Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
We stand in the center of the ballroom, gliding together as if we are a couple. I easily imagine myself as the queen of the gala, the one woman who everyone else envies. I can have it all. I can go home with the most eligible bachelor in the room, securing a spot for myself in the family album. Curiously, it’s the thought of success that drives me away.
I know too much about Francisco already. No, I don’t know where the bodies are buried, but I’m one hundred percent sure there are literal skeletons in his closet. Maybe skeletons of past lovers.
That thought stops me cold. I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous. He hasn’t asked me to bed yet, and there’s no indication that he will. I’m an employee in his home, and he’s nothing if not impeccable. But we’re both warm-blooded adults, and I can sense his attraction. I’m not dead yet.
I tell myself he’s not a danger to the women in his life, just the men. People like Francisco have a code I know only too well that they live by. He’s just like my father, which is another reason I should turn tail and run. I’ve had my fill of mafia soldiers. They aren’t like the actors in the movies. They’re rough and ugly. They hurt people for a living, and their personal lives are full of ruined dreams. Francisco is neither rough nor ugly, but I do get the impression he has been unsuccessful in love. It’s a pity, because I wouldn’t mind giving it a try. But there are so many reasons to keep my distance.
I push away, summoning my courage to look him in the eye. “I have to go.”
He doesn’t argue. I half expect him to give me some command, to pull me back into the dance and refuse to allow me to leave. But to his credit, he lets me go. He follows me silently out of the ballroom, catching hold of my wrist just outside the door.
“Thank you for coming,” he says simply. Though the words are gentle, their implication is clear. He knows I’m on the fence. He knows I struggled with myself before arriving, that I’m not sure if I even belong here.
“Of course,” I say, tossing it out as if there were no conflict.
He kisses my cheek, and it sends butterflies fluttering through my stomach. I’m so close to wrapping my arms around his neck and promising to spend the night. To stop myself from making a huge mistake, I turn around and hurry away.
The more distance I put between us, the worse I feel. The butterflies have turned to lead, and I feel physical pain. What is going on? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I focus on what I know is the right course of action and ignore my baser feelings for the man?
I nearly turn around and rush back to him. It takes all my strength to search out the billiard room again. I’ve got to say goodbye to Frankie before leaving for the night. I wonder how much of my allotted two hours has passed, and if I’ve overstayed.
I push the door open and find the room significantly different from when I left. There are no women surrounding the pool table, and the boys have taken advantage of the situation. They’re loud and boisterous. They’re shouting at each other as they wave the pool cues around and laugh.
I sigh. If only Francisco were acting in a similar fashion. It would be easy as pie to walk away. But instead, he’s the perfect gentleman, though I believe he has blood on his hands. Frankie, in contrast, is likely innocent, but acting like an asshole.
“Frankie,” I call, waving him over.
“Hello, beautiful!” he sings, waltzing up to me to put a hand on my backside.
I twist away, astonished by his lack of decorum. I didn’t go out of my way to say goodbye to him just to be groped by a drunken oaf. He senses my discomfort immediately and takes several steps back to remedy it. Instead of falling all over me, he sticks his hand in his pocket and gives me puppy dog eyes.
“I’m leaving,” I snap.
“Don’t go,” he argues. “Stay and play.”
“I think you have enough playmates,” I quip.
Frankie looks at his guy friends and shakes his head emphatically. “These aren’t playmates.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, disgusted.
I push my way out of the billiard room, trying not to hold it against him. He’s so drunk he probably won’t remember anyway. I glide through the house, carefully avoiding all of the couples and gangsters who are mingling in doorways. Outside, I breathe the crisp night air, feeling dizzy.
I’ve only had two glasses of champagne, but still, I wonder if I can drive. But my alternative is to stay with Francisco, and that’s just not going to work for me. I have to get out before I do something I’ll regret.