by Meghan March
“Thank you. I appreciate your discretion, ma’am.”
With a gleam in her faded blue eyes, she leads me to a station in the front. “Call me Sally. We women have to stick together. When I’m done, no man will be able to resist you. The rest is up to you.”
An hour and a half later, I look freaking phenomenal. The simple dress sets off my expertly curled and arranged hair—and Sally refitted the wig even better than I could so that it’s secure and perfect. The makeup artist followed my touch-up instructions to the letter, perfecting my contour, since Drew’s cheekbones are much sharper than mine are normally.
I could tell she wanted to ask why I was wearing ten pounds of makeup, but she was polite enough not to voice the question.
Sally, who bonded with me over sisterhood and shared stories of the lovers in her past, gave me one final piece of advice before I left the salon.
“You’re like me, self-possessed and sure. Don’t be afraid of a little uncertainty in your life now and then. Sometimes it’s exactly what you need to flourish.”
Her words follow me out to the sidewalk, where, at 7:44, a Bentley pulls up at the curb and Cannon climbs out of the back seat.
Oh no. Not. Fair. It should be illegal for a man to look that good in a suit.
He also changed, because he didn’t have a tie on earlier. The one he’s wearing now is a silvery gray with a green stripe that manages to match his eyes perfectly.
I wonder if Britta picked it out for him. Another unwarranted stab of jealousy accompanies the thought, and I bat it away.
Fact-finding mission. Interview. Not a date.
But even the reminder can’t stop the throbbing between my legs. Hell.
17
Cannon
“Christ,” I murmur under my breath.
Drew walks out of the salon on stilettos I want digging into my back while I pound into her until she screams my name. This is not how tonight is supposed to go.
I’m supposed to have a platonic dinner with an employee I can’t put my dick in. And then when the dinner is over, I’m supposed to give myself a pat on the back for keeping her out of Dom’s clutches.
But the only thing I can think about right now, or with, is my dick. Blood rushes south, making the traitor twitch against the silk lining of my suit pants.
I want her.
Every possessive instinct that roared to the forefront when Dom tried to claim her comes rushing back tenfold.
This isn’t in my plans. But why not? Why can’t I have her? Who the fuck can stop us if we’re both interested?
I grapple with my rules until she halts in front of me. Fuck it. I’m going with my gut.
“You look beautiful, Drew. Stunning.”
Her makeup is so perfectly applied that it hides the blush I imagine rising on her cheeks. I have the sudden urge to wipe it all off so I can just see her.
“Thank you.” Her gaze sweeps down to the toes of my wing tips and back up to my tie. “You look quite dapper yourself.”
The compliment feels forced, and I remember that she’s in a position she didn’t ask for. It’s up to me to make this easier on both of us.
“Come on, our table will be ready when we get there.” With one hand on the small of her back, I help her into the Bentley, and once the door is closed behind us, Warren returns to the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb.
Traffic is bumper to bumper this time of night getting from Madison to Fifth. But as we turn on Fifty-Ninth heading for Columbus Circle, the rest of the city fades away, and I’m acutely aware of the woman beside me.
“Britta and Sally took care of you?” It’s a stupid question given how gorgeous she looks, and I have no idea why I’m making small talk when silence is my default setting.
“Very helpful. Sally was fabulous.”
What’s left unsaid is more telling. “Britta wasn’t?”
Drew glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “She was . . . interesting. Do you often send women in for her to dress?”
The question is fair, but I’m reluctant to answer. She doesn’t need to know I’ve never even considered doing something like that because I’ve never wanted to give someone the wrong impression.
My life isn’t built for attachments. It’s built for discretion. Anyone who becomes close to me automatically enters the potential line of fire, whether I want to admit it or not.
Dom may not have recognized me as his son, but it’s the worst-kept secret in this town. There are plenty of people—with the Rossettis being at the top of the list, and probably some in the Casso crew—who wouldn’t hesitate to take me out if they could get away with it.
Drew turns her head toward me, and I’m only fucking human—a human who wants those ruby-slicked lips wrapped around my cock.
The answer comes out without my permission.
“No. Never. Only you.”
Her eyebrows arch upward. “No wonder she was expecting a prostitute with a heart of gold who needed to be made over into a lady.”
I choke on a laugh and cough. “What?”
“Pretty Woman. The movie. Never mind.” Drew sits back in her seat and stares straight ahead.
“If she wasn’t particularly friendly to you, that’s because she’s . . . well, she . . .” I don’t normally stumble over words, but I can’t figure out how to say it politely.
“She wants to go for a ride on a loaded cannon named Cannon?” Drew asks, catching me with a sideways glance that makes me want to drag her into my lap. Only iron-clad self-control stops me as she continues. “I get it. I’m not an idiot. You don’t need to explain or worry that I’m offended. I know this is just because—”
I hold up a hand to stop her from saying what’s going to come out of her mouth next as my arousal slams into a concrete wall. Warren is as loyal as I can expect him to be, but I’ll never completely trust anyone not to spy on me and report back to Dom. After all, it would be cosmic poetic justice after what I did to Creighton.
