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A flush climbed her throat to stain her cheeks as she shut me down. “Not really,” she answered, gesturing with professional courtesy to the recorder in her hand even as I sensed I’d gotten under her skin. “Shall we return to the interview, please?”
“Oh? Isn’t that what we were doing?”
“I can’t put in the article that you frequent Buxom. It’s not the most savory bit of information for an article trying to make you sound like a catch.”
“I am a catch.”
She shrugged as if to say, we can agree to disagree, but suggested, “Let’s get back to basics. I have some tried-and-true questions that usually lead to good, safe answers. Shall we?”
Sounds boring as hell. “Lead on.”
“Puppies or kittens?”
“Neither. They both shed, vomit and shit all over the place.” I gestured to my penthouse suite. “Clearly, I value a clean space in which to entertain.”
“Hmm...do you like any sort of pet?”
I considered her question, but I really couldn’t think of anything. Living things were too much work. Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way when I was seven. RIP, poor Bubbles the goldfish. “No, not really.”
“Nothing?” she pressed, as incredulous as if I’d admitted I enjoy tripping old people in my spare time. “Not even a hamster or a rabbit?”
I smiled, wondering how far I could push Miss Hughes’s boundaries. I wasn’t above playing dirty either—because dirty was fun. I drew a breath as if in thought, then said, “I do enjoy games.”
“Oh? Like board games? Clue, Monopoly, that sort of thing?” she asked, cocking her head with curiosity. “Or like card games?”
“Have you ever heard of pony play?”
Her expression screwed into a cute mask of confusion. “Pony play? Like polo or something?”
I chuckled, enjoying this way more than I should, but I was hungry for that sudden blush that would follow my explanation. For a brief—and I’m talking nanosecond brief—moment, when the high color brightened her cheeks, she was almost pretty.
And I was curious just how far I could push.
I started to explain, using my hands for illustration. “Imagine a beautiful mane attached to a short, notched column and then imagine that column going straight up a lovely ass, held in place by the cheeks, then you fit your sweet horsey with a halter and a bit and if you’re lucky, you get to ride her all night.”
She gasped in shock, thrown off her game. Flustered, she shut off her recorder, shooting me a dark, exasperated look, but those cheeks were so hot I could fry an egg.
And holy fuck, miracle of miracles, she’d just rocketed past a level four and hit a solid seven.
“Mr. Donato...that...that...that’s disgusting.”
I laughed. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“And inappropriate. Like, really inappropriate for the purposes of this interview. I can’t go writing that you like to stick things up women’s asses and ride them like horses. I mean, c’mon!”
I pretended to be perplexed. “I thought you wanted something authentic. This is the real me. I believe my potential mate should share my open-minded views on sex. Otherwise we’re not going to make it. I’d rather be honest and up-front from the start, don’t you think? Imagine all the pain and heartache we’d both suffer if I wasn’t honest and then when we discover we’re incompatible sexually, it’s nothing but tears and accusations. I’ve seen it too many times. Honesty is the best policy when it comes to sex. If you haven’t learned that yet, you will.”
I’d caught her neatly with seemingly earnest logic, and there wasn’t much she could say to refute my point.
Lauren pursed her lips as if holding back what she really wanted to say. Go ahead girl, let loose. Tell me what a perverted dick I am. I wanted to push all her buttons. “Mr. Donato—”
“Please call me Nico. Mr. Donato is so formal and boring. Besides, when I hear Mr. Donato, I immediately look for my oldest brother, Luca, or my father—both are giant killjoys, if you know what I mean, and I’m nothing like either of them.” I settled my gaze on her with intrigue and fluttered my fingers suggestively as I followed with, “Tell me, what taboo sexual act gets you all revved up? Surely, there’s something that gets the home fires burning...”
But instead of taking the bait, she narrowed her gaze and shut me down with a hard “May I speak frankly?”
This ought to be interesting. I gestured with magnanimous flourish. “Please do.”
“I know you have a reputation for being a playboy—”
“I have a reputation?” I repeated, pretending to be concerned. “Tell me...are they talking about my cock? Pardon my bluntness, but if they are saying it’s anything less than a full eight inches, they are lying through their damn teeth.”
Lauren ignored my provocative statement and pushed forward, saying, “Your reputation as a Lothario precedes you, Mr. Donato,” deliberately using my formal title rather than my name. “But I’m here to interview you as an eligible bachelor—an interview you agreed to, if I may remind you, so if you wouldn’t mind at least pretending to take this seriously, we can finish with the interview and I’ll be on my way. How does that sound?”
