Page 13 of The Mobster’s Mistress

He steps closer. "You."

There's no teasing in his expression, and I suddenly become intensely aware of the way he's looking at me.

"I don't understand why," I admit.

His eyebrows draw together. "What?"

"Look at you, Enzo. You're handsome, successful, rich enough to buy half of Los Angeles, and apparently incapable of looking bad in a suit. I'm a librarian with five cats and a retirement plan that involves hoping Social Security still exists."

"And?"

I laugh nervously. "We're not exactly playing in the same league."

He takes my chin gently between his fingers. "Don't do that. Don't make yourself smaller because you think my money makes me worth more than you."

Well, hell. That's about the last thing I expected him to say.

"You make me laugh, Bridget. You care about people, and you've spent the evening asking about my family instead of what I own. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

I study his face more carefully. "For somebody whose life looks pretty perfect from the outside, you don't sound especially happy."

He looks toward the city. "You can have everything people think should make you happy and still go home to an empty house."

Something in his voice makes my chest tighten.

"Well, my house is never empty. Usually because somebody's coughing up a hairball on something expensive."

He laughs, slipping an arm around my waist. "Maybe that's what I've been missing."

"A cat?"

"Something worth coming home to."

Oh, fuck. There he goes again, making my heart do things it hasn't done in years.

"I'm not looking for something temporary, Enzo."

"I know." His thumb brushes my cheek. "And I haven't stopped thinking about you since the wedding."

"Really?"

"Not for a goddamn minute."

I smile. "Well, I've been thinking about you too."

"How much?"

"Enough that I nearly shelved a book about premature ejaculation in the children's section this afternoon."

He throws back his head and laughs before pulling me against him. His kiss is nothing like the sweet first kiss on the wedding terrace. There's a hunger behind it that makes me forget we're standing outside with half of Los Angeles spread beneath us. I curl my fingers into his shirt, and when he draws me closer, I go willingly. When he finally lifts his head, we're both breathing harder.

"Come home with me, Bridget."

I look into those dark eyes, knowing exactly what he's asking.

"Are you sure?"

"Sweetheart, I've spent the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out how to get you alone."