It is a woman’s duty not to lower herself.
—George Eliot
ARIANA DE LUCA
He tasted like spearmint, whiskey, and lemons.
Like danger and ruin.
Corruption and sex.
I kissed him, but he didn't kiss me back. Instead, he tilted his head to the side so Aphrodite couldn't see our faces, effectively cutting her off from our interaction. He was using me to get rid of her. Hell, I had planned for him to do so.
But this was different.
This was him taking my plan and twisting it in his favor in his way. With his skill. As if it had been his idea in the first place. He wasn’t kissing me back, but he dominated me regardless. I felt it in the pounding of my chest. In the weakening of my legs. In his refusal to Kiss. Me. Back.
He reached an arm around my waist and pulled me closer, still not returning my kiss. His palms explored my hips, curved up to the side of my breasts, then lowered to my ass. He gripped a cheek and squeezed, pulling my body forward and into him, grinding my core on the side of his thigh like he owned me.
His taunts didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the audience. I got it. I’d kissed him without his permission, so he touched me without mine. And still, he didn’t kiss me back. My lips remained pressed to his lifeless ones, and his hands continued to knead my ass, both of us waiting to see who would cave first. His hand slid from my ass to my front, dipping beneath the hem of my dress.
I took a step back and tore my lips away, mentally cursing myself for using such a stupid, unoriginal, and clichéd approach. I was better than this, but he had made me sloppy. I was lightheaded from his presence—the heavily intoxicating smell of whiskey, oakmoss, musk, and aged ambergris. Drunk from the power he radiated. And dizzy from the viscous tension coursing through my veins.
We waited in silence as Aphrodite tucked tail and ran, silently disappearing into the crowd while our eyes locked in a power struggle he was bound to win.
He already won, I reminded myself as I took another tiny step back, hoping he didn’t notice.
He did.
Amusement touched his eyes before it fled like an alleycat, darting away before I could even process it. Only when Aphrodite was gone from the bar did he return his attention to the bartender's back, dismissing me again, like he had earlier. Like I was worthless.
I felt the dismissal in my gut.
“That’s it?” I kept my voice low and carefully concealed the emotion in it, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.
He didn’t respond. I was Aphrodite now, except he had actually looked at me, taken me in, deemed me inferior, and disregarded me. I felt like a flea. A pest. The minnow I had mentally accused Dana, his ex-girlfriend, of being.
In this moment, I knew that Wilks had been right to some degree. I needed the power of my last name. This legend had no chance of surviving otherwise. Not with this apathetic jerk involved.
I took a seat on the stool next to him, far enough away that I felt like I could breathe a little again. “Ariana De Luca,” I introduced myself. “But you can call me Ari.”
He didn’t react. Not physically, at least. But I felt his attention as he spoke, still not facing me. “That’s an interesting last name.”
“It’s just a last name.”
He curled his fingers around his glass. “Sure. In the same way Romano is just a last name.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
That got to him. He turned to me, giving me his full attention and, with it, the full force of those devastating eyes. This was it—my moment to succeed or fail epically. I leaned over the counter, aware of how high my short dress rose, and grabbed a bottle of top-shelf amaretto and sour mix.
Leaning closer to him, I held steady eye contact as I poured sour mix into his glass, followed by the almond whiskey. My hand covered his, and together, we swirled the glass, mixing the whiskey sour with the steady movement.
I held my breath as he took a sip of it, downing a finger in one impressive gulp. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the movement far more erotic than it should have been. I forced myself not to avert my eyes.
“How’d you know?” Whiskey coated his lower lip. His tongue swiped across the skin, cleaning it in a way that ripped the air from my throat and left me fatally winded.
I tried and failed to tear my eyes away from his mouth. “I tasted it on your lips.”
The same lips I couldn’t stop staring at.
I was being unprofessional. I was getting drawn in by his allure, and I had no excuse. Bastiano Romano was about as delightful as a positive STD test result, yet here I was, distracted, intoxicated, and engrossed. The equivalent of spreading my legs and begging for gonorrhea.
“Are you in the habit of coming into bars and putting your lips on random strangers?” He paused, disdain passing over his features. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a classy gal?”
And on top of his lack of charm, he was a full-blown jerk.
I held back my scowl, forcing myself to pretend he didn’t affect me. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion.”
“I don’t recall giving you my consent.”
“And I don’t recall you pulling away.”
He laughed at that, but his laughter was drier than sandpaper. “This has got to be the worst job interview I’ve ever partaken in.” He slowed his words, his tone dripping with condescension. “Have you ever had a job?”
I ignored his jab and leaned away from him, feeling exposed and three steps behind. “How do you know I want a job?”
“You looked around when you entered the place, but you stopped as soon as your eyes landed on me; you just fixed me a whiskey sour with amaretto; and you have the tip of your resume hanging out of your purse.”
Jesus Christ, he had made me as soon as I’d entered the room. Did he notice these details about everyone or was it just me? I bit back a scoff at my arrogance. Surely it wasn’t just me, but the alternative was almost unbelievable. I was a trained FBI agent, and even I sometimes missed things. Granted, Wilks usually assigned me to such insignificant cases, I had virtually no experiences I could brag about.
I studied his eyes, wondering what they took in. “Are you always this observant?”
“Only when I’m breathing.” He finished his drink and slid the glass my way, a silent demand for me to make him another drink.
