Sinful Heir (The Heirs 6)
It’s seldom I hear that name spoken in the light of day. It’s what the underground network of illegal activity is called in New York.
“She’ll be safe from them,” I assure him.
“How, Tristan? You can’t guarantee me that.”
“She will be safe because she’ll be with me,” I state what should be an obvious fact.
Mr. Cutler shakes his head. “With your ties to that world, Hana might become a target.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “As an heir of CRC, she’s already a target. At least by my side, she’ll have the best protection in the world.”
My reasoning begins to get through to Mr. Cutler because he slumps back in his chair. “Keep her safe, Tristan.”
“Always,” I promise, which is something I rarely do. Wanting to set Mr. Cutler at ease, I add, “Relax. It’s just dinner.”
Chapter 3
HANA
Yeah, this is a bad idea. What the hell was I thinking, saying yes?
Tristan had a dress delivered a couple of hours ago, and staring at the dark red vision, I have to admit he has good taste.
It’s just a dress, Hana.
I can’t deny the attraction I feel toward him, but my gut tells me to call the dinner off. I only said yes as a courtesy to our family's business connection.
Give him one date, so he’ll back off.
Letting out a sigh, I sit at my dressing table and apply my makeup. I straighten my hair until the strands are soft as silk.
Walking back to my bed, I stare at the dress again.
He’ll probably take it as a win if I wear it.
Sweeping the fabric off the covers, I go to hang it up and take a black cocktail dress from my closet. Slipping it on, I adjust the material where it stops just off my shoulders.
Walking to my full-length mirror, I look at my reflection. It’s not too short, ending a couple of inches above my knees. I slip on a pair of black heels, then turn sideways. The tight-fitting dress compliments my curves, making me smile.
I grab my coat and my clutch and then leave my room so I can get this night over with.
When I walk into the living room where my parents are watching TV, Mom instantly asks, “You’re not wearing the dress Tristan sent?”
“No,” I grumble.
“He’ll be offended,” she mutters.
Smiling sweetly, I say, “I don’t care. I’ll wear what I want to wear.”
Dad gives me a proud smile. “I think you look beautiful, snuggle-bug.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Fifteen minutes to seven, there’s a knock at the door, and I roll my eyes as I walk to the kitchen instead of opening the door for Tristan.
“Evening, Tristan,” I hear Dad say as I take a bottle of water from the fridge.
After having a couple of sips, I place the bottle back before I walk to the living room.
Tristan’s standing with his back to me, his shoulders broad beneath the black suit jacket that’s been tailor-made for him.
He turns around, and as his eyes sweep over me, a broad smile forms on his face. He almost looks pleased. Shaking his head once, he murmurs, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I go to kiss my parents on their cheeks. “I won’t be late.”
As I leave the house, I check my clutch to make sure I have everything I need.
Tristan’s hand is on the passenger door before I can reach for it, and my eyes dart up to his face. Tilting his head, he says, “Refusing to wear the dress I sent only makes me like you more.”
Shoot. Not the reaction I was hoping for.
Wanting to regain the ground I lost, I mutter, “I thought I’d instead go with black, which is probably the color of your soul.”
Tristan’s smile only grows as he leans down until his breath fans over my cheek, then he murmurs, “Be fucking still my heart. Now we match. I’m taking it as a sign that we’re meant to be.”
“So not what I meant,” I grumble as I push him back so I can climb in the car. “Let’s get this over with so I can tell you no again.”
Before Tristan shuts the door behind me, he grins, “The highlight of the evening. I’m looking forward to it.”
Holy crap, I’m not going to win.
Yanking on my seatbelt, I take a deep breath.
Tristan slides in behind the steering wheel, and then the engine purrs to life.
His aftershave drifts to me, and I take a deep breath of the woodsy scent.
Damn, he smells way too good.
“Dogs, not cats,” Tristan says as he drives away from the house.
Confused, I turn my gaze to his profile. “What?”
“You said you didn’t know me, so I’m telling you about myself. I like dogs, not cats.”
I struggle to suppress the smile tugging at my lips, and just to screw with him, I say, “Such a pity. I love cats.”