Chapter Four
“I’m gonna buy this place,” Mateo decides, looking down across the bar.
I laugh, since he must be joking.
“Watch,” he challenges, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll name it after you.”
“Meg’s Place?” I say, beaming at him. “I approve of this plan. If you need a good bookkeeper, give me a call.”
His brow furrows at that. “Receptionist?”
“What?”
“You’re a receptionist, aren’t you?”
My stomach sinks, realizing I fucked up again. “Oh, yeah. Well, yeah. Technically, but…I’m not an official bookkeeper, but I do help out with the books sometimes. I’m good with numbers, but I don’t have a degree or anything.”
Letting me off the hook, he nods and says, “But more importantly, how are you in the kitchen?”
I snort indelicately, shaking my head. “I’m good in there too, actually. Are you that guy? Your lady has to be barefoot and pregnant baking cannoli or some shit?”
“Well, that’s a little far,” he says, his mouth curving up in a smile. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman with a career, but it’s more… a hazard of my lifestyle. I like to keep my people protected. Too many variables out in the world. I am pretty traditional, though. Is that a dealbreaker?”
“Oh, I didn’t realize we were making a deal, but… No, I’m totally into the whole… sexist thing. Who isn’t?”
Grinning, he says, “So I can tell you to go make me a sandwich and you won’t get mad?”
Fanning myself, I say, “Ooh, baby.”
He laughs, and even though I shouldn’t, I like the sound of it. “I like you, Meg Milano.”
“Do you? Hmm, jury’s still out on you,” I return playfully, taking a sip of my martini. Pointing to the whiskey he ordered, I point out, “You haven’t touched your drink.”
“So I haven’t,” he agrees.
“Isn’t the point of getting a drink to… I don’t know, drink?”
He smiles slightly, glancing at the glass, but makes no move to sip from it. “I don’t drink in public if I haven’t had eyes on it the whole time.” Indicating the enclave where the bartenders gather, he says, “Bartender was over there before he poured mine. Put it below the counter, out of sight. Then he gave it to me to drink.”
I can’t quite contain my horror that he paid that much attention to his beverage, but I try to dial it down to reasonable disbelief. “Wow, that’s… really observant,” I state, unsure how else to finish that thought.
He shrugs, unconcerned, and watches my mouth. “You should finish that so we can get out of here,” he tells me.
I lick my lips, not because he’s watching, but I’m not sure how to navigate this road. Suddenly I’m uneasy, and it’s not like I was wild about this plan going into it. If he’s suspicious of a random bartender for literally nothing, how am I going to dump anything into his drink?
Also, I really don’t want to. I’m sure he’s not a great guy, given his line of work, but personally I’m having a blast.
The problem is, I can’t change my mind.
Antonio Castellanos made it very clear what would happen if I did, and if there’s one person I’d kill for, it’s my daughter.
Even if that someone is Mateo Morelli.
Easing off the bar stool, I decide I need to regroup. Pointing toward the bathroom, I say, “I’m just gonna…”
“Of course,” he murmurs.
As I go to grab my purse, he goes to hand it to me, and somehow afflicted with a case of butterfingers, he manages to drop it. My eyes go wide as it topples, the contents spilling out all over the floor. I immediately bend to gather them, but he hops off his bar stool to help me.
“I got it,” I say too quickly, my heart hammering in my chest as my eyes seek out the fake lipstick. Did it roll under the bar? Is it still in the purse? Fuck.
And then I see the lipstick… trapped beneath the toe of his expensive Italian loafer. My heart stops beating as I stare at it, but I try to keep cool, shoving the rest of the items back into my purse, then reaching for the lipstick. I glance up at him, a chill moving through my veins looking up at him like this. “Uh… my….”
Obviously he knows that, since he’s the one who stopped it, but he waits several seconds before lifting his foot so I can retrieve it. “Lipstick?”
I force a smile and nod, popping back up once I’ve retrieved it. “Yeah.”
“Lovely shade,” he remarks.
I frown a little, looking down at the orangey base. You can’t see the actual lipstick through the dark case, but it looks like a real lipstick, so it has a colored base to indicate the shade.
