It’s all coming together. His coldness. His anger. He has feelings for me. And he can’t handle the idea of me going out with another man. But, for whatever reason, he’s unwilling to be with me himself.
I ask, “This is because of the date. Isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just stares out of the window. Then, I realize I was crazy to ever think there was something between us...
I’m not good enough for him.
I should make a scene. Cry foul. But the tears are starting to burn behind my eyes.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry in front of him.
Tugging at the chain around my neck, I break the clasp. The butterfly clinks against the desk as I throw the necklace down.
I turn on my heel and leave.
Coatless.
* * *
I text Peter to let him know our plans have changed and ask him if he’d mind picking me up at the home, instead of at work. Then, I turn off my phone. I’m not ready for the steady stream of texts that will surely be arriving from Alice when she gets off work, questioning me about what happened. Why I’d left in such a rush in the middle of a shift.
I take an angry nap. When I awake, I feel much better. I take my time touching up my makeup. I clean my room. Flip through a magazine. Anything to take my mind off of him.
Peter arrives exactly at six. He presents me with a small bouquet of flowers. Ingrid takes them and places them in a vase of water in my room for me. We visit with his grandfather for a few minutes, then hail a cab to a cute Italian restaurant that he knows of.
The conversation is pleasant. The atmosphere pleasant. I find myself having a nice time. With a nice boy. Sure, there’s no passion there, but who knows? Passion can grow.
Right?
We chat about his class, my work. We have a few things in common—we were both born in New York, we both love our jobs and the people we serve. He shyly admits that he thinks of his students as his own children. I confess to calling my patients my family.
He’s very sweet.
He orders a bottle of chilled white wine and pours me a generous glass. Neither of us can make up our minds on what we want to order, so we agree to each order something different and share with one another. He will request the manicotti; me, the chicken parm.
The hostess delivers the breadsticks, then leaves the table.
He wants to know how I started working at the home. I gloss over the ugly details and tell him about the rosy parts of it. My first class, learning how to work all the machinery. I keep my face a pleasant mask, but I shift in my seat, remembering the plug. The spanking, the dominance.
The hostess comes back, looking a bit harried. She asks if we have anyone joining us and will we be requiring additional place settings.
I look to Peter. He says no, just the two of us. She gives a curt nod and hurries off to the kitchen.
As soon as she’s gone, I’m sensing a huge shadow looming over our table. I assume it’s the waiter.
I look up, ready to place the order.
Bronson.
He’s impeccably dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and charcoal suit. There’s a single red rose in his lapel. His dark eyes are locked on mine. His jawline is tense.
My heart beats harder in my chest. Heat rises in my face. The scent of his cologne fills my senses.
“What are you doing here—” My words are cut off by his introduction to Peter.
“Peter Dobbins, pleasure to meet you. Bronson Bachman.” How does he even remember Peter’s last name? Bronson holds out his huge hand to Peter. Shooting me a confused look, Peter slides his hand into Bronson’s. Bronson pumps it up and down, hard. Peter winces.
“Good to meet you? Sir?” Peter says, more a question than a statement.
“No need for sir. I believe we are the same age,” Bachman says, hovering by the table.
“Ah. Sure. Um...” Peter’s eyes flash to mine. “Do you two know one another?”
I cross my arms over my chest. I shoot Bronson how dare you daggers from my eyes. “Mr. Bachman, if you’ll excuse us—”
“I’m her boss,” Bronson says to Peter. He’s ignoring me.
“Was my boss,” I sniff. After being dismissed for the day, I decided I am quitting. I just haven’t yet informed Bronson.
Finally looking at me, he says, “I am still her boss. And a friend.”
“Not a friend,” I say.
Peter looks terribly uncomfortable.
Bronson’s nostrils flare. He speaks, hissing between his clenched teeth. “I’m an acquaintance. Who desperately needs to speak with her. There’s been a misunderstanding.”