I wondered if he was accustomed to ordering people around or if he just thought he could with me. Either way, the assumption that I would be at his beck and call pissed me off enough for me to not pour him another drink, though I should have for the sake of my cover.
He took in my defiance without concern, and when his mouth curved up into a scoff, I braced myself for the impact of his impending words. “Do you always force yourself on all your potential employers?”
He was trying to make me sound pathetic, and it worked. Christ, I hated his guts. Meanwhile, he remained indifferent, barely gathering the energy to spare me a glance in between sentences.
“No.” I swallowed my irritation and tried to salvage this impossible situation, reminding myself how much I wanted to prove myself and get better assignments. “But I’m an opportunist. I see an in, and I take it.”
“And I’m your in?” He let loose a mocking laugh. “For what? The job?” His warm whiskey breath caressed my ear as he leaned closer and whispered, “Or something else?”
I placed a firm hand on his chest and pushed him away. He didn’t budge an inch. I pushed again. Still no movement.
Lowering my hand, I racked my brain for a way to save face and came up empty. “The job. I got your attention, didn’t I?”
He leaned back of his own accord, his face instantly serious. “There aren’t any bartending openings here.”
He was lying.
We both knew this.
The fact that I had to make him the drink he’d been waiting for was proof of that, but this was just another test. For what? I didn’t know. I just had to hope for the best.
I tucked a strand of hair from my face and leveled him with a determined stare. “Make one.”
“Why should I?”
“I did you a favor.”
He scoffed. “Chasing off a mafia bunny? Hardly a favor. Unless you’ve taken a bullet for me, I don’t owe you a thing.”
Like I’d ever take a bullet for him.
“You’re a real piece of work.” The words slipped out.
What the hell. Stop talking, Ari, I begged.
“As if I give a fuck.” He turned to me, stood up, and inched closer until his chest brushed my arm. “The door’s that way. Drink’s on you.”
My jaw dropped. He wanted me to pay for a drink that he drank in a bar that he ran? He was unbelievable.
He placed his finger underneath my chin, pushed upward until my mouth shut with an audible snap, and started to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed his arm, my fingers unable to wrap fully around the sheer width of his forearm.
The warmth of his skin burned my palm. He could have easily pulled away, but he didn’t. He stopped; turned to me; carefully removed my fingers from his forearm like I’d caught an infection I didn’t know about; and with a hand on each side of my bar stool, leaned forward, capturing both of my eyes with his.
I could feel his breath on my lips as he spoke. “I don’t hire people I don’t know, Ariana De Luca”—he emphasized my last name—“so why the fuck do you think I would make an exception for you?”
He said it like I was a curse.
Like I was nothing more than a nuisance.
Like the dirt on this floor held more worth than I did.
A lesser woman would have cowered. She would have cried ravaged tears. She would have weakened beneath the insults that cut deeper than words, carried by his supremacy and cemented by his self-righteous authority.
Instead, I steeled myself and inched closer until I could feel his lips feathering mine. His eyes widened in genuine surprise, the first reaction from him that hadn’t been birthed from his inexplicable disdain for me.
“I’m the best.” My voice barely reached a whisper as I reveled in his scent and the intoxicating notes of bergamot, blackcurrant, and Moroccan jasmine. Something this sinful shouldn’t have smelled this delicious. “And this isn’t your goddamn bar. So, you have fun explaining to your boss why you let the best slip through your fingers, while I have fun getting a job at your biggest rival. I hear The Dominic has a bullshit-free working environment.”
I grabbed my purse, threw a couple hundred-dollar bills on the bar counter, and turned to leave, allowing my entire body to brush against his as I left. It was a badass exit as far as I was concerned, and I was proud of myself even if I was leaving without a job. I’d probably get pushed to desk duty for this, but at least I had my pride. Well, what was left of it.
He stopped me when I stood no more than a foot away, his hand placed on my hip. I didn’t dare turn around. I could feel his breath on my neck as he closed the distance between our bodies.
With his front pressed entirely against my back, he brushed my long hair behind my ear and whispered into it, his voice full of condescension. “Silly, misinformed girl, L’Oscurità is mine in all the ways that matter. If you think you know a thing about me, you’re more foolish than I already think you are.”
For a split second, I wondered what had happened to him that taught him to treat people like this. I swept the thought away as soon as it came, chastising myself for thinking sympathetic thoughts in the first place.
Pressed completely against him, I felt unnerved. But I was too stubborn to allow his insult to go unanswered. "Back left corner. Blue button down. Black jeans. You're serving a Brillat Savarin with a Mourvèdre when a Counoise would work better. White dress, blonde hair at my six o'clock is eating her braised and confit lamb with a glass of Viognier when a Meritage is more appropriate.”
I leaned back, pressing myself harder against him until I could feel his erection firmly against my back, and I was sure he could feel every curve of my body. It was erotic, sexy, and so fucked up, I refused to process it. “I could continue, but I’ll spare you the depths of your inadequacy. But have fun with your restaurant. Great place you have here. It certainly doesn’t need me.”
I jerked away from his touch, forcing myself to ignore the brutal beating of my heart and the breaths that struggled to flee my lips. I had hardly walked two steps from him before he called after me.
"Wait," he demanded, and like a glutton for punishment, I did. "Saturday. Three o'clock. I have no tolerance for tardiness."
And just like that, I had a meeting with the most petrifying man I had ever met. I had a feeling that Bastiano Romano could ruin me if I let him.