MM: You’ve got two minutes.
Two minutes, my ass. He can wait now. I’m ready to walk out of my apartment to meet him, but that text message makes me want to disobey him. So I do.
Checking myself over one more time in the floor-length mirror in my room, I run my hands over the smooth satin of my red pant suit. It’s a bold choice, I know, but I love the way the wide pants allow just a peek at my Louboutin’s, and how the jacket hugs my curves just right. It comes down in a V-shape to just between my breasts, showing the round globes off nicely with a whisper of my matching lacy bra. The chestnut brown wig I’m wearing is swept to the front in loose curls over one shoulder, framing my perfectly made-up face. Even if I do say so myself. My lipstick matches the suit and my eyes are dark and smoky, like my fucking mood when I’m around this man.
“I said two minutes.”
Holy fucking shit!
“What the actual fuck are you doing in my apartment? Get out!” Turning to face him, I point to the door, my other hand firmly on my hip.
“We have a date, Dolcezza. And you’re late.” He’s leaning against my door frame, arms folded, and I swear he looks like he’s about to burst out of the black button-down shirt he’s wearing. I’m almost disappointed that he’s got the sleeves rolled all the way down again, covering up what I’m guessing are porn-worthy forearms.
Maybe that’s for the best though. Temptation and all that.
“We have an appointment. It’s not a date. And it’s literally one minute past seven. I wouldn’t call that late. Now, get the fuck out of my apartment. I’ll grab my bag and meet you down there in a couple of minutes.” Completely ignoring the fact that he’s blocking most of the doorway, I stride toward him with all the confidence I can muster. I will not be intimidated in my own home.
Not again.
The fucker doesn’t move to let me pass, so I stand my ground, toe-to-toe with this giant of a man—even in my six-inch stilettos—and fold my arms across my chest. His eyes dip from my face, but only briefly, and I know he was checking the girls out. I may or may not have pushed them up with my arms on purpose.
His deep gray eyes bore into mine, assessing me for weaknesses. He will find none. I won’t back down from this man. He’s in my space, we play by my rules. I’m guessing “his guy” is responsible for him being inside my goddamn apartment. Well, he can also go fuck himself right off a fucking cliff.
Seconds later—although it almost felt like hours—he takes a deep breath before moving aside to let me pass.
“Thank you.” I’m not a complete bitch, I have manners.
Striding through to my living room, I grab my small black clutch bag from the table. It’s already filled with all my essentials—as I said, I was ready to leave before Mr. Asshole gave me a time limit.
He still hasn’t left, just continues to glare at me from the doorway, now with a smirk creeping onto his face.
“Are you ready to go, or what?” I rest my hand on my hip and gesture to the door.
His silent stare is almost as annoying as when he speaks. At least I can admire the way his dark hair falls in messy, styled waves across his forehead, the tips close to reaching his eyes.
Without saying a word, he pushes off from the door frame and basically stalks toward me. The move is intimidating, and after what I’ve been through lately, it should scare me. But it doesn’t. As much of an arrogant prick as Marco Mancini is, something inside me says he won’t hurt me. He’s just a man who’s used to getting his own way, and from the little research I’ve been able to do this afternoon, I’ve discovered he donates to a women’s refuge once a month. Which tells me he’s not as big of an asshole as he comes across. There is actually a heart hidden somewhere beneath all those muscles.
I find myself stepping back as he nears me, my back hitting the wall as he cages me in. Keeping my head held high, I give him the same death-glare he’s giving me and raise a brow.
“Being on time is very important to me. Our contract will detail that you must be available and on time, exactly when I say so. Each time this requirement is not met, you will be punished. Got it?”
“I’m not agreeing to that. We could’ve left five minutes ago if you’d stop with this entitled alpha crap. You’re the one making us late. Does that mean you need a punishment too?”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes before he wets his lips, and I have no idea why I find it so fucking sexy.
“Is that appealing to you, River Fox? Punishing me?”
Absolutely it is. But I’m not showing all my cards to this man. This dinner is a one-time thing. I’ve already decided I’m not taking the job. I’m choosing to ignore his question and concentrate on the fact that he keeps calling me by my fucking name.
“My name is Rose. You will call me Rose.”
“No, I will call you by your name. It would be a tragedy to call you anything else.” His voice is but a mere growl over my lips, and the scent of vanilla fills my nostrils with him this close. I’d bet my life on the fact that Marco Mancini is anything but vanilla.
“Rose is my name.” Albeit my middle name, but his guy probably told him that already too.
A low laugh escapes his throat before he takes a deep breath. “No.”
This man seems determined to push all my buttons, and not the fun ones.