Losing Control(10)

“I find I can’t sign anything right now. Hurt my wrist doing curls.” He twists his perfectly normal, uninjured right wrist.

Shaking my head, I try to shove the papers at him again, but he remains disinterested. He tosses them to the side without even looking and walks toward the kitchen. Pulling open a glass refrigerator door, he gestures toward the contents, asking if I want anything. I shake my head no but I follow him. I can’t help it. The tractor beam of attraction just tows me right along.

“Your wrist looked fine when I came in.”

“Watching me?” He raises his eyebrow again. “Did I have good form?”

I don’t want to flirt with him. Or rather, I do but know that I shouldn’t. Not only is he involved with some kind of shady business, but until my mom is feeling better, there’s no room in my life for anything but work and her.

“Yes. You have a very nice body, but it’s a dime a dozen.”

“Is that right?” He’s amused and not the slightest bit irritated.

Confidence oozes out of his every pore. He knows exactly how women respond to him and he rightly assumes I’m no different, but I’m trying.

“The city is awash with hard bodies. It’s more trendy than ever to be fit now. In fact, I heard a news report that young men are having body issues because of the push toward the well-defined abs. You’re a bad influence.”

He finds this response even funnier and his face cracks into a wide, bone-melting grin. The hollow in his cheek is back and it’s got a superpower all on its own. I kind of hate myself for being weak-kneed at the sight of it—at the fact that my own lips are curling up in response. Tonight when I get home I’m going to force myself to watch Spike TV so I can relearn to hate men again. Or I’ll spend five minutes with my stepbrother. That will do it.

"Just a word of caution because I don’t really care but the next customer might: Messengers are supposed to be invisible." He winks so I know it’s not a real insult.

“Sorry, I didn’t bring my invisibility cloak, Bruce Wayne.”

“Batman, huh?” He leans even closer, so close that his breath tickles my hair. Right above my forehead, he whispers, “One thing you should never do is issue a challenge to a guy like me. I always like to win. Always.” Then he draws back and leaves me in a quivering state of Jell-O.

“Always?” I don’t even know why I’m asking. It’s like poking a tiger with a stick.

“There was that one sad time when I was eleven, I asked my neighbor to my middle school dance. She was seventeen.”

“Did she go?”

“Sadly, she turned me down, but it didn’t stop me from pursuing her. I tend to be more determined than most.”

He made that sound like a threat and a promise at the same time.

“I’m guessing you caught her eventually.” That’s where these stories of conquest usually end.

“By the time Cass expressed a return affection, I was in the process of moving and unready for a long distance relationship, so our childhood love remains unconsummated.”

“I can see you are real broken up about it.”

He winks. “If I was, would you tend to my broken heart?”

“If cures for the broken heart can be delivered, then I’m your girl,” I quip.

“I’m sure I can keep you busy for a long time,” he murmurs.

It’s hard, but I manage to keep my whimpers soundless. He drains his glass of water and then strides toward the front hall where he’d tossed the papers earlier. I scurry behind him.

“You didn’t tell me your name the last time we met.”

“Victoria Corielli.”

“Victoria.” He says my name, testing it on his tongue, holding the syllables inside his mouth for a moment as if he’s savoring a fine wine. Everything about him is so sexual. God. “What did you bring me?”

“I don’t know exactly. A contract,” I answer.

“Let’s find out.” He picks up the envelope and shakes out the papers. It doesn’t take but a second for those eyes to lose their warmth and good humor. He looks me up and down, measuring me and, apparently from the cold contempt in his eyes, finding me lacking.

It’s completely unfair that he’s viewing me with disdain because I deliver packages for Malcolm. This guy is the one who must want me to do something illegal for him. And by the look of his apartment, he’s under no financial distress. His isn’t a desperate need-driven business relationship like mine is. I’m the one that should be filled with scorn.

“Had no idea Malcolm had such great taste. Thought he was a little too low brow. Were you delivering wigs the other day or something else?” His words are even, but I can sense that he’s angry with me. His eyes are accusatory, as if I’ve betrayed him somehow.