Now it was my turn to be annoyed. What would it take to knock loose the stick wedged up her ass? Even as she was determined to keep me at arm’s length and locked out, the subtle widening of her eyes gave away more than she knew—and that fired up my need for more.
“How about dinner, tonight?” I proposed, imagining what she might look like if her hair wasn’t pulled to the back of her skull like a nun’s visiting the pope.
“No, thank you,” she answered, pursing her lips with irritation. “The interview, please.”
Such a dogged sense of duty. I released a sigh and leaned back, motioning for her to continue. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions but only if you’ll answer mine.”
“That’s not how this works.” Exasperation colored her voice but not to the level I imagined she was feeling. If I were a betting man, I’d say Lauren Hughes wanted to hog-tie me, land a swift kick to my nuts and stuff my silk tie down my throat.
Not the usual response I received from women.
And, fuck me, I liked it.
The game we were playing had just leveled up.
CHAPTER THREE (#u7f74b6e3-e4cc-5bfa-b503-cbe49d2b8287)
Lauren
I PINNED NICO with a pointed gaze, my patience at its thinnest, realizing that my instincts were correct and that this interview was a waste of my time. Patrice could find a different person to dance in circles with this egomaniac. “I’m not here to play games. If you’d like to reschedule for when you’re feeling less like an immature jerk, please let me know.” I rose and shouldered my purse, ready to leave.
“Hold up,” Nico said, managing to hustle fast enough to catch me before I walked out the door. “I’m sorry. What can I say? I’m an immature jerk at times. Would you believe you make me nervous? Can we start over?”
I make him nervous? I wasn’t sure I bought that line, but there was something vaguely earnest about his statement that made me pause. If I could salvage this interview, it would work in my favor, but there was something about Nico that set my teeth on edge. Still, my life would be ten times easier if I could manage to get this story filed, and I couldn’t do that without his interview. I blew out a short breath before relenting with a wary, “You promise to behave?”
His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but he managed a very solemn “Scout’s honor”—which was laughable in itself but at least he’d tried to apologize, right? I supposed I could give him another chance.
“I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been a Scout in your life,” I murmured, settling on the sofa again; but when he joined me on the same sofa, I narrowed my gaze, suspicious all over again. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable over there?” I motioned to his previous seat.
“Actually,” he said with mild embarrassment, “I have a hard time hearing in my left ear—sailing accident when I was a kid—so in all seriousness, if we’re going to do this, I need to sit a bit more closely.”
I felt a bit sheepish as my mouth shaped an embarrassed moue and nodded. “Okay, then.” Nico waited patiently while I fished my recorder from my purse, ready to start again. “Describe your perfect date,” I proposed, thrusting the recorder toward Nico with an expectant expression.
He didn’t hesitate. “Sex. Dirty, sexy, sweaty sex.”
Oh, good grief. Was it too much to ask to get a PG-13 answer from the man? “Can you perhaps give me something to work with? I can’t write that all it takes to make a perfect date in your book is lots of sex.”
“Why not? It’s the truth,” he said, and this time I could tell he was being completely honest. I stiffened against the unwelcome and inappropriate thrill that chased my spine as he added, “It’s the best way to get to know someone.”
I hesitated, trying to decide which way to proceed. My gut said to pack up and leave, but I was genuinely curious as to why he believed in his answer. Curiosity killed the cat, remember? And yet, I challenged for the sake of argument, “Seriously? Pardon me if I call bullshit. Don’t you find that just a little shallow?”
“Not at all,” he said, enjoying the chance to defend his answer. “What’s a date all about? Getting to know someone, right?”
I took the bait and nodded slowly, remaining wary. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He smiled, asking, “May I?” reaching for my hand. I hesitated but relented, allowing Nico to grasp my free hand. He flipped my hand, palm-side down, to trace the small veins beneath my skin. I fought to keep the shivers at bay, trying to remain outwardly unaffected, even bored. “Let’s say the underside of your palm represents your private self and the top of your hand represents the shield we put up to protect the soft parts of our hand that we only trust with those we know won’t hurt us.”
“Okay,” I said, puzzled, drawing a short breath as my heart rate quickened. “How does that relate to sex on the first date?”
