Page 14 of Steal My Heart
“I’m guessing an outstanding larceny and evading arrest warrant is one of those reasons,” he says smugly.
How the hell does he know that? Better yet, how the hell did he find me?
I jerk my hands away from his. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What is it you want, Mr. Calvani?”
“You’re coming with me.”
I scoff, crossing my arms. “No wonder you can’t find a woman, not with that heavy-handed approach.”
“You didn’t seem to mind my heavy-handed approach at the gala.” He leans across the table, his voice laced with anger. “Or do you tongue-fuck all of your marks?”
“Oh my God, it was one freaking lapse of judgment!” He’s practically snarling at me, and I fight the urge to shirk away. “Look, I’m sorry I took your watch?—”
“No, you’re not. You’re sorry you got caught,” he corrects me.
“Fine, I’m sorry I got caught,” I amend. “But it’s notmyfault.”
“It’s not your fault,” he repeats incredulously.
“No, it’s yours! Why’d you have to be all handsome and smooth and a great?—”
“Kisser?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I was going to say dancer.” But fine, the man’s a great kisser.
His lips lift into an almost smile. “Let’s go, Remi.”
“I have to pack up my things,” I say, trying to stall.
“My men will handle it,” he says, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by burly goons.
“I thought you were a businessman and philanthropist.” I swallow nervously.
Angelotsks. “My charity only extends so far. Last time I’m going to say it: let’s go.”
He takes my hand, practically dragging me out of my chair and through the crush of tourists. “If you wanted to take me out on a date, you should’ve at least bought me flowers first. I love carnations.”
He eyes me like I’m crazy. “Nobody loves carnations.”
“I’ll have you know carnations are my favorite, you flower snob. Oooh, that vendor is selling them!” I tug at his hand to stop, but he drags me along.
“This isn’t a date.” Angelo growls.
“Obviously, because you didn’t buy me carnations,” I grumble.
A group of foreign tourists stops abruptly in front of us. “Do you need help?” I volunteer, needing a diversion to escape.
“Yes.” A man extends his map to me, but Angelo won’t release my hand from its death grip.
“Can you believe this man?” I jerk my head to Angelo. “Told me this isn’t a date, wouldn’t buy me flowers?—”
Angelo yanks me along, much to the confusion of the tourists.
“Rude.”
His jaw tics as he drags me to a waiting SUV.
The driver hops out and opens the door. “What nice manners,” I say. “Thank you.”
