Fate Book (17 page)

He turned with a stern look on his face. “Dakota, I need to be clear with you. I’m not having sex with you.”

I blinked. Was he for real? It wasn’t like I had been coming on to him. And if he thought I had been, why did he insist on addressing it with such an “in your face” approach? He’d said almost the exact same thing back when he’d been my high school “boyfriend,” and it was just as weird then as it was now. What was his deal?

Maybe he wants to clear the air. After all, you woke up this morning with your hand wrapped around his penis and you have sexual fantasies about him almost every night.

Damn it.
Could he tell I was sexually attracted to him? If yes, did he understand that it was despite my better judgment? I was only human and, whether I liked it or not, the man was, in fact, the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen. That didn’t mean that I liked his personality or wanted to throw myself at him. I was smarter than lust.

“It’s normal,” he said, “to develop feelings for someone who protects you in a dangerous situation.”

“I looked at your ass,” I barked. “I did not ask you to sleep with me.”

“I realize that, but you might. We’re going to be here for a week, and I don’t want you to misinterpret my intentions. I’m here to protect you. Not get you into bed. This is work. Nothing else.”

“You know what? I think
you’re
the one who sounds worried. What? Afraid you’ll throw yourself at me in a moment of weakness?” I asked, half-serious, half not.

His gaze was frigid. “I know how to handle myself on the job.”

Job. Job
. Yes, that was an excellent reminder of why I should shoo away any lustful thoughts from my mind. I was nothing but an assignment he’d move on from once this was over.

“Well,” I said in a suggestive tone just to mess with him, letting my eyes roam over his body, “I’ll be the judge of how well you handle yourself.”

“Dakota, I’m serious. There can’t be any of that between us.”

“Oh my God. I was kidding. I’m surprised that your giant ego actually fits inside that head. How did you manage to squeeze it all in?” I snagged the bottle off the counter.

“Where are you going with that?”

“Outside,” I answered, marching to the front porch.

“You’re underage.”

I held up my middle finger, but I’d already turned the corner so he couldn’t see.

“I saw that!” he said.

Damn it!
The guy was like a goddamned spider with eyes stuck all over his giant fat head!

“I can see your reflection in the windshield of the truck,” he added.

Of course, it was parked out front.

I dusted off the rocking chair on the porch and took a sip from the bottle. It was actually quite nice. I’d never tried red wine, but the sweetness mixed with a tart aftertaste was perrrty yummy.

The screen door creaked and Paolo appeared with two glasses.

“I sense you are new to drinking wine. It tastes better with one of these.”

“Har, har.” I took the glass and filled it halfway.

He leaned against the rail, directly in front of me. “I am sorry about my bluntness. You must think I am a heartless asshole.” It was funny how his Italian accent sounded so thick now. Was this the real Paolo?

I didn’t reply, but took a sip from my glass instead.

“Okay,” he said. “You win. I will fuck you. But only if you don’t tell your father.”

“What?” I snapped my head in his direction, finding a giant grin stretched across his face. “Funny.” Actually, it sort of was. I started to laugh. Laughing felt good.

He tilted his head. “You have a lovely smile.”

“Are you flirting with me? Because if you are, it won’t work. I’m not sleeping with you.”

He laughed, and it was a deep, sexy, habit-forming laugh.

I couldn’t look away—wouldn’t have been able to even if a bear had popped out of the woods wearing a hula skirt. “You have a n—n—nice laugh, too.” I sipped my wine to unstick that glob in my throat.

He looked at me, and his smile melted away. His dark eyes bore into me, and the tension between us spiked. A gust of wind hit the treetops at the same moment, as if the gods were warning us both to back off.

“I’d better finish dinner.” He disappeared inside, and I released a breath I’d been unknowingly holding in.

Damn it, Dakota. What’s the matter with you?

Somewhere out there, a group of people wanted to hunt me down and ship my head off in a box to my father. And here I was, getting worked up over the man who saw me as work—a project he’d leave behind once his next assignment came along—whose scruples answered to a higher power (my father), and whose sense of right and wrong were dictated by a world that existed only in the shadows, a world I knew nothing about but had suddenly become a part of.

