Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Heavy footsteps mimic each click of my boots.
Of course they do.
Men like Dante Caruso always have to have the last word.
I know this, so why the hell is his insistence making me more happy than angry?
I shouldn’t want him to chase me. I shouldn’t want his attention. But I do. Very much so.
Hating how weak I’m allowing him to make me, I get snappy. “If you’re here for a remake of the performance I gave you the other day, forget it. You can’t afford me.”
He huffs out a half-laugh, half-growl. “I’m not here for that.”
I hide my disappointment with a snarl. “Sure.”
“I’m not.” Anger sharpens in his tone. He’s annoyed I would even imply that’s why he’s here.
I turn to face him. “Then what was that about?” I gesture with my head to the empty club.
He tilts in close, as if his nearness will answer everything. I fight the urge to lean into his embrace. He’s infiltrated my dreams every night since the day we met, and no matter how much I resist, the pull is intense.
I still fight, though. “You’re acting like a jealous twit.”
“Jealous?” His scoff echoes around the barren corridor.
I act as if his dismissive tone didn’t burn me. “And now you’re following me.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“You interrupted my routine.”
He works his jaw back and forth. “That wasn’t jealousy.”
“Then what was it?”
He hesitates for barely a second, but I see the truth beneath the cracks my rejection made in his armor.
He’s jealous. But that isn’t all I see. The protectiveness radiating out of him is just as strong.
It’s a fight not to smooth the groove between his brows with my tongue, but I keep my feet planted when he mutters, “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and unreadable. “I’m not here to fight with you.”
“Then why are you here?”
He steps closer. He isn’t within touching distance, but near enough to heighten my senses. Heat rises in my stomach when he crowds me against the wall with slow, deliberate strides. His predatory stalk is unwelcome but impossible not to get trapped by.
I don’t run.
I should, but I don’t.
The rawness in his eyes can’t be overlooked.
“I’m not here to play games.” I breathe in deeply to drink in his scent. It is masculine and familiar, with a hint of freshly cut grass. Huh? “I’m here to offer you a job.”
My laugh is callous and filled with shock. “Once again, you can’t afford me.”
He ignores my jab. “Camille likes you.”
His statement impacts me more than I anticipate. I blink as a rush of moisture stings my eyes and nose.
“You brought her out of her shell.” He inches closer. I have no clue how. There’s barely an inch of air between us. “So who better than you to be her nanny?”
I react as if he slapped me. I stagger back, humiliation burning through me. The air ripples in my balk, and my lungs refuse to replenish with air.
Nanny.
The title slices through me.
He’s not here for me.
He’s here for his daughter.
I understand. I swear I do. I’d do anything to secure Gabriele’s happiness, so how can I judge him for doing the same for Camille? But the truth burrows deep, and it hurts like a bitch.
Bobbing under his arm, I enter the dressing room and quickly pack my things. If I stay, I’ll say something stupid—or worse, let him see how much this hurts.
“Running won’t help,” Dante says behind me, shadowing the doorway with his brooding frame. “I bought every strip club in the country. You won’t work at one that doesn’t belong to me.”
I whirl around as disbelief and anger singe my veins. I’m about to call him a liar, but the words are stuck behind a lump in my throat. I can see the honesty on his face, the certainty that I’ll never dance for any man who isn’t him.
I’m furious, but amid the flames, the calm of being wanted weaves through the carnage.
Dante’s expression darkens instantly. His glare is possessive and dangerous, and it does wicked things to my insides. Though I’d rather we keep that to ourselves.
Although I’m relieved I didn’t imagine the sparks that have kept me going the past week, I get bitchy when pushed into a corner. “Then I guess I’ll have to revert to the tricks I used on you last week.”
Before I can react, his hand shoots for my throat, and he squashes me against the only solid wall of the dressing room. His grip isn’t firm enough to cause concern. The only spasms I feel are desire. It’s an electric mix that leaves me confused about which way is up.
“I won’t share you.” His voice is subdued with assured confidence. “Ever.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. It’s taking all my strength not to kiss the arrogance off his face.