“Why not?” he asks, simply. “You like to be bossed around.”
“By my husband,” I state.
Rafe smiles. “I know you’re married, little one. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”
“Then you should respect my husband enough to stop doing that,” I inform him.
Cocking his head, he slightly narrows his eyes and ponders, “Is it disrespecting your husband? He’s not around—and he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it when he is.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, frowning and taking a seat on my lounger.
Since I don’t know, he decides for all of us. “I think it’s fine. I won’t boss you around when Mateo is here, how’s that?”
Instead of answering him, I change the subject. “What kind of business are you in town for?”
Apparently amused, he takes a seat back on the lounger beside mine and looks out at the pool. “Aw, come on, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m married to the Chicago boss; you could probably tell me.”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
I offer him a thin smile. “The last Morelli who planned to kill me married me instead.”
Rafe nods, like he understands that progression. “And you probably don’t need another husband.”
“Definitely not,” I readily agree. “I’m crazy about the one I have.”
“You struggle to get me a drink without fear of disrespecting him; I don’t even want to think what a struggle it would be to get my dick in your mouth.”
My jaw drops at his gall. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Like I can’t grab your ass?” he tosses back. “Did you not tell him? Because he sure as shit didn’t say anything to me about it.”
Rafe is so going to get himself killed. “You really need to leave,” I tell him, honestly.
My discomfort seems to amuse him. He decides to drop back to his scenario from a moment ago. “Of course, you could like the struggle. Maybe you’d get off on it.”
“Stop,” I say, seriously.
He doesn’t. “Maybe you’d like if I came over there and pinned you to that lounger, held you down, shoved my hand down inside those tiny bikini bottoms you’ve been prancing around in today.”
“Stop it,” I say again, with more force. “Too far. Stop it.”
Shrugging casually, he winks at me before remarking, “Nothing I haven’t done before.”
“I’m sober this time,” I inform him, unamused. “Your flirting is way over the line.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Adrian,” he informs me.
Despite my righteous irritation, the steel in his tone causes my heart to slide down my throat. He’s absolutely right. He’s not Adrian. Adrian is safe and loyal. Adrian cares about me and Mateo.
Rafe is a relative stranger. A potentially dangerous, threatening, disrespectful stranger. I realize this behavior isn’t new, and it shouldn’t surprise me. I was out of my element in Vegas and behaving differently, but he wasn’t. He was right at home, behaving exactly the way he likes to behave.
In Vegas, he got off on embarrassing Vince and taking control of me. Since I was angry at Vince, we were on the same side, but if he thinks to play the same game with Mateo, that obviously changes.
Rafe was never a nice man. When our interests aligned and I needed him, sure, he was a lifeline. But now I don’t need him, and he remains the same man he was in Vegas. A man so sure of himself and his own position—whatever that even is—that after spending time with me on only two separate occasions, he made the decision on his own to undermine his boss’ son and bring me back to Chicago.
This is not a man who plays well with other men.
I know one other man like that, and no, it is certainly not Adrian.
I want to flee, but I don’t. Fleeing will only make it clear he gets under my skin. “Are you always this aggressive?” I ask him.
He smiles easily. “Not always. I play the hand that needs playing.”
“Well… why don’t we call a truce? I don’t want to play games.”
“I heard you like games,” he says, mildly.
“I do—safe games. Fun games. Not dangerous games. I am blissfully happy here. This isn’t like Vegas, I’m not…”
“In need,” he supplies.
Even though it’s unflattering, it’s true. “Yes. I’m not in need. I didn’t think I was using you, but maybe I was. I’m sorry.”
This makes him smile again. He doesn’t respond, just sips his drink, then places it on the ground beside him. “That’s better. I like when you’re sweet.”
“I like when you don’t make me nervous,” I return.
“Remember when I made you comfortable?” he asks, easily. “Why do you think that’s different now?”
Uncomfortable isn’t even adequate terminology for the way he’s making me feel. I don’t want to talk about it, I just want him to stop, so I don’t answer.
His smile widens. “How is it you’ve lived this life for five years and you’re still so sheltered? Does Mateo keep you locked away like he did Beth?”