I took another sip and gazed into the forest, wondering where this story would end.

Can’t be a good place.

CHAPTER TWENTY

After a relatively silent dinner peppered with a few polite comments and smiles (and quite possibly the most exquisite pasta I’d ever sampled—diced onions, mushrooms, and bits of crispy bacon mixed with a creamy sauce, poured over fettuccine), I washed the dishes while Santi—Paolo went outside to do whatever crap international men of mystery did. Set up booby-traps, load guns, let off some steam by killing something large and fury…I didn’t know. But when he came inside shirtless, mopping his brow with his tee, panting and sweating, frankly, I didn’t care.

The plate in my hand went crashing to the floor along with my jaw.
Good move, Dakota.

“Let me help you with that.” He grabbed a broom and dustpan from a small closet next to the front door.

I reached for them, and when my hands touched his, he froze.

I tugged the broom handle toward me. “I’ve got it, really.”

He stared for several long moments, giving me a brutally carnal look that made me quiver in my flip-flops.

No. I must be imagining it.
He’d clearly said I was a job, and he was off-limits.

I cleared my dry throat. “Did you want to say something?”

He blinked as if I’d broken a magical entrancement. “I…I’m going to take a shower. Thank you for washing dishes.” He sauntered off, and though I was certain he could see my expression reflected in some hidden spoon strategically positioned somewhere in the room, I didn’t care. The goddamned man smelled like fresh sweat. He looked like an indestructible pillar of bulging, blatant masculinity. And when he walked away, all I could see was a towering mass of lust-provoking maleness. All I could think of was how we’d woken up this morning with our legs intertwined, my hand on his abundantly proportioned, hard-as-steel erection.

I sighed. “God save me,” I whispered. “Couldn’t my dad have picked someone old, short, and bald?”

I quickly finished off the dishes and went into the bedroom, hoping to find a large shirt to sleep in. I didn’t think the tiny tee, pair of pink socks, and panties I’d brought with me would do the trick.

I opened the top dresser drawer and found… “Shit! A really, really large automatic handgun…” I picked it up. It looked like the kind of gun Rambo might own. I carefully slid it back, glancing over my shoulder at the bathroom door. Paolo’s deep voice rang out, as he sang something in Italian.

Opera.
I couldn’t help but smile. He was so…Italian.

I slid open the next drawer and saw a pink lacy nightie along with some other clothing. I held it up and inspected the garment with curiosity.

“If you need something to sleep in, my T-shirts are one drawer down.”

Paolo stood in the doorway, dripping wet, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His well-defined pecs and biceps were just as astoundingly sinful as the last time I’d seen them, ten minutes ago. At least I thought it was ten minutes. Who knows how long I had been standing there gawking at the nightie?

I placed the nightgown back in the drawer and attempted to hide my emotions. What shocked me most was how much I didn’t want to think about him with someone else. It sparked a raging case of jealousy. But that couldn’t be right, unless Paolo had been correct—that when people are in dangerous situations, they quickly grow attachments to those who protect them.

Quickly? Quickly?
I challenged myself.
You’ve thought of nothing but him for the last five months.

Okay. Maybe I did feel something slightly deeper than good old-fashioned lust. But I couldn’t say exactly what it was. Not when anger, resentment, and suspicion were thrown into the soup.

But I couldn’t deny I felt jealous, which was plain stupid. Paolo had to be in his early to mid-twenties. He’d probably had quite a few girlfriends. Maybe one in every city. After all, he was an international man of mystery and not some college freshman virgin—a unicorn—like me.

“Thanks,” I said, and found a white T-shirt in the next drawer down.

“You can sleep in this bed. I’ll take the couch down here,” he said.

“What’s wrong with the bed upstairs?” I asked.

“I’ll rest easier down here, closer to you,” was all he offered.

Hadn’t he said we were safe here? If he believed it, then there was no reason for him to be on the couch.

I was about to say something, but realized I didn’t want to push him upstairs. Hell, I wanted him to sleep next to me.

