His Dirty Demands (Dirty Billionaires 1)

“Miss?” The hostess is waiting, looking from me to Cesare.

“Sorry,” I whisper as I move to follow. Yet I feel like I should be saying it to Cesare, and I don’t even know what for.

We’re seated in a very private corner in the back half of the restaurant. I thank the woman for the menu then stare at it blankly. Cesare says something in a murmur I barely take in. It’s coming, I can feel it, it weighs down every second. The sound of a match striking and flaring brings my head up. Cesare is lighting a cigar.

“You can’t do that in here.” A lone eyebrow goes up as he taps the end into an ashtray in front of him. “You are so rude. I don’t want to breathe that crap in. If you want to kill yourself, at least leave me out of it.” Still nothing except another drag on the cancer stick.

It’s still there, the weight of the words I know he’s holding back. I can’t take it anymore. “Fine, say it, damn it.” I want to slap him when his only answer is the brief rise of an eyebrow, again. “I know you have something to say about the way I’m dressed, so just fucking say it already.” Nothing except another drag of the cigar. I hate the way I don’t feel like gagging to make my point.

“Okay, fuck it, I’m out of here. I agreed to a business meeting, not to being looked down on and ushered to death with second-hand smoke from you. I’d rather have the tuna fish waiting at home for me.” I push up from the table, emotions crashing hard and chaotic inside me.

“Sit.” The word is so quiet, it’s almost a whisper. I go still, not sure I heard it correctly, in time to see the cigar being stubbed out from each side, slowly yet thoroughly. His jaw clenches, a ripple of movement I can’t take my eyes off of. Then his eyes rise to mine. “Please.”

I tell myself it’s the please, but I’m sure even the slightest further entreaty would have my stupid, weak knees folding for him. “Thank you for putting out the cigar.”

The tip of his mouth goes up so slightly it’s barely discernable as he nods. Yet still, he says nothing as he turns to his menu. Frustration bubbles in me—I won, but I didn’t get what I asked for. I want to know I managed to poke him, to unsettle him. Hell, I don’t know. I want my reaction; without it I’m lost.

A waiter comes to take our drink order. I order a sparkling water, lost at the idea of wine. “I’m not much of a drinker,” I admit.

I don’t even recognize the wine he orders, but whatever it is makes the waiter practically giddy. “You should at least try a glass with your steak, it will enhance the flavor. Do you know what you want?”

Had he seen me staring at the menu in confusion? The closest I’ve come to steak is when meat was on sale and it was a skirt steak or a roast. I had actually been staring at the salmon to make everything easier. When I meet his eyes, they are patient—a first I’m desperate to answer. “I don’t have a lot of experience with steak. Although I would like to learn, especially if you’re going to have more dinners at places like this. Oh, I’ve heard of filet mignon.” He winces. “I mean, it is expensive—”

“If you would allow me to order for you, I think I would order something you will enjoy much more than a filet mignon.” His words are cautious, for the first time it isn’t an order.

“I would appreciate it, thank you.”

When the waiter comes, Cesare orders a porterhouse medium for himself and a rib eye medium for me. I try not pay attention that our sides are exactly alike. It was a small thing, it means nothing. Once the waiter is gone, it still bothers me like a pebble in my shoe. “Are you really not going to say something about the dress?”

For the first time since I took off the coat, I feel it: heat scorching my entire being. His eyes run over me from my face to the tops of my breasts that grow heavy below his gaze. How does he do that? My skin is too tight, my lu

ngs have shrunk. Then it happens again. He blinks, and it’s gone. I want to scream for what I’ve lost; the pain is so sharp it stuns me.

“What is there to say?” A single shoulder moves up dispassionately. “You chose to wear what you want. You are well within your right to do so. This will, however, inform further dealings you and I have together. If you were my assistant, I would fire you. However, you are not my assistant. I will make my displeasure with you clear to Dante; in what way he chooses to deal with you is up to him.”

“Dante warned me about you. He told me to tell him if you made a move I found uncomfortable, that I didn’t have to put up with anything I found unacceptable.”

I don’t know why I said it exactly. Maybe it was the mention of Dante, maybe it was to voice Dante’s suspicion that Cesare would attempt to make a move on me. I don’t know if I said it to prevent him from making a move or to push him to do something, anything to make it clear what the hell I’m dealing with. I swear it’s not knowing what it is Cesare wants, really wants, that’s making me crazy.

Cesare sighs. I feel like a recalcitrant child. “In what way have I made you uncomfortable?”

I hate him. He’s going to make me say it while ignoring what he’s done. Asshole. “I just want it on record. Dante has already talked to me. I doubt he’d find me wearing this dress a firable offense.”

A humorless laugh rumbles from his chest. “No, I’m sure the fucker would believe I have received exactly what I deserve.”

From somewhere deep down where I long thought there was nothing left, I ache at the thin thread of pain in his words. Even as I tell myself I’m wrong, I know I’m not—the feeling is too familiar to me for me to be wrong. Pain was never something I would associate with Cesare Sabatini, so tall, so big. He looks indestructible to me, yet that thread of pain in his voice tells me he’s not nearly as tough as he looks.

“I’m sorry I wore the dress.” The words are a whisper. I mean it—no matter what I thought I wanted, I never wanted to see him looking so tortured. If I had it to do again, I’d never have touched the damn dress.

Our eyes meet, and for the first time the heat there isn’t scary. The way it envelops me makes me feel safe, secure. “Tell me about yourself, Alicia.”

Out of everything I thought he might say, it’s the last thing I expect. It takes a moment to process the request; the way he says my name causes a tingle deep down low I have never experienced before. That light accent turns my name into something uniquely sexy as his tongue caresses the syllables. Normally, I have no problem admitting I’m boring, but right now I struggle to find the words. “I don’t know, there isn’t much to tell.”

“Not according to Dante, he mentioned you went to my alma mater.”

The information stuns me. “You went to the University of Illinois at Chicago?”

A brief smile stuns me into smiling back. “Why do you find that surprising? I’m also wondering how much research you did on our company. It’s common knowledge I went, even more so I wasn’t able to graduate until I was twenty-five, as I didn’t start there until I was twenty and working at the same time.”