“Thanks,” I say, flashing him a smile. Lightly touching his shoulder to reassure myself more than him, I lean in and murmur, “I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t touch my hand, only looks at it, then meets my gaze warmly. “I’ll be waiting.”
Breathing a little easier, I head for the bathroom. I put my purse down on the sink, bracing my weight on the counter and taking a breath.
I can’t do this.
No part of me wants to. Not just because I’m not a killer, but I like him. I’m having a great night with him. I wish… I wish this was a real date.
I recall Antonio Castellanos telling me he had a crew following me to clean up the mess, and I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. The mental image of the man on that barstool next to me, still and lifeless, being ‘cleaned up’ by any crew…
What if I told him?
He’s already caught me in the receptionist/bookkeeper lie, what if I just told him Antonio Castellanos sent me, but now that I’ve met him I know I can’t do it, and… and what? This isn’t even a first date, it’s a hook-up. Sure, he seems to like me, but there’s a gulf between liking a girl enough to have a one-night-stand with her, and liking her enough to look past the mess I’m in, let alone save me from it. Even if he believed me—me, this stranger he’s known for a couple of hours, the one who’s admitting to having lured him out with the intention of poisoning him—would he be able (let alone willing) to get to Lily before Castellanos? What would he do with me?
He may want to take me home tonight, but that doesn’t mean anything. This only means something to me because I’ve been married to an asshole for four years. This is probably every night for him, and every time with a different woman.
I can’t tell him, but I can’t poison him, and I don’t know what the hell to do.
I pull the lipstick out of my purse again, checking to make sure the stick didn’t come dislodged and start leaking out when it got dumped. There’s a real lipstick above the vial of powder, but I’m too afraid it’s contaminated to actually put it on my lips, so I grab my other lipstick and apply that instead.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I struggle with what I must do now.
I could ask him for the money to pay off Castellanos. I’d much rather owe Mateo Morelli a debt than the humorless old bastard who showed up on my stoop the night of Rodney’s wake, but… you can’t really ask the guy you’ve been on a date with for an hour for that kind of money without explaining why, and “I need to pay off your rival, so he won’t make me kill you” probably isn’t the best opener.
This is so shitty.
I finally meet the man of my dreams and I have to kill him.
---
I head back to the bar, prepared to leave, but Mateo has ordered me another drink.
I start to remind him we were just about to get out of here, but honestly, I want to stall, and I want to spend more time with him. I’d like to say I need more time to figure a way out of this, but I don’t think there is one. I’m too deep in debt, or I’d go home with Mateo after this drink, then slink back to my house, put Lily in the car, and just drive. No murdering handsome mobsters, no retaliation from their rivals.
No, I don’t think I’ll come up with a plan I haven’t considered in the next half hour, but the longer I can delay the next part of this evening, the better.
I nurse that one, a little less cheerful now that I realize the clock is ticking, and we will be leaving soon. Still, the damn thing won’t last forever, and then Mateo is watching me, those sexy eyes even sexier with alcohol coursing through my veins, and why does this have to be so complicated? I know I never would’ve met him otherwise because I’m a boring mom who works and stays home, but why couldn’t Mateo Morelli have noticed me for real, and taken me out for real, so my dream date could’ve been real and not a stupid ploy?
I’m starting to feel really tipsy. I should’ve said no to that last martini. I mean, I couldn’t, because then it would be poison time, but I should’ve.
“Can I go pee one more time?” I ask, glancing at the little bit of alcohol left in my glass.
“Of course,” he murmurs. He doesn’t move to hand me my purse this time, but I grab it, tucking it under my arm. I get distracted by his broad shoulders before I can walk away. God, he has good shoulders. I’m an affectionate drunk and I’m already attracted to the man, so I find myself wanting to hug him. I don’t, but I do reach out and give that shoulder a little squeeze, more longing in my eyes than I should probably let him see.
He watches me as I linger. “Something wrong?”
I shake my head wordlessly, shoving down my regret. Attempting a smile, I pull my hand away and head for the bathroom to have one final anxiety attack.
When I emerge a few minutes later, The Best is Yet to Come is playing, and it feels like a bad omen.