I narrow my brow at him. “Has there? Whatever you need to say to me, you can say to Peter.”
“You left your coat.” Bronson holds out his arm. Gorgeous lays neatly folded over it.
“I don’t want that coat. Now, please leave us to order our dinner,” I say. I do want you, Gorgeous, forgive me!
Fumes practically billow from his ears.
He wants to spank me.
I can read it in his face.
Too bad.
Our loosely defined, messed-up deal is off.
Crossing my arms tighter over my chest, I shift in my seat.
Peter looks from Bachman to me, then back to Bachman. He clears his throat. “Listen, if you two need to talk—”
“There is nothing for us to talk about,” I say.
“Thank you, Peter, we have much to discuss,” Bronson says. He reaches out, pressing his palm against the table. He’s giving me a pleading look. He pulls his hand from the table.
Where his hand had been, my butterfly now sits on the tabletop, sparkling in the candlelight. I look at Bronson.
His face softens, his eyes beg me.
“Fine,” I hiss beneath clenched teeth. I slide the necklace from the table. The clasp has been repaired. I slip the butterfly into the pocket of my dress. I’ve missed the feeling of her dangling from my neck.
“I’ll excuse myself.” Peter rises from the table. “It looks like you two have much to talk about. Ah, Paige, can you get home alright?”
Bronson practically elbows him out of the way. “I can get her home just fine, thank you,” he says rudely.
I crane my neck around Bronson—he’s blocking Peter from my view. I give Peter an apologetic smile. “I’ll call you.”
“Ah. Okay.” Peter gives a small wave, shoots me one long curious look, and is gone.
Bronson takes Peter’s empty seat across from me at the table. He carefully arranges my coat on the back of his chair. Picking up a menu, he says, “Nice kid. He checks out, by the way. And he got really good grades in college. So, what’s good here?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“I had a full background check run on him before you went out with him tonight.” He casually turns the page to the entrée section.
My mouth drops open. So that’s why he’d asked for his name in the office.
He looks at me over the top of his menu. “Aren’t you going to put your necklace back on?”
“You checked on him? Had him investigated?” I squeak.
“Of course. Why else do you think I let him pick you up?” he asks with a shrug.
“Let him? Let him?” Icicles form at the edges of my words.
He gives an exasperated sigh. “You know what I mean.”
I roll my eyes to reflect my frustration.
But deep within, passion wells. He’s overly protective of me. And I love it. I have come to crave his dominance like a drug.
Bronson gives a shrug. “Nice guy.”
“Yeah. He’s a nice guy,” I agree. I am starting to feel hot. Bothered. Bronson is suddenly too near. I shift in my seat.
Placing the menu down on the table, he leans in toward me. His smoldering eyes lock on mine. He lifts one dark brow. When he speaks, his voice is low, husky. “Nice is not what you want, though. Is it?”
He rea
ches across the table. The tip of his finger trails down my cheek. “You want a man who’s not very nice. One who will push you out of your comfort zone. One who will punish you. Make you beg. Make you cry. Own you.”
A shiver runs through me.
Leaning back in his chair, he picks up the menu once more, feigning interest in the dinner options. “Got the chills? Should have worn your coat. I believe you remember exactly what I said I’d do to you if I caught you without it.” He gives me a long, hard stare.
My panties dampen.
He puts the menu down again. His tone is soft. His gaze rests on my face. “But we will save your transgressions for another time. I’m here to apologize for mine.”
I swallow hard. I clear my throat. I steady my voice. “Let’s hear it, then. What do you have to say for yourself?” I ask, ignoring the pulsing in between my thighs.
He smiles, leaning in further. “Paige, I apologize. I was rude, and uncouth, and selfish—”
“And uncouth.”
“I’ve already said that.”
“I know. But I’ve never heard anyone use that word before. And I liked it. Say it again.”
“I was uncouth.”
“And you were a jerk.”
