The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(94)

As we approach, he opens the car door. “Ms. Stevens, there’s a minibar and television in the back.” His words go through me. I feel like Alice and I’ve stepped through some kind of rabbit hole.

The door closes and I settle inside, the leather interior feeling softer than I remember leather being before. I keep my hands in my lap, afraid to touch anything. The limo starts up, the engine running so quietly that had there not been a change in the vibration of the air around me, I’m not sure I would have noticed. The darkened partition between the front seat and the back slowly slides down.

“We’ll be there in about forty minutes, Ms. Stevens. If you need anything, there’s an intercom button on your door.”

My eyes seek out the button and find it. I turn back to the driver.

“Um. Couldn’t we just communicate like this?”

“Most of Mr. Anthes’s passengers like privacy.”

The small fine hairs on the back of my neck tingle at the chauffeur’s words. Why does it feel like by “passengers” he means “women”? That’s basically what I am, right? A woman he’s pursing for sex. I’m old enough and lived through enough that if I want a quick fling with a man—or hell, even a one-night-stand—I should feel no shame. The problem is that Roman is the last man on earth I should pick to do that with. Things are complicated and this is just going to make it more so.

“I’m not like his normal passengers,” I tell the driver, because if nothing else, I am completely sure of that. “What’s your name?’ I ask him, needing the idle conversation to still my nerves.

“Robert.”

“Hi Robert, I’m Ana.”

“Hi, Ana,” he says and smiles at me through the rearview mirror.

“Where are we going exactly?” I ask, because I have no idea.

“Mr. Anthes lives on the east side of the city. We’ll be there in no time.”

The rest of our ride is relatively quiet and full of passing small talk about the weather and the NBA playoffs, of which I know next to nothing. I figure men and sports go together easily enough, so I fake my way through the conversation. He takes me further out onto a dirt road. I didn’t know there was a place this remote in all of Miami. My survival instincts have kicked in and I feel nerves skitter down my back. Did my conversation with Roman about my brother trigger something for him? I clutch my satchel close to me.

“I thought Mr. Anthes lived in an apartment near his nightclub?” I ask Robert just as we’re rounding a curve. My tight hold on my satchel loosens as a large iron gate with a big “A” on it comes into view. You can see a paved road from that point on and it leads to a gigantic mansion beside the ocean. Hello, world. Meet money.

“He owns a hotel there and keeps the top floor to stay in, but this is his house.”

“Oh. Does he bring many people out here?”

Silence. Guess I asked too many questions.

When the car comes to a stop, I spend a few seconds to catch my breath when Robert gets out of the car. I turn when the door opens, but it’s not Robert standing there; it’s Roman. His hair is disheveled, he’s got a five o’clock shadow going, and his shirt is completely unbuttoned which leaves a line of bronze perfection to draw my eye. Instantly, I wish the shirt was gone—and then I want to slap the stupid out of me.

Roman reaches his hand in. I stare at it for a minute before putting mine in his. White hot heat runs through my system. Never has this happened to me before, this instant electric connection to someone that is so powerful, it short-circuits my brain cells. Why does the one man it happens with have to be Roman Anthes?

He helps me out, but my legs feel like jelly. I nearly fall and stumble against him. I brace myself on his chest, my fingertips burning when they touch his bare skin. His arms go around me and I get lost in the musky smell of his aftershave and the scent that is just him. Strong. Powerful. Alpha.

“That will be all for today, Robert. Put Ms. Steven’s bag inside the house,” Roman tells the driver, as if bringing a woman to his house at almost three a.m. is an everyday occurrence.

“Very well, sir.” Robert says. I hear him, but my eyes are glued to Roman’s face and the look in his eye as he watches me.

“You dance in these shoes. Is there some reason you’re having trouble walking in them?” Roman asks, his arms still around me.

“Gee. I’m going to go with nerves. My boss at work is trying to tie me in knots,” I snap.

“I do plan on tying you up, pet, but I’ll make sure you like it,” he says with a dark smile.

I think my ovaries just spontaneously combusted. I really need to get a handle on things.

I swallow at his words and ignore the shudder of excitement that runs through me. “Roman, I told you this is just not a good idea. I came here to get your help to find my brother. I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

“Neither am I.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I don’t do relationships, pet. I want to f*ck you.”

His words steal my breath. How do I respond? I should slap his face. I shouldn’t be interested in this man, but there’s some type of pure male magnetism surrounding him, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that from the moment I first saw him, I wanted him. That’s what dancing for him was all about. It was reckless and stupid, but then being here is, too.