Granted, Mateo requested nothing but Sinatra, but last time I played this song, I didn’t have such a great night.
Which really pisses me off, because I love this song.
When I get back to our seats, I’m confused to see Mateo isn’t there. Our glasses have been cleared, so I assume he paid the bill, but where is he?
The bartender doesn’t seem too busy, so I approach him at the bar. “Hey, did you see where my date went?”
The man shakes his hand, polishing a glass.
With one last, longing glance at the piano, I lament not getting to dance. Then I head for the doors, to see if he stepped outside.
Mateo’s on the sidewalk in front of the bar, talking on his phone. I feel relieved, thinking for a moment he’d actually left. In one sense I wish he would’ve, but realistically I know that would’ve been bad for me.
He’s probably more relaxed about drinking at his home. I can’t imagine it will be easy to dump anything into his drink, but…
Damn, I don’t want to think about this. I know I have to, I’m running out of time, but it makes me feel sick, and I need to keep it together.
He spots me as I come flying out the door, so he finishes up his phone call. Dropping it into the pocket of his dark pants, he heads in my direction, raking his eyes over my body.
“You ready to get out of here?” he asks.
“I thought I’d get to finish my drink first,” I say lightly, as he catches me around the waist and tugs me against his body.
“You weren’t fast enough,” he tells me, his lips dropping to my shoulder, then working their way up my neck. As tender as he is, I’m startled a moment later when he grabs my arms, flattening me against the brick building and crushing my body with his. I don’t hate it, I just don’t expect the aggression. He doesn’t wait to see if I like it, though—his mouth is on mine again, his kiss crushing, dominating, almost punishing. I struggle to keep up, to match him, until finally he pulls away.
With a mysterious little look, he takes my hand and leads me to the car waiting by the curb. He opens the door for me. “Shall we?”
I nod, sliding in and glancing to the front.
Adrian isn’t there, though. Someone else is—not one of the guys from the shop.
“Where’d Adrian go?” I ask as Mateo slides in beside me.
“He had something to take care of,” Mateo says vaguely. I’m about to reach for my seatbelt, but he stops me, lifting me and placing me so I’m straddling his lap instead.
“Oh,” I murmur, but I don’t complain. Especially when his hand skates up my bare leg, up under the skimpy skirt, and moves between my thighs. I brace my hands on his broad shoulders, sighing as his finger easily moves inside me. Leaning in to whisper in his ear, I point out, “We aren’t exactly alone.”
“I don’t care,” he murmurs back, his finger working circles around my clit.
“Oh, god,” I murmur, my head falling to his shoulder as he toys with me. Not wanting to leave him out, I let my hand drift down to the bulge in his pants and rub his cock through the fabric, enjoying the hiss of pleasure it earns me. He smells so good, the scent of his cologne stoking my desire. It’s so him.
His fingers feel wonderful, but I want his cock. My hands drift to his belt, unbuckling it, then unfastening the button of his slacks. Before I can finish, however, he’s withdrawing his fingers from my body and catching my hands. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he brings them both around my back, securing them with one hand. The other moves between my legs again, moving inside me and resuming their relentless pursuit of my pleasure.
And he finds it, a moment later. I cry out, pleasure shooting through my body. He still has my hands behind my back, but I’m weak from the release. I fall forward against his shoulder, dropping a few light kisses along his neck.
Releasing my hands, he curls his free arm around me and lets me snuggle against him as he lazily caresses my thigh.
The longing from earlier is somehow worse. There are no possibilities here, only gruesome endings, and I want more of this. This is so nice.
We stay like that for a while, in a companionable silence. I partially want to offer to go down on him and return some of the pleasure, but remembering my sex life with Rodney, I don’t. If I do that, what if we don’t have real sex? I want the sex.
After a few minutes of quietly relaxing against him, Mateo finally asks, “Can I ask you something?”
I wish instead of whatever we’re going to do, we could curl up in bed for the rest of the night and wear each other out, then in the morning we could have pancakes in bed and go at it again.
I sigh at the impossibility of it all and tilt my head back to look up at him. “Of course.”
His voice lowers, the faintest hint of steel creeping in, and he asks almost casually, as if only mildly curious, “Who sent you?”