“And I was a jerk.” He chuckles.
This is fun. “And you worship the ground that I walk on.”
“I do.” The laughter leaves his voice. His eyes lock on mine. “I absolutely adore you, Paige.”
“Why’d you send me away?” I ask. My voice sounds small, bare.
Hurt flashes in his eyes. “I couldn’t bear the thought you not being mine. Dining with another man. But I didn’t think I—” He stops, rubs the back of his neck, then continues on another line of thought. “I didn’t know what to do. And I always, always know what to do. So I sent you away.”
My voice catches in my throat. I break his gaze. I pick at the tablecloth. “Say you’ll never do anything like that again.”
He reaches out. His fingertip is just beneath my chin, putting the tiniest bit of pressure on it, tilting it and forcing me to meet his gaze. “I will never, ever send you away from me, ever again.”
My voice is tiny. “I like the sound of that.”
“I like the sound of you,” he says.
There’s this nagging feeling pulling at the back of my mind. A question that has to be answered before I can move forward. “So, you don’t think... I’m not good enough for you?”
“Paige, you are everything that is good for me. I only pray I can be good enough for you.” His eyes flash. His hand grabs mine, engulfing it. “But when I show you my life, my real life, I want you to promise me, you will leave me if you are not... comfortable with who I am.”
I’m confused. “What are you talking about? You’re a jeweler.”
“I am. I am also a criminal. The head of one of the largest rings of organized crime in the county. I am Bronson Bachman, head of the Bachman family.”
“What are you talking about? You’re Bronson Bachman—owner of Bachman’s fine jewelry.” I would laugh but the look on his face tells me he dead serious.
“I’m the head of the ring. I’m a criminal. I break the law, every day. Sometimes, I have to hurt people. And if it comes down to protecting my family, sometimes I have to kill.”
Icicles form in my mind. My breath is in my throat and my hands are trembling. I hide them beneath the table.
“But I promise you, all we do, we do for the greater good. Our crimes are not self-serving. We, like you, are caring for those society has ignored. Swept under the rug.” He gives me a long look, as if making a decision. “It might be best if I were to show you. Where we live.”
“We, who? I always assumed you lived alone. Or just pulled out a cot in your office—you’re always in there—”
“I’m never in my office.”
“Yes, you are, you go in there and close the door for hours at a time.” I study his face. “What are you saying? You have some kind of escape hatch back there?”
“Something like that,” he says.
Suddenly, I know what he says is true. Everything.
The man demands respect just by entering a room. The way he talks, his posture—there’s a dangerous air about everything he does. He certainly isn’t bogged down by employee relation laws. He does what he wants. Whatever he feels needs to be done. As far as his office goes, there isn’t a single piece of paper in there. In fact, the only thing I remember seeing, besides the desk, is the clock I had stolen weeks ago. I ask, “What kind of crimes are we talking?”
“It’s kind of a Robin Hood situation, if you will,” he says.
“Rob the rich to feed the poor,” I murmur, remembering the old Disney cartoon. It was my favorite movie as a child.
“Exactly. Only when we rob the rich, we are only taking back what they have stolen first,” he says.
“For example?”
His brows rise. “One that is near and dear to your heart? Overcharging for prescriptions. Pharmaceutical companies charge thousands of dollars for life-saving meds that only cost them few pennies to produce. Who pockets all that profit? Execs. Do you know how many single mothers are forced to make decisions that you don’t want to imagine, just to get medicine for their kids?”
He has no idea how close his story is to my heart. I’d stolen a few prescriptions myself. Daisy Fuchs has glaucoma, and the drops are a hundred dollars a month. I ask, “So where do you come in?”
He shrugs. “We have connections. Maybe a sympathetic truck driver, one who knows one of these mothers personally. We ‘hold up’ the truck, take the meds, and disperse them accordingly.”
“That’s illegal. That’s stealing.”
