The Banker (Banker 1)

I did as much research as I could, and it was safe to conclude this man was impenetrable. Every photograph I could find of him showed his security team in the background. The only public appearances he made were for work. His personal life wasn’t disclosed. There wasn’t even a picture of him going to the grocery store to pick up some orange juice.

No wonder why Micah put this on my shoulders.

There were a few places Cato frequented in Florence, so I decided to get a view of him in person. Perhaps if I studied my prey, I’d gain a better understanding of how I was going to pull this off. Marching up to him with a gun wouldn’t accomplish anything. One of his men would take me out in a second. I probably couldn’t even walk up to him at all, not without being intercepted by one of his bodyguards.

I didn’t have a lot of time to waste, but I had to take this slowly if I were going to accomplish anything.

I went to one of his favorite clubs in Florence. I didn’t have a clue if or when he would show his face, so I made an appearance three nights in a row, wearing a different dress and heels each time. The bartender thought I was a lonely alcoholic who had quickly become a regular.

On the third night, I sat alone at a table when I finally got some luck. My hands were wrapped around my glass of scotch as my eyes watched the commotion at the doorway. Bouncers moved out of the way so Cato could lead the pack. With three other good-looking men in suits, they entered the bar, all heads turning their way like they were beautiful women in heels. Women weren’t the only ones looking, but men too, probably envious of a man who was so rich and handsome he could have any woman he wanted—at any time.

A special seating area was cleared out just for them, and before their muscular asses pressed against the leather seats, a sexy waitress in a dress that hardly covered anything appeared out of nowhere to wait on them.

I focused on Cato and ignored his three friends. Even in the darkness of the club, he looked exactly the same as he did in his photographs. Rugged, handsome, and confident. He wore a gray V-neck that highlighted his muscular arms and chest. His shoulders were broader in person than they were in the pictures. With blue eyes and brown hair, he was a very pretty man. His tanned skin implied he loved the outdoors, even though I’d never seen a single photograph of him hiking or yachting.

I continued to enjoy my scotch as I stared from my chair, trying to glean as much information as I could. The three men with him seemed to be friends, not security detail. The men in charge of keeping him safe stayed near the entrance, their eyes scanning the bar and everyone near it. Hopefully, they didn’t find me suspicious, just a woman who was debating making a move.

Just as the waitress returned with their drinks, a group of confident women joined them. All pretty and dressed for the occasion, they flashed their smiles and their long legs, knowing exactly who Cato was.

I assumed a handsome guy like him was a playboy, but I wasn’t prepared for how extreme of a playboy he was.

He grabbed the woman closest to him by the wrist and gently tugged her toward him. His hands guided her hips over his thighs until she straddled his lap. Then he gripped her lower back and pulled her in for a kiss, her dress riding up and showing her black thong to everyone.

The other guys didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

The bar staff didn’t rush over and tell her to stick to the dress code.

With my jaw hanging open, I watched Cato make out with a complete stranger. Like he could do whatever he wanted, he took control without asking permission. His hand dug into her hair, and he kissed her with his full lips, treating her like he adored her rather than had no idea who she was. His fingers tucked her hair behind her ear then he gripped her ass.

Even though he was a total pig, it was still pretty hot. He certainly knew how to use that rugged mouth of his.

He ended the kiss then gently guided her into the seat beside him. His arm rested over the back of the couch, and he turned to talk to her, perhaps to actually ask for her name, but another woman straddled his hips and stole his attention.

Then he made out with her next.

“Jesus…” I took a long drink of my scotch.

She kissed him harder than the previous woman, her hands scratching his chest as she ground against his erection in his slacks. She showed him her best moves, doing her damnedest to erase the woman who had just pulled the same stunt.