At least—no one to stop meyet. There’s plenty of conflict ahead. Plenty of ways for my plans to be upended, because while my father was a wealthy, powerful, and connected man, he was far from being the most of any of those things in Miami.
And he earned the ire of the man whoisevery single one of them.
