by Meghan March
“Cannon?”
When she says my name, my attention immediately returns to her mouth. God, what I wouldn’t give to have free rein over that mouth.
A rush of blood dives straight to my crotch, and my dick jerks against the silk lining of my suit pants.
Fuck it. It’s now or never.
I stare into her eyes. “You need to spend the night with me.”
24
Drew
His statement leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and my reaction is split into three factions.
The holy shit, he didn’t just say that portion. The oh my God, this is what I’ve been waiting for in my investigation—a chance to get into his personal space reaction. And finally, the I can’t trust myself alone with him piece.
It takes me three seconds to realize that not one of those parts of me is saying no.
I meet his hazel gaze and nod. “If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes.”
Cannon Freeman’s apartment is nothing like I anticipated. First of all, I expected Warren to take us back to a building near the club, but he doesn’t. We drive a half hour across town, and instead of stopping in front of a ritzy building with a fancy address, he parks in front of a pizza shop in Little Italy.
“Thanks, Warren. We won’t need you for the rest of the night. I’ll text you about tomorrow.”
As soon as the door shuts on the Bentley, it disappears, and we’re left standing on a sidewalk amidst the scent of oregano, basil, and tomatoes, with lights strung along awnings, lending a hint of romance to the atmosphere.
“My place is upstairs.”
Somehow, I find my fingers twining into Cannon’s as he pulls me along behind him to a heavy red steel door.
Instantly, all I can picture is Christian Grey’s red room, and a flush, like I’ve just chugged a carafe of wine, steals over me. Nothing about this feels fake. It feels as real as a date gets.
Thankfully, Cannon is busy unlocking the three dead bolts with a key and opening the door rather than noticing I’m overheated with thoughts of him telling me I’m going to be a good girl for him or I’ll be punished.
Oh my God. Where did that come from?
My brain seems to have been hijacked from my own control, because I’m not feeling like myself at all right now. I force myself to note every single detail about the place, from the gray-painted concrete entryway to the wide opening of the industrial elevator.
“It’s not fancy, but it’s mine,” he says as he moves the gates and waves me into the car.
“The elevator’s yours?” I say, joking, but my question falls flat when he nods and unlocks the black metal gate.
“Yeah, the whole building is. It was the only way I could save Geno from getting evicted. I’m pretty fucking partial to his pizza, so I did what I had to do.”
I gape at Cannon. The cost of owning any apartment in New York City is pretty much astronomical, but to own a whole building?
Holy shit.
“You own a building?”
“A few buildings, actually.” He punches a long code into a security panel in the elevator, and then we move upward. “When the bottom fell out of the real estate market along with the financial crash, I made some smart investments.”
He meets my gaze, and I’m sure my shock is written all over my face.
“You do know that I used to be the COO of Karas International and worked with Creighton Karas for over a decade, right? Randi would’ve had to tell you that, especially because it’s no secret.”
“Yeah, but . . . I didn’t realize . . .” I trail off as we slowly rise toward the top floor.
“That I might’ve been a damn good businessman? Because I am. It’s all right, though. I’m used to being underestimated. I prefer it most of the time. It’s much easier to maneuver around people when everyone just thinks you’re skating through life on connections rather than on your merit.”
In that moment, I see Cannon Freeman in a completely different light than I have since the day I walked into the Upper Ten. He’s not just the illegitimate son of one of the most notorious mobsters in modern times. He’s real.
And that’s insanely dangerous.
When the elevator rocks to a stop, he opens the gate once more and indicates for me to precede him to exit. I step onto a wood floor of wide planks stained an ashy gray. The worn grooves in the wood tell me that it’s probably original to the building but has been cared for in recent years. There are two heavy metal doors, both painted black, and the interior walls are a grayish, almost whitewashed brick.
Cannon points to one door. “Emergency stairs, if the elevator isn’t working or you can’t get into it.” I assume he adds the last part because he had to unlock the gate for us to even use the elevator. “But the emergency stairs are locked on the stairwell side. You can always get down, but you can’t get up unless you’ve been invited.”
It’s not hard to imagine what kind of security concerns he deals with on a regular basis to make sure his home is locked up tight. As Dom Casso’s bastard son, he has to feel like he walks around with a target on his back at all times.
“Makes sense,” I say and turn toward the other door. “And I assume this is your place?”
“Yeah, this is home.” He uses another key to open the dead bolts and leans inside to stop the beeping of the alarm.
When he pushes open the door, I’m not sure what to expect. Maybe something glass and metal and übermodern and masculine, but that’s not the case at all. It’s absolutely stunning, to be sure, but also completely charming.
The same whitewashed brick lines the walls. Ductwork, painted charcoal gray to match the steel beams, is exposed beneath the soaring white ceiling. The same scarred ash-gray plank floor extends inside, covered by what look like handwoven rugs. A gray fabric sectional curves around a cement table, and some of the cushions have permanent indents from wear.
It’s not new. It’s not chic. But it’s perfect. And he’s right. It looks like home, which is a far cry from my sterile, bland apartment that serves only as a staging ground for my mission.
