Page 23 of My Dark Fairy Tale
When I stopped, wavering on my feet, breathless and smiling, it was Raffa who stood before me, the Marias silently disappearing back into the front of the store.
His hand was on my elbow, hot and firm, balancing me so suddenly I felt as if I’d slammed both feet on the ground.
“I knew it would look like this on you,” he said, and it was an intimate whisper, as if he didn’t want the shopgirls or other shoppers to know.
It was declarative. Bold as the shade of red cupping my breasts and brushing against my thighs.
“Like what?” I breathed, a little embarrassed that my nipples were pebbling just from his sure, platonic touch on my arm.
His mouth didn’t flex, but I noticed a softness around his eyes that was a microexpression of a smile. My mouth went dry as he moved his hand up my bare arm to the bow tied over one shoulder. There was a whisper as he tugged on one end of the fabric and it fell apart, the straps falling free, the bust of my dress dipping dangerously low over my left breast.
I wanted to say something, but I had no vocabulary for the shame and desire and protestations swirling inside my belly.
We were in public.
We were strangers.
This was not the way Guinevere Stone would act.
But wasn’t that exactly the point?
Hadn’t I yearned to feel the kind of fire I felt then, standing in a cool designer boutique in the heart of Florence with a man who looked like a real-life Adonis? Didn’t I secretly love the way that single brush of his fingers over my skin had razed my inhibitions to ash and resurrected a voracious hunger for him in its wake?
A deep, forbidden part of my subconscious longed to shrug the other strap off my shoulder and bare my breasts to his predatory gaze. To cup my flesh in offering, lifting each nipple so he could worship or torture it with his mouth, with the teeth that flashed strong and white when he flashed an infrequent, wicked grin.
Raffa’s hands slowly gathered the edges of the fabric and pulled tight, redoing the bow so it lay beautifully against my skin.
“Uneven,” he explained calmly, but his eyes were fixed intently on his tanned fingers tracing the edge of the red fabric against my pale skin.
“Thank you,” I said thickly. “But honestly, Raffa, I can’t accept even half of this. I just can’t pay you back for it.”
“You will not,” he said simply, dropping his hand as his brows dropped over his eyes. He stepped back, and I was both relieved and annoyed by the distance.
“You said yourself my father was a smart man for teaching me not to be in debt to someone,” I pointed out.
“Si, certo,” he agreed. “But I intended for you to pay me back, just not with something so silly as euros.”
I fisted my hands on my hips and leveled him with a cool glare. “I’m not a prostitute.”
A reluctant grin claimed his mouth, pink against the dark stubble all along the curve of his jaw. “Do not insult us both. I only meant I have a fundraiser at the Pitti Palace next Friday evening and no date. If you are willing to bear the tedium, you would be repaying me with your company.”
I snorted, forgetting my nerves and attraction in the silliness of his request. “Oh c’mon. You’reyou. I’m sure you could have any girl in Tuscany with one snap of your fingers.”
Slowly, he raised his hand between us and snapped his fingers. “Oh look. It is the only girl I want in Tuscany.”
His deadpan delivery made me laugh, releasing some of the giddy bubbles floating through my belly.
“You know, your friend Martina confessed to me you’re never this kind to strangers,” I said, and told myself I wasn’t flirting, but I could practically feel the hearts in my eyes.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside us and crossed his arms again, muscles bulging beneath the blazer. A lock of wavy dark hair fell over his forehead, and my fingers itched to push it back.
“I am not,” he agreed easily.
I dragged my toe against the plush carpet and looked up at him through my lashes. “Why do I seem to be the exception, then?”
He actually considered the question, rubbing a hand over his lower lip as he studied me. Finally, he reached out and adjusted the bow he’d just retied over my shoulder, observing as my skin broke into goose bumps.
“Because the kindness does not stem from the good of my heart,” he admitted, voice rough and textured enough to abrade my skin. “The moment I saw you like a deer trapped in my headlights, I saw you with the eyes of a predator.”
