Page 8 of Christmas with the Mafia
I close the gap, and Trent raises a weary eye. “She said she has an invitation. They disagree inside.”
I peer at her a little closer and note the vulnerability of the woman. Her outfit is preposterous and is doing nothing to wrap her in courage. If anything, it is dragging her down, and her porcelain skin is almost blue as she shivers against the cold icy wind.
I don’t hesitate and shrug out of my jacket, wondering if she will register that a firearm comes as part of the package. Trent’s eyes widen as I drape the jacket around her shivering shoulders and hiss, “Take my arm.”
Her eyes lift to mine in shock, and the gray hues of her irises spear me in the heart.
She is beautiful, a tragic goddess that has surprising consequences—for her. An ice queen who is melting under the glare of the light and I tilt my head toward the entrance. “Come. You’re freezing. Nobody is dying on my red carpet, either mentally or physically tonight.”
I offer her my arm, and as she wraps her icy fingers around it, we head toward the revolving doors in a haze of flashlights. Yes, the paps will eat well this Christmas because this photograph is pure gold.
We step inside the hotel, and the doorman nods respectfully, his eyes slightly raised as he notes my companion. He flashes a nervous gaze to the woman checking everyone in, whose mouth has dropped as she takes stock of the situation.
I glare at her with the promise of unemployment if she says one single word, and as we sweep through the lobby, I march straight to the reception desk.
The receptionist stares in horror as I bark roughly, “Send hot soup and sourdough up to the penthouse along with the silver dress I passed in the shop window.”
I pull back and cast my imperious eye over my shivering companion. “Size two, possibly four, send both along with matching heels in various sizes. I also require a beautician and hairdresser within twenty minutes.”
Her mouth drops as I grasp the girl’s arm beside me and propel her toward the private elevator that leads up to the penthouse.
Her eyes widen with horror as I push her inside, Trentthe only guard joining us, and as I thump on the button for the top floor, she whispers, “Have I missed something?”
I lean against the wall, my gaze ravaging every part of her, missing nothing, taking everything in and plotting her downfall in my mind.
“You are cold, almost blue, and if we don’t act fast, you may die from hypothermia.”
Her astonishing gray eyes widen as she shivers in the gruesome almost-outfit.
“But I can’t afford this, I should leave.”
“Did I ask you to pay?”
She stares at Trent as if he will offer an explanation, but he rewards her with a blank stare, giving nothing away.
“But why?”
She shakes her head and appears so small and fragile inside my jacket, it tugs at my sense of responsibility for her.
“You came here to enjoy the party. In order for that to happen, you must be comfortable in your skin. You are obviously not, so I am rectifying that. You’re welcome.”
“You are very generous, Mr.–”
“Call me Nico.”
Trent’s eyes twitch, and it’s almost amusing. Not many people get to call me by my first name. I prefer Sir or Mr. Ravera, but if my plan is going to work out, I must change tactics for once.
“I’m pleased to meet you, um–” She draws in a breath, “Nico.”
I’m surprised when she holds out her hand and not the one clutching her purse to her breast as if it’s her lifebelt.
“I’m Regina Stone. I’m pleased to meet you.”
My hand clasps hers, and I note how cold it is. Like iceand I squeeze her hand gently, attempting to warm it with mine.
“Miss Stone.” I nod, and she cocks her head to one side.
“Please call me Regina, or my friends call me Reggie; either is fine.”