“Yes. It is. And I’m happy to do it.” There isn’t a hint of guilt in his voice.
I like that. I’d do the same.
And he knows that about me. That’s why he feels safe telling me this.
He says, “I’ve never been a black and white thinker. To me, all decisions are gray. You take the information you have and do what needs to be done to protect the vulnerable.”
As do I. Every day. People who say, ‘rules are rules,’ drive me nuts. I say, “There is such a thing as what’s truly ethical in this world. And that doesn’t come from some rulebook written to protect the wealthy.”
“Exactly.”
But the operation he speaks of is a far cry from slipping a sixty-five-dollar camisole in your purse, or one bottle of Betimol eye drops. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s only for the crime he’s confessed to.
I should be scared. Overwhelmed, at least. Instead, I want to see where he lives. “Take me to your house.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Have you ever known me to waver?” I’m picking up some of his fancy words.
“No.”
“Let’s go, then.”
He flashes me a wicked smile.
Chapter Five
Paige
Hand in hand, we find our way out of the café. We burst into the dark night. The cold air slaps my cheeks. The sound of the bustle of the street fills my ears.
Where our hands are joined, a wave of electricity runs through my blood. Our eyes meet. The desire I feel is reflecting in his gaze.
Holding his free hand up, he hails a sleek black car that’s parked at the curb. Fanciest cab I’ve ever seen.
It immediately pulls forward a few feet, stopping right next to Bronson.
That never happens for me.
I have a feeling the universe moves for a Bachman.
We slide into the backseat, across smooth black leather. Our thighs are touching. The scent of his cologne fills the cab.
It turns me on. Shifting in my seat, I cross my legs. Just being near him makes my pussy impossibly wet.
My spine straightens. Excitement pulses through me. I’m alone with Bronson. I’m going to his house for the first time.
His hand rests on my thigh.
I
put my hand over his, nudging it further up my thigh.
“Naughty kitten. I haven’t even kissed you yet,” he murmurs, giving my thigh a punishing squeeze.
Yet.
He’s going to kiss me. Tonight. I know he will. Anticipation forms butterflies in my stomach. They take flight, their fluttering wings tickling my insides. My fingers intertwine with his.
“Are we close, Mr. Bachman?” I ask.
He gives me an exasperated look. “Call me Bronson.”
“How about I call you Brauny? That has a nice ring to it,” I tease. I feel light, excited.
His gaze is directed at the windshield. His fingers tighten slightly around mine. He whispers, “Only in private.”
I’d been joking. But he likes the nickname.
We’ve arrived at Bachman’s. We pull down a narrow alley I never noticed. The car stops. I feel my brow furrowing. “How did the cabbie know to go back here? You didn’t even tell him where we were going.”
“He’s not a cabbie. He’s my driver. And my bodyguard. He follows you home every day to be sure you get there safe. I walk you out the door of the store, then watch from the window as he pulls behind you.”
I lean over, whispering, “You have me followed?”
I have asked a senseless question. His brow furrows at me and he states, “Of course.”
I take a closer look around the car. I hadn’t realized I’d been riding in the lap of luxury. The dash is covered in buttons and gadgets I’d never seen before and would have no idea what to do with.
There, on the dash, is a gun. I swallow hard. I’ve never seen one in real life.
The back of the driver’s neck is neatly shaven. A black cap sits on his head. In the rearview mirror, the driver catches my eye and tips his hat to me. “Hello, Ms. Paige.”
“Ah, hello,” I say. I’m unsure how to greet the man who has watched me hike across ten blocks every day. One who owns a gun.
We pull up to Bachman’s store.
Bronson turns to me, his eyes cloud with uncertainty. “Are you sure? You can’t un-see this.”
Nerves and fear of the unknown knot my stomach. But the thrill of adventure, danger, and the delicious smell of his cologne, the warmth of his body pressing against me win. “Yes. I have to see it.”
Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 7