“Okay.” I nodded and headed for the bathroom, avoiding the tempting view as I passed. I didn’t want to see him half-naked. Not when I needed to avoid fueling my irrational feelings for him. Besides—not that I wanted him—he was something I could never have. I’d never be the owner of that negligee. Not in his eyes. I was merely the boss’s daughter. A girl.

A…job.

~ ~ ~

Over the next two days, I could have sworn the universe was trying to torture me. Well, that or Paolo. Although, he kept his distance doing work around the cabin, chopping wood (shirtless for God’s sake) or patrolling the property, every time we got anywhere near each other he looked like he wanted to devour me, which sent me into a spiral of unsanctioned lustful thoughts, which shut down all brain function. Then his gaze would run the whole gamut of aggressive expressions—irritation, anger, frustration, and disgust—leaving me feeling like a sad little puddle of unrequited lust. Then we’d both retreat to our corners.

When we ate, he avoided eye contact almost completely. When I asked him if he had any news, he simply answered “no” and then disappeared outside or upstairs.

I didn’t know what the hell was going on inside that man’s head, but I couldn’t spend another day, let alone another week, like this.

On the third evening, I sat on the couch, trying to look casual, curled up with a cup of tea and a book—don’t even know which damned book—waiting for his return from a perimeter sweep.

When he entered the front door, I immediately knew he’d been running or doing pull-ups on a tree branch or lifting boulders, because once again the goddamned man wore no shirt—only a pair of black drawstring shorts—and glistened with sweat. His biceps, abs, and forearms bulged with tension.

He stood in the doorway, his angry-as-fuck gaze drilling into me, his fists flexing.

I swallowed and felt the heat surge between my legs. I don’t know what it was about this man, but his smell, the sound of his breath, the mere deliciousness of being in his presence completely messed with my head.

I cleared my throat. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied coldly.

“We need to talk.”

He cocked one brow and then slammed the door behind him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” With my shaking hand, I set the book down next to my tea on the table in front of me.

“Like that,” he said with a tinge of disgust. “You’re driving me fucking crazy. It won’t work.”

“What?” I resisted standing up, and took a calming breath. “Paolo, I am not trying to do anything.”

“Do I look like a fucking idiot?” he seethed.

“I don’t know what you—”

“You’re beautiful, Dakota. Your body is a piece of fucking art, but that doesn’t mean you can use it to get what you want.”

Huh?
“Which is?”

His gaze lowered to my chest and then elevated back to my eyes. “We both know you want to call your mother.”

“True, but…”

“I bet you’re used to getting what you want. But I’m not some fucking hard up college guy. I’m trying to do my job here. I’m trying to keep you safe, and every time you flirt with me or show off your body, you’re only distracting me.”

Holy shit
. He thought I was trying to distract him with T-shirts and his loaner jogging shorts? Sure, I wasn’t wearing a bra and had to roll the waist down so the shorts would stay on, but…“I’m not the one prancing around shirtless and showing off my giant muscles, Paolo. Seriously. Do you ever stop working out? How fucking big is your ego if you need to pump iron every hour?”

He growled. “I’m only blowing off steam. Steam that would otherwise go toward taking you to that bed and fucking you senseless which would only get us both killed.” He turned and yanked open the front door, disappearing into the night.

I blew out a long, hot breath and then gripped the sides of my head. His stark, sexual words sent my entire body into a raging frenzy. Just hearing him say those things conjured images I’d never be able to dispel. Ever. And knowing that he’d been having his own lustful thoughts only made mine all the more potent.

“Holy shit, Dakota. What are you doing?”

Playing with fire. That’s what.

I didn’t think I’d been trying to seduce him. After all, we were talking about me. But maybe he was right; I wanted him to want me. And it didn’t matter what my brain said, the pull he had over my body was ten times more powerful.

I needed to get a grip.

The hot shower worked miracles on my mental composure. Having clean hair and freshly shaved legs—hoped he didn’t mind me borrowing his razor—almost made me feel new again. I toweled off, slipped on fresh panties and another of Paolo’s tee. It smelled like cedar and Tide. I tried to ignore how charming and domesticated that seemed.