Thankfully, Drew picks up on my gesture and goes silent. Her gaze flicks to Warren and then back at me.
“Because you want me to do the same,” she says, finishing the sentence in a completely different manner than I think she normally would have.
My mind goes right back to where it left off—how much I wish I could drag her over top of me and say fuck dinner. Hell, that would be just as effective, especially if Warren is informing on me. Instead, I steal another appreciative glance at Drew and then force my gaze straight out the windshield again.
Stop. Thinking. About. Fucking. Her.
But it’s impossible. She’s a beautiful woman, who’s smart and private and doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me. Apparently, that’s the recipe for my downfall.
Who fucking knew?
18
Drew
Cannon waves Warren off in favor of helping me out of the car himself. I know this is all a sham, but the heat of his hand burning through the fabric of my dress at the small of my back keeps making me forget the ruse.
The maître d’ lights up as soon as we enter the heavy blue doors that mark the entrance.
“Mr. Freeman, it is a pleasure to serve you tonight. We have your table ready for you and your lovely companion.”
With his hand on my back like it belongs there, Cannon nods at the man with a confident smile. “Thank you, Hugo. We appreciate it.”
Hugo leads us through a maze of tables in the bright space, overlooking Central Park and the statue of Columbus, and indicates a perfectly set table in a private corner with a wave of his hand. “Here you are, sir. Madam.”
After he pulls out my chair, Cannon thanks him, and Hugo backs away politely.
Now comes the awkward part. I’m staring at my boss and target across a table in a restaurant where people come to impress, celebrate, woo, seduce, and more.
The ambience in the restaurant is muted, but there’s enough background noise that I hope it’s safe to ask the question that’s about t
“Can you please explain why we’re here?”
Cannon’s full lower lip presses against the upper as he studies me. Finally, after a few seconds, he says, “I told you why.”
I shake my head carefully so as not to move a single hair of my wig that Sally expertly styled. “No. Not really. You gave orders. And since I’m assuming you don’t want to say a certain someone’s name in public, let’s talk about Frank, the person I literally bumped into on the sidewalk leaving my interview with you, whose attention I did nothing to attract.”
Cannon leans back in his seat, his lips quirking, and I assume it’s with amusement over me renaming Dom Casso Frank. “Wrong.”
I blink at him like he’s crazy and shake my head. “No. Not wrong. I didn’t do anything. I swear to God. If you brought a bible, I would swear to it on that too.”
“That’s just it,” Cannon says, the other corner of his mouth lifting. “You don’t realize the effect you have on men. All men. You’re like a damned magnet. They—we—can’t keep our eyes off you.”
Silently, I curse myself for not making Drew a little homelier. Just enough to be cute because of her awesome personality, but not enough to attract unwanted attention. But it’s too late now. It would be really hard to explain if I showed up looking different tomorrow.
I release a sigh that’s only halfhearted, because Cannon just admitted he’s drawn to me too. Not that I should care. At all. Not one little bit. But I do.
I unfold my napkin and drop it on my lap, forcing my attention back to the subject at hand before the heat blooming between my legs gets even more out of control.
“So, Cannon, are you going to tell me what your plan is to keep me out of Frank’s clutches?”
19
Cannon
Somehow, I don’t think Drew wants to hear the plan currently in my head, because right now it involves eating her for dinner and saying fuck the rest of this charade. Because it’s no longer an act I’m putting on for Dom.
I want her for myself.
Maybe there’s some truth to the old adage like father, like son.
She’s vibrant and full of fire, yet mistrustful of me and everything I represent, which reaffirms her intelligence.
“So . . . I take it that’s the no, I don’t have a plan response?” Drew asks quietly to fill the silence, instead of waiting for me to gather words together and make a rational statement.
“The plan revolves around the concept of the lesser of two evils,” I state simply as I snag my own napkin off my plate. “And taking a beautiful woman out to dinner is no hardship for me, even if I am out of practice.”
Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her blond hair, shoot up. “You? Out of practice? I find that hard to believe.”
I tilt my head to the side, wondering what kind of stories she’s been told about me and who her informant was. There are certainly plenty of rumors that could be making the rounds, many of them true, but the vast majority are more urban legend than fact.
“I don’t get out of the club much, and I don’t want to talk about work, Frank, or other women. So, what do you say we just enjoy a nice dinner together?”
Her chin dips toward the table for a beat before lifting. “Like a real date?”
I nod in reply, and Drew’s dark eyes cut to the window. Once again, I swear I see something lighter flash in them.
Is she wearing colored contacts?
Before I have a chance to ask, she says, “I don’t really know how to be on a date. I’ve been pretty busy for the last few years. Not a lot of free time to just . . . be.” Her gaze sweeps back to mine, and I forget my earlier thought because she looks so . . . sad.
“Why not?”
