Torn (Billionaire Bachelors Club #2)(29)

I also feel like an ass**le. I want to buy property from her father for a steal, so I can turn it around and make a profit. Plus, I’m dating his daughter in the hopes I can get closer to him.

Though, really I like her. A lot. I’m not with her just so I can have an in with Scott Knight. I’m with Marina because I want to be.

“I’d love to see what remains of his collection some time.” I would. Not just because I could get an in with him, but I’m genuinely interested. What if he has my dream car in his shop? Not that I have a particular car I’m yearning for, but hey, it could happen.

“Um, yeah.” She fidgets in her seat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “You know I still live at home, right?”

I’m shocked. I hadn’t a clue. “You do? How old are you?”

She glares at me. Uh oh. Here we go, right into “let’s-see-how-out-of-hand-we-can-get-before-we-start-calling-each-other-names.” “I’m twenty-three,” she sniffs, all haughty Italian princess-like. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised. I glance at her to find she looks surprised too. “I thought you were older.”

“How much older?” Shit, do I look old? I’m tempted to check myself out in the rearview mirror, but I resist the urge.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, glances out the window. “Early thirties?”

“You like older men?” I tease.

She turns to glare at me again. “Not at all. I usually date men more my age.” Her comment is pointed. Now she’s really making me feel like a dirty, lecherous old man.

“I’m not even thirty,” I mutter, shaking my head. Maybe we should quit talking. I never know what’s going on in Marina’s head. Our banter feels pretty comfortable at the moment, but we could slip into argument mode in a hot second. And I don’t want us fighting before we get to the restaurant. Ivy will pick up on the tension rumbling between us and want to know what’s going on. So would Archer probably, though he’s pretty damn oblivious when it comes to that stuff.

Marina remains quiet, too; her hands curled in her lap, her head turned away, so she can stare out the window and watch the passing scenery. So I remain silent, sneaking the occasional glance at her hair, loving the multiple shades of blonde and brown mixed, knowing without a doubt that she’s a natural blonde, now that I’ve seen her naked.

Thinking of her naked sends my thoughts into other directions. Dangerous, dirty, and unnecessary directions that I shouldn’t be focusing on at the moment. Thinking of the two of us together leaves me feeling needy. Vulnerable.

Hungry. Starving, more like it. All for her.

Fuck.

“Can I ask you a question?” I gotta break the tension and talk about something else before I lose it and attack her.

She turns to look at me. “Go for it,” she says warily.

“You’re a blonde.”

A smile teases the corner of her lips. “That’s not a question.”

“I thought Italians weren’t normally blonde,” I say lamely, feeling like a jackass. I’m trying to make conversation, and I feel like an idiot. This woman just makes me so damn . . . nervous. I can’t explain it.

“I’m not one hundred percent Italian, you know. My dad is what he calls a mutt,” she says, her voice light. She seems to like talking about her family, and I like it too. Any tidbit I can get on Scott Knight, I can turn around and use later.

But I also like learning more about her. I’m curious. I want to know. Usually I run the other direction when a woman wants to tell me her life story. So many of them do, going on and on about their past, their family, their friends. It all starts to sound like monotonous noise after a while.

Not with this woman. She offers these glimpses of her personal life so rarely, I cherish every tidbit I learn. Which is f**king crazy, truly. I shouldn’t be that wrapped up in her, wanting to learn more, everything about her, wanting to kiss her . . .

“A mutt, huh?” I don’t even know what to say to that for fear I’ll mistakenly insult her father and piss her off.

She offers me a secretive smile, the sight of it sending a zing straight to my heart—and my cock. This woman twists me up into such complete knots, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to unwind myself from them—or her. “My mother is Sicilian. There are a lot of blonde, blue- and green-eyed Sicilians out there. I happen to be one of them.”

A beautiful one, too. She’s so beautiful just looking at her hurts.

Not having her in front of me to look at hurts too.

Which means at the mere age of twenty-eight, I am completely ruined for any other woman. And I don’t even care. I want to revel in the ruin.

My brain on overload, I drive the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence, taking the curves at high speed, enjoying the way the tires stick to the road, the squeal of rubber on asphalt making me smile. I downshift, the whine of the engine like music to my ears, and the faster I drive, the more I get into it.

“You’re crazy,” she whispers as I gain speed, going close to one hundred on a straightaway a few miles from the restaurant.

I roll down the windows, let the cool night air wash over my heated skin. Her hair blows everywhere, even restrained by the ponytail, and a long blonde strand hits me in the face, causing me to push it away. I chance a look at her, see that she’s gripping the edge of her seat, her body on edge, her expression full of . . . excitement?