“This is incredible,” I say, turning in a slow circle to take in the clean lines and yet completely inviting atmosphere. Massive houseplants take up residence in the corners, and the windows extend from floor to ceiling.
I wander over to a happy-looking bamboo as Cannon hangs his keys near the door with a jangle.
Night drapes over Little Italy like a blanket, and the lights of the shops and restaurants glow from below us. Across the street, the windows are dark, waiting for their residents to come home from work or play. It’s a perfect little haven from the busy movement of the rest of the city.
Cannon’s scent wraps around me, telling me he’s right behind me. “I’m glad you like it.”
I turn to face him, eminently aware of my chest being only inches from his. “Who wouldn’t like it?”
“No one I’d let come here.” His eyes are hooded as he stares down at my face.
“Is this really making our date more realistic if you don’t usually bring women here?” I ask as once again, everything happening between us feels totally genuine and not staged.
One corner of Cannon’s mouth lifts. “I didn’t say I don’t bring women here. Just . . . not many.” The warmer colors of his ever-changing hazel eyes heat as they roam over my face. “Bringing you here is a definite statement, though. One that can’t be misinterpreted.”
The glass cooling my back is at direct odds with the warmth of his body radiating against my front.
“When’s the last time you made a statement like this?” I ask, my attention fixed on his third button, even though I didn’t intend to voice the question.
Cannon waits until my gaze meets his before he replies. “Jealous? Like you were of Tanya getting a piece of me?”
Mulish stubbornness dictates that I reply with a decisive, “No. Not at all.”
“Liar,” Cannon whispers as he leans forward and sweeps
I know I shouldn’t kiss him. That’s not why I’m here. I should be finding a way to sneak off and snoop through anything that could possibly help me find dirt that will bring down his family. But when his lips drift across mine again, I can’t resist.
They’re soft and warm, and I want more.
My thought from earlier comes back. Cannon Freeman is the ultimate distraction. As soon as I open my mouth to him and his tongue sweeps inside to stroke mine, I can’t think of anything but him. All other thought is obliterated from my mind.
There’s only the heat of his body as he pulls me closer against him. The strength of his arms as they wrap around me, anchoring me to him in a statement that can’t be misunderstood.
He wants me as much as I want him. Even though I tell myself to push him away, to remember this isn’t for real, that this isn’t something I’m supposed to enjoy . . . I can’t. I’m totally lost in him.
It should terrify me, but I’m too busy tilting my head to give him better access to take the kiss deeper. His hand grips my ass and the other curls around my face, keeping me where he wants me.
It’s the most erotic kiss of my entire life. I’m seconds away from wrapping my leg around his waist when something vibrates against me, and it’s not the buzz of his arousal. It’s his phone.
“Shit.” He pulls away an inch with a curse and fishes his cell from his pocket. “One second. Let me shut this off.”
I step back, out of his arms, and try to calm my hammering heart. “No, answer it. It’s fine.”
I turn and walk toward the charcoal-gray matte kitchen cabinets and the black sink. Even though this isn’t my place, I open the cupboards until I find a thick glass, then fill it with water from the tap to gulp it down like it’s going to somehow change what just happened.
I kissed him. I want him. I’m so fucked.
Before my mental flagellation can ramp up, Cannon’s phone starts buzzing again.
“Freeman. What?”
I can’t hear the other side of the conversation, and I should be kicking myself for not staying close enough to listen in, but I’m gulping down water like it’s the elixir that will save me from making more bad decisions.
“What the fuck is he doing there?” Cannon spins to face the window, pressing his palm on the whitewashed brick between the floor-to-ceiling panes. “He doesn’t have a meeting with me, and the only reason he’s fucking there— Never mind. Tell him I’m not going to be in tonight. He knows why. No. He can’t call me. I’m turning my phone off. I’m unavailable for the night. You can handle it, Grice. Yeah. Yeah. Night.”
Cannon pushes off the wall, stalks to the coffee table near the sectional, and tosses his phone onto a stack of newspapers. He jams his hand into his hair, and the shorter pieces stand up on end when he finally looks to where I’m standing in the kitchen, clutching my glass like it’s the Holy Grail.
“Everything okay?” I ask because I think he’s waiting for me to inquire, but also because I’m crazy curious about who could be at the club that would piss him off so much.
“Lorenzo. The prick who was following us earlier. He showed up at the club and wanted to meet with me.”
“But he knows you’re not at the club.”
Cannon shakes his head and looks sideways. “I never said he was a mental giant. He probably thought he was being tricky. Asking if I was at the club, so I wouldn’t think he was following us. Seriously sloppy work.”
I lower the empty glass to the counter. “Isn’t it useful, though? Now he knows for sure you’re not leaving tonight? Doesn’t that mean we’re in the clear?”
“You in a hurry to leave?” Cannon’s gaze cuts to my face as he asks the question, and a flush creeps up my chest and spreads over my shoulders.
“Is there a chance they’re going to be watching your place, waiting for me to leave?”
