Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Domenico De Kysa is hung like a fucking donkey.
So my mind hasn’t embellished the memories of those nights in the barn when he made me moan and come with his name on my lips.
I shake my head as if I can shake those memories loose forever and force them out of my head. If I could, I would set fire to those memories and bury the ashes at sea.
Exhaling deeply, I refocus on the screen in front of me. The internet contains plenty of information about him.
How he grew up in a small coastal town in Italy.
How he took over the reins of the family business when his father stepped down.
How he came to America, and everyone fell in love with him.
They even touch on his rumored association with organized crime. But it is more glamorized than condemned.
They don’t even know the half of it.
He is Mr. New York.
Rich.
Handsome.
Powerful.
I shut my laptop in disgust.
I hate him.
In the living room, I whip off my bra and put on my favorite well-worn John Lennon T-shirt and a pair of faded pink bed shorts I bought back in college.
Ten minutes later, I stare mindlessly at the TV screen as I spoon chocolate fudge ice cream into my mouth, not caring that it drips down my chin.
Tomorrow night is our engagement party—a fact I only learned this morning via a rather curt email from Anastacia— and I’m praying for a miracle to stop all of this nonsense from taking place.
Maybe there will be a terrible weather event or a telecommunications outage.
Hell, perhaps aliens will land and make first contact.
Or maybe—just maybe—Nico fucking De Kysa will grow a heart and tell me the deal is off, and I can be on my merry way.
The buzz of the doorbell makes me drop the spoon of ice cream onto my T-shirt. Dammit.
“Hold on!” I call out, running to the bathroom to quickly rinse the ice cream off before it stains. In my haste, water splashes down the front of my shirt, completely soaking the fabric.
The door buzzer rings impatiently, so I give up what I’m doing. It’ll be Imogen, and she’ll have wine—hopefully lots of it.
Except when I look through the peephole, it isn’t Imogen.
It’s Nico.
Reluctantly, I open the door.
“What are you doing here?”
His scent hits me with the force of a tsunami. Spicy notes of sandalwood and the earthy perfume of the woods after rain. It’s infuriatingly sexy. And I hate it. Just like I hate him.
“I felt bad after our encounter yesterday,” he says as if he isn’t a monster forcing me into marriage. “It’s not how I wanted our first meeting to be.”
I scoff. “Like you feel bad about anything. You don’t have a conscience.”
Amusement twinkles in his dark eyes, and I get the feeling he likes the way I fight him.
A self-assured smile spreads his perfect lips. “Can I come in?”
No. You. Can. Not. Come. In.
Is what my heart and head scream.
But to avoid a battle on my doorstep, I open the door the rest of the way to the enemy.
His eyes sweep over me, and I’m suddenly very aware that I have no bra on, and that my nipples have tightened to points poking through John Lennon’s forehead.
“Nice shirt,” he says in a voice laced with seduction and heat.
I hurriedly cross my arms over my chest. “How did you find out where I live? Let me guess, Anastacia and her trusty planner?”
He smiles, and I hate how the two dimples on either side of his full lips press into his cheeks and how his teeth are white and perfectly straight. I’m tempted to step closer so I can check to see if he has fangs.
“I know everything about this town.”
I pull a face at his self-assurance. “What are you doing here? Have you come to inflict more ridiculous demands on me?”
“I know what I am asking of you is —”
“Preposterous? Archaic? The idea of an insane man?”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “I was going to say unique.”
“That would be an interesting use of the word,” I mutter.
As I close my front door, he casts a gaze around my modest apartment. “You sent back my flowers.”
I fold my arms. “I did.”
He smiles. “Nice touch.”
“Thank you. Did it get my point across?”
“That you don’t like flowers? Absolutely.”
“No. I love flowers. But you can’t bribe me with them. And just for the record, you’re not going to impress me with money, gifts, or by showing me how awesome you are. All the money in the world won’t change how I feel about you and this absurd situation.”
“Duly noted.”
The damp fabric of my T-shirt clings to my breasts, and I silently curse the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For forcing me to marry you?”
He gives me a half smile and begins to move around the room. “I thought perhaps we should start over. After all, we’re going to be married.”