Her chest rises beneath the low-cut neckline of that simple but fucking sexy-as-hell black dress, and I force myself to look away from the curves of her breasts because I want to focus on her answer.
Her red lips press together before she speaks. “It’s been a rough few months. Sometimes life just doesn’t give you many breaks, so you make what you can of it.”
“What happened?”
Drew shakes her head. “Nothing good. Let’s talk about something else.”
The sadness morphs her expression into one that grips my chest and squeezes. Why do I care? I shouldn’t. But I do. Probably for the same reason that I couldn’t let Dom come anywhere near her with ownership on his mind.
Fuck. She’s going to get me in trouble.
It’s an instinct I can’t ignore. Still, even knowing that isn’t enough to make me back off now. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve wanted something for myself, and if Drew is willing, this is happening between us.
The server and sommelier appear to take our orders for water, wine, and our dining selection for the evening. As plate after plate of tiny portions of food come out, part of me expected Drew to awkwardly assess each course, trying to guess what it is, but she does the exact opposite. She eats with aplomb, using the proper utensils, and never misses a beat.
That’s when I know for certain there’s a hell of a lot Drew Carson is hiding. She’s familiar with haute cuisine, including oysters with pearls, pâté, foie gras, and every other food I could easily avoid for the rest of my life.
When the veal medallions are served, she pushes her plate forward. “I’m going to pass on this course, if you don’t mind. Feel free to eat mine too.”
“You don’t like veal?”
An awkward expression crosses her face, her cheeks pinching and eyes squinting. “That’s not exactly it.”
“Then what?”
“It’s delicious. Seriously great. And I know that because I ate it by accident once without knowing what it was. But when I know . . . I just can’t.”
Immediately, I know what her hang-up is. “You feel bad about eating it.”
She nods tightly, staring at her plate, and I have to believe that beneath her makeup, she’s turning green around the gills.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Drew’s face jerks up to meet my gaze. “Like right now?”
“Yeah. I already know I’m going to be fucking starving after we leave, and I’d much prefer to eat at the Halal Guys’ cart than finish whatever else we have coming, if you want to know the truth.” I wad up my napkin and toss it on the table beside my plate.
Drew releases a sigh that disappears into the clinking of silverware and china around us. “Oh, thank God, because I think I’m going to puke if I don’t get away from this veal, and I really don’t like foie gras. I’ve just trained myself to eat it without gagging.”
20
Drew
Cannon’s shoulders shake as booming laughter spills from him in a full-body laugh. The kind that reminds me of how my father would take every opportunity for mirth, not caring how many people would turn and stare, even when we were out in public. Hell, even in church sometimes.
Cannon’s the same. Totally oblivious to all the faces in the restaurant that have turned to stare at us as he rises, still chuckling.
There was literally no bad mood that my father’s laughter couldn’t bring me out of. It was a cure-all that I will never experience again. Tears spring up in my eyes and I try to blink them away, but Cannon’s laughter silences as concern creases his brow.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks as he holds out a hand.
I close my eyes for a second and successfully tamp down the waterworks. “Your laugh reminds me of someone. Someone I lost.” When I meet his gaze again, his fingers curl around the fist I didn’t realize I was clenching.
“I’m so sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
I shake my head, trying to play it off, but Cannon’s serious expression tells me how badly I’m failing.
“It’s fine. I just . . . I thought I’d never hear someone laugh like that again. It surprised me. I’m fine.”
Carefully, Cannon helps me up from my chair, and we’re standing a breath apart, in the middle of a restaurant with dozens of people looking at us.
This is no time to break down.
Injecting levity I don’t feel into my voice, I ask, “How about that halal?” Except, as soon as I say it, the maître d’ is at our table.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Freeman? Is the cuisine not to your liking? We can have something else prepared.”
Mortification washes over me, and I’m thankful for my thick layers of makeup to hide my blush as Cannon responds.
“It was great. Put it on Dom’s tab. Something else came up, and we’ve got to run.”
Cannon places his hand on the small of my back once more. I soak up the heat but tell myself I’m only so conscious of it because I’m trying to distract myself. Right.
“Of course, of course,” the maître d’ replies. “Whatever you need. Thank you for coming this evening. We will see you again soon.”
As soon as we’re out of the stuffy air of Per Se, I feel like I can finally breathe without the thousand-pound weight of my father’s memory bearing down on me, but my embarrassment is still alive and well.
That’s never happened before. Ever. In eight months, nothing and no one has dragged feelings like this out of me. So, why him? Why now? I wish I could ask my father for guidance, and I can’t help but wonder what he’d say.
“I’m so sorry. I should’ve just eaten the veal,” I blurt out as Cannon leads me toward the elevator.
“Don’t apologize. There was nothing in that restaurant I wanted to eat for dinner tonight.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “Except for you.”
I catch sight of my reflection in the stainless-steel doors, and my eyes are as round as saucers. Coughing on my shock, I let him lead me into the car.
“You okay?” Cannon asks, an unreadable gleam in his eyes.
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