Page 17 of Hot-Blooded Killer

“Nothing I can think of right now.”

“Let me know if you come up with any more rules you’d like us to follow.” I hear laughter underscoring his words, and I blush harder.

Everything about this man leaves me reeling.

I’m not sure how I’m going to get through the next several months.

Because Pop has promised I won’t have to be married to Lorenzo for more than a year, tops. Not if I do my job right. We will destroy the Beneventi family and the marriage will be annulled before I ever even finish my college degree.

And the best part? My father might be using me to increase our fortunes, but after this, I will inherit the business.

And even before that, I’ll get to be in charge of my own life. Pop promises I will get to choose my next husband myself.

“Let’s celebrate our agreement,” Lorenzo murmurs, leaning back and waving down the nearest waiter.

He orders for us both— something I would normally hate, but Lorenzo seems to have done his homework. Everything he orders is precisely what I would have gotten for myself, from the Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux wine to the Tournedos Rossini entrée—though I don’t miss the irony of the beef, truffle, and foie gras dish having a name so similar to my own surname.

When he’s done ordering, Lorenzo glances at me. “Did I get it right?”

I laugh, and for the first time in his presence, it isn’t at all forced. “You got it perfectly right.”

He turns the conversation to benign topics, sharing gossip about people we both know and keeping the conversation light—and well away from the agreement we had signed.

We finish the meal and are examining the dessert cart when a deep, sultry female voice interrupts us.

“Lorenzo Beneventi. You were supposed to call me when you got back to town.”

I glance up to find Anna Maria Calvi standing next to our table.

“Anna Maria,” Lorenzo says, his voice completely flat. “How are you?”

If ever I had a nemesis, it was Anna Maria. She was everything I would never be—tall, slender, dark hair and dark eyes, a true Sicilian Italian.

She’s also the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. And she proves it once again as soon as she opens her mouth.

“I’m doing well, darling. You should’ve told me you were coming out tonight. I could have kept you company.”

Lorenzo leans back, waving the pastry chef away.

Good—any desire I might have had for dessert has disappeared with Anna Maria’s arrival.

“As you can see,” Lorenzo drawls, his voice taking on a sharp edge, “I had excellent company this evening.” He reaches across the table and threads his fingers through mine.

I flash him a tight smile, unreasonably grateful for his defense.

What is it about this woman that can send me straight back to junior high school? Suddenly, I’m no longer the second in command of the Rossi family. Instead, I’m a gawky, round thirteen-year-old, carrying more baby fat that I know what to do with, and just figuring out that I will never be the kind of dancer I wanted to become.

I shove the reaction down deep and put on my sharpest smile. “Anna Maria. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you and Lorenzo were friends.”

Hatred flashes through Anna Maria’s gaze, and she bares her teeth in a red-lipsticked smile. “No worries, darling. I’m sure I’ll see him again soon.” She leans over and sets her cheek against Lorenzo’s for a split second, kissing the air beside him. “Do call me when you get bored with this one.” She flicks her fingers in my direction and turns to leave without another glance at me.

I clench my teeth, fighting back an urge to claw her eyes out.

Lorenzo watches her leave, then shakes his head. “I take it there’s history between you two?”

My lips twist, but I answer honestly. “Nothing serious. She’s just…”

“A bitch?”

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