Stolen By The Boss

He pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine. “You’re not planning on trying to escape anymore, are you?”

I get out of the car. “That depends, are you keeping me prisoner here?”

Dean exits the car, giving me a glorious smile I’m sure he truly reserves for close friends or lovers. It makes my breath hitch at the sight of it. “Well, if you get unruly, I may just have to lock you up.”

“Handcuffs are my favorite.” And with those words, I walk past him and into the house.

Damn it. The phone lines are still down and still no reception on my cell phone. I want to check in with Rosa and find out how everything’s going with Bishop. See if he’s on the move. Also, I want to know why Rosa lied to me. Was Bishop really supposed to be at Mia’s house on the night I was there to take her place? Did he show up? What happened once he found out she wasn’t there? These are questions I need answered. And soon.

I traipse down the hallway, heading toward the kitchen and toward the smell of something delicious. I haven’t eaten in a while, and I haven’t seen Dean in even longer.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I blink, trying to pick up my jaw off the floor. Dean stands in the kitchen, working over a large pan on the stove. Shirtless. Hard muscles move beneath an expanse of bronzed skin, on full display for me. Well, his back muscles are at the moment. I’d love for him to turn around.

But not only that there’s tattoos galore. Some of the best I’ve ever seen. Wow.

I study the corded muscles of his back, wondering what it would feel like to trace each one with my finger. Or my tongue.

He spins around, and I marvel at the sight of his six-pack abs. “Are you hungry?”

Yup, but not for food.

I step closer to see what he’s got in the pan. “I am, but how are you cooking with no power?” I ask once I can muster up words.

“Gas stove. Hope you like linguini with meatballs.”

“I’m Italian. Of course, I do.”

He gives me that heart-melting smile again, and I try not to swoon like a schoolgirl. “Good. Want to grab some plates?”

I set our places on the breakfast bar. But he’s too distracting. Thank goodness I have my hands busy. Otherwise, this would end in disaster… and satisfaction—I’m sure the man is skilled—but mostly disaster.

“Whoa, this is delicious,” I praise the dinner as soon as I take the first bite. I’m biased because I’m hungry, but the hint of basil, ricotta and romano cheese, with the simple tomato sauce work perfectly together.

“Glad you like it.” He pours red wine in the glass in front of me. I read the label, Pinot Noir. My mind is reeling and not because of the alcohol.

This man would be lethal for my determination.

Dean sits beside me.

“This is nice, thank you.” I don’t want to be ungrateful. “The house is so quiet.”

So quiet it’s easy to forget where we are, and why.

“Everyone’s left for the evening.”

This is like music to my ears. I’m ready to get out of here. I need a working phone. And I need it now. Yes, I have a deal with Dean, but this is more important. Besides, if Dean has a man on the inside as well, why does he need me?

It’s not like I found out anything vital he can’t ask his man for. We all know where Bishop is right now. He’s going after the four daughters. Once he has them, who knows what’s next for him. Not even Rosa knows.

“More wine?” he asks in a low voice, and suddenly this feels too intimate with the candle lights flickering along the wall.

“Sure,” I answer, because why not? I mean, when in Rome and all.

Dean’s a very good-looking man. I allow one moment to picture a life with him. Us sitting together at dinner every night. Would he spoil me?

Or would he leave me by myself to work all hours of the night?

Dean doesn’t strike me as the latter. Sure, he works hard, but I’ve observed he has a strong sense of taking care of the people close to him.

I think about these sorts of things. My father was the same way. Always the protector. Always the one to keep everyone safe, never worrying about himself.

As Dean tells me about how he started his business, I watch the way his mouth moves over his fork when he eats. I imagine being that fork, sliding past his lips. And then, I realize I’m gawking when he asks a question I can’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping he hasn’t noticed I wasn’t paying attention to him.

Well, I was paying way too close attention to him.

“I asked if you’ve ever been to Florida. Miami?”