Page 7 of The Mafia's Bride
“It’s rude to stare,” he comments dryly, reaching for the bottle of Pappy Van Wrinkle bourbon behind the counter. Meg doesn’t look at him so either she doesn’t care, or he’s high enough in the food chain that he isn’t someone to tell no.
Shit.“Huh?” I fumble. The man smirks, eyes lifting to meet mine as he pours.
“You’re staring. It’s rude.”
“Rude, maybe.” I bite my bottom lip, watching him sip from the glass. It’s sinful how his tongue runs the edge, his eyes never leaving me. “But some people like to be stared at.”
He huffs a laugh, breaking eye contact. “Some people. Not me.”
I tilt my head. “Why? You don’t think you’re pretty?”
That smirk grows. “Not particularly, no.”
I shrug, turning around, my crossed legs hitting his thigh. He’s solid, a man who is built from daily exercise with thick legs, broad shoulders, and tight waist.
“Shame. It’s always the handsome ones who never know how good they look. What’s with the gloves?”
I continue to stare at him as he swirls the bourbon, his leather fingers griping the glass. I’m not going to apologize for staring, it’s not in my nature.
A dutiful daughter, the one my father always wanted, would be mourning the loss of her father. I won’t pretend to be her, now.
Not to mention, how fun it might be to anger my father from the grave by taking a hot stranger into the bathroom for bar sex? It’d be the highlight to this whole tragedy.
“Is this how you cope?”
“Cope?” I tip the glass into my mouth, enjoying the last bit of the whiskey.
The stranger doesn’t look at me, staring up into the mirror. I see our twin reflections, he’s a dark shadow compared to my bright locksand bright red lips. I’m not a tiny girl, my curves thick and wide, but his size dwarfs me, making me seem frail.
“Your father died and you’re here trying to get a date?” He smiles, sipping from his glass. “Seems to be an odd time for that, no?”
I swallow thickly, wide smile plastered on my face as I drop the tumbler to the bar.
“It’d be pointless to ask how you knew it was my father.”
He cuts me a quick glance. “The red hair gave it away.”
Of course it did.“What I do or don’t do to mourn my father isn’t your concern.”
“Maybe not.” His head turns, leveling a sensual look over my whole body, that’s more of a branding. He’s pulling every layer back until he can see who I am at my core and instantly, my body ignites with desire even though I want to hide.
I usually prefer women because they seem to know what they’re doing. But this man? He certainly looks like he can handle a woman like me and there’s a big part that’s ready to say, to do anything for that escape. Just to get a taste of what he can do.
Another part of me, the larger part, puts up more of a fight.
“Have a problem with how I handle my grief?” My smile dares him to comment further.
He grins slowly. “I have a hard time believing it’s grief you feel.”
I wink, uncrossing my legs, letting my toes trail along his calf. Just enough to make sure he knows exactly what I’m offering.
“Everyone has their vices,” I say, slowly moving my foot. “Some like drugs. Others, booze. Hell, some people like to run to take the edge off. I just choose a different avenue.”
This man watches me. He doesn’t move to stop me, but he doesn’t lean in either. He’s too controlled, too pretty and refined to belong in this tavern. He can’t be one of my father’s guys—they’re almost always in stained shirts and dirty jeans. He’s got to be in one of the two families in the area.
Which makes him dangerous. Powerful. The kind of man my father would never approve of. Maybe even my sister, now that I have to follow her rule if I want to stay with my family.
I should stop. I should pull away and think about my future. But I can’t. I want this escape—himtoo much to think rationally.