One leisurely step at a time, Cannon crosses the apartment to come toward me. “If I say no, how fast will you be out the door?” He stops on the opposite side of the kitchen bar and waits for my answer while my brain goes haywire.
It’s now or never. Stay or go. Fight or flight.
The logical part of me says my investigation would be better served by my staying, but I’m lying to myself if I claim that’s the only reason swaying my decision.
It’s not.
I want to stay for purely selfish reasons. I want to stay because I want to spend more time with this man who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years . . . if ever.
But I can’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t know how.
So instead, I press my lips together and meet his eyes. “I’d hate to do anything that doesn’t fit the story you’ve set in motion.”
25
Cannon
I know when a woman wants me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted one this badly. Drew is afraid to come out and ask for what she wants. Something about that softens the tension that snapped into place in my spine as soon as Grice told me who’d showed up at the club asking for me.
As a matter of fact, it all drains away as I recall how fucking sweet she was pressed against me. I want more of her, and I want her now. But from the way she’s clutching the empty glass, I can tell Drew’s skittish. That can be fixed.
“You want a drink?”
She glances down at the one she’s holding.
“Not water. Wine. Scotch. Whiskey. Vodka. Name your poison.”
She drank wine at dinner, but something about her tells me that’s not her only beverage of choice.
The corners of her lips curl up. “You have any bourbon?”
“Picked up a bottle of Four Roses the other day.”
The beginnings of a smile bloom into a full one. “That’s my favorite, actually.”
“Then Four Roses it is.”
I back away from the kitchen to the antique industrial metal cabinet I saw at a flea market that used to grace the office of some factory back in the day. It had a padlock still on it, and I used a lock pick to open it rather than cut it off, because of some sentimental reason I still can’t put into words. I use the lock as a paperweight on my desk in my office now, despite the fact it gets rust on everything beneath it.
The cage-looking door swings open on well-oiled hinges when I pull on the metal handle. My stuff might not be the newest or the nicest, but I take care of what’s mine.
“One finger or two?” I ask, turning to watch her blush rise further. I’m not disappointed as it spreads until it disappears under the shoulders of her dress and beneath the thick layer of makeup.
Just as I start to think I want to wipe her face clean so I can see her blush stain her cheeks, she surprises me with an impish smirk.
“I’m a three-finger kind of girl. Especially in situations like this.”
I can’t help but grin at her response. “I knew there was something special about you.”
I turn back to fill antique cut-crystal glasses with three fingers of bourbon each and carry them to the counter of the kitchen bar. I offer one to her, and she wraps her palm around it.
“To an unexpected night,” I say, lifting my glass in salute.
She does the same, tapping the heavy base against mine. “To a very unexpected night.”
We both sip the smooth, mellow bourbon. The spice washes over my tongue, followed by a hint of pear and apple.
Drew lowers her glass from her lips with an appreciative sigh. “God, that’s always so good. No wonder my dad refused to drink anything else.” As soon as she makes the comment, her entire body freezes, like she didn’t mean to say it.
She mentioned my laugh reminded her of someone at dinner, and I’m willing to bet this entire building on the fact that it was her dad. The dad she lost.
“What was he like?”
I ask the question, and Drew shrinks into herself for a few beats before lifting the glass to take another long drink. When she finally finds the courage to meet my gaze again, her eyes glisten.
“He was a good man.” She swallows like there’s a lump caught in her throat from her husky words. “A really good man.”
“I take it he passed?”
She nods solemnly. “Too soon. Much too soon.”
“I’m sorry, Drew. The good ones always go too soon.”
She blinks a few times and looks up, like she’s trying to stop the tears from falling. Again, I see that flicker of color beneath what I’m now certain is a colored contact lens.
But if I ask her about them right now, that would make me a huge dick. So instead, with my glass in hand, I cross back to the liquor cabinet and grab the bottle. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Quietly, Drew follows me through the loft from the kitchen and living room area into my private domain—my office.
Inside, the two towering front and back walls are covered completely by bookshelves stacked with classics and first editions I’ve picked up individually or bought in bulk online. I bypass those to stop in front of the antique shuffleboard lane mounted next to the wall of windows that start at waist height and span upward about ten feet.
“Want to play?” I ask, but she’s too busy taking in the rest of the room to focus on the game.
“This is incredible.”
Her gaze sweeps over my desk, from the same old factory as the liquor cabinet, to the massive wingback chair in the corner with an Edison bulb pendant shining down on the spot where I try to carve out time to read every day. It was a habit Dom started me on when he handed me The Art of War when I was twelve and told me to memorize it, which is probably the only reason I’ve lived as long as I have.
“This is the inner sanctum. No one else comes here. Ever.”
She finally turns to the industrial farmhouse-style shuffleboard table, her eyes wide. “Then who do you play against?”
“Myself. Unless you’re willing to give me a real competitor.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to say no, and I’m coming up with arguments to change her mind. But instead of shaking her head, she kicks off her heels and crosses the wood floor barefoot.
-->