“I challenge you to tell me any other way to truly get to know someone without using sex.” He slowly rotated my hand so my palm faced up. “Sex reveals vulnerabilities, our deep truths, and strips away the facades that we readily wear to hide ourselves from the world. In other words, sex removes the shield, leaving us with our soft spots unprotected.”
I swallowed as tiny trembles I couldn’t contain shook my body. I pressed my lips together before my tongue darted to wet my bottom lip. Suddenly, it was very warm in his apartment, and the air had become charged with electricity. “I...guess I see your point...but it’s a stretch,” I lied, loathe to let him see how his little demonstration had turned up my internal heat.
He laughed, disagreeing. “In truth, Miss Hughes...sex is the great equalizer, and what better way to determine whether or not you are a match than when you are in your deepest reality?”
I allowed him to hold my hand a moment longer than necessary, then quickly withdrew, shaking my head with a wobbly “Interesting theory but I’m not sure I can put that in the article. Luxe isn’t that kind of magazine. We’re more about classy, not trashy.”
I was totally lying. Patrice would eat that shit up and probably highlight the passage in a glitzy pull quote, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that.
The awful truth was, Nico had somehow turned a far-fetched explanation into the sexiest demonstration I’d ever experienced, and I hated the way I felt way too breathless for my own comfort. I wasn’t like Daphne, easily seduced or beguiled with a few choice words, but I could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers tracing my skin.
Nico didn’t seem to mind and shrugged. “I’m only being honest. You asked what my idea of a perfect date would be, and I answered you.”
I rubbed at my hand. “So lie to me,” I quipped with a flustered laugh, realizing my gaffe, then amended quickly, “I mean, don’t lie but maybe use your imagination. You have to remember that women are going to read this and want to know how they can impress you. This is your chance to put your dreams out there.”
“As in my dream woman?” he asked for clarification, shaking his head, as if he knew there was no such thing. Something about that fatalistic opinion struck me as sad, though I wasn’t a hopeless romantic by any means. I knew that true love was just a greeting card sentiment, but a part of me wished it were real. Maybe deep down, Nico did, too.
“Sure,” I answered, curious as to what he considered the epitome of a female partner.
But Nico didn’t seem interested in following that plot thread and detoured neatly as his gaze traveled the angle of my neck as sensuously as if his lips were nibbling a trail. “Were you ever a dancer?” he surprised me by asking.
My cheeks flushed with heat as I admitted, “Uh, yes, when I was younger. A long time ago.”
“But you’re not anymore.”
“No.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
Even though my hopeful ballet career died a long time ago, it still hurt to revisit those memories. I should’ve snapped my mouth shut but I didn’t. “I hurt my knee performing a grand jeté when I was sixteen. It was never the same afterward and I knew I’d never make it to the New York City Ballet with that kind of injury, so I quit dancing altogether.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, and I sensed he was being genuine. His expression turned quizzical. “From what I understand, injuries are common for dancers but many heal with the right care and therapy. Why didn’t you?”
Nico could never possibly understand how something like that would’ve been totally outside of my family’s capabilities financially. I’d known the minute the muscle had torn that my career was done. “My parents didn’t have the money for the intensive care that my injury required to put me back to where I was,” I explained, stiffening against the inevitable ache in my heart for what would never be. “I wasn’t going to ask my parents to bankrupt themselves so I could continue dancing.” The clip in my tone was a warning that he was treading on dangerous ground. I lifted the recorder with a pointed look. “Now, about that dream woman...”
Nico smiled, slow and easy, ignoring my lead. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers. There’s just something about the graceful way they carry themselves that always seems to stick with them, even long after they’ve stopped dancing.”
I couldn’t argue. I prided myself on maintaining proper posture, a throwback to my dancing days. An imaginary string pulled taut perpetually suspended my head. I could still hear my dance instructor’s voice, “Backs straight, chins high, dahling!”
“Do you miss dancing?” he asked, interrupting my short reverie.
I exhaled a long breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“That’s not an answer,” he chided.
“I’m not the one being interviewed.”
His gaze inadvertently dipped to my dress, and I could practically feel his judgment, same as when Patrice openly curled her lip at my fashion choices. I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely, almost daring him to make a comment so I could shoot him down. I swear, don’t people have better things to do than judge what other people are wearing? Is the world really that shallow? Of course it was... I worked for a fashion magazine and I saw it firsthand.
Nico surprised me when he pulled away, his gaze narrowing as if he’d heard my internal dialogue. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. You don’t like me very much,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Why?”
My cheeks flushed with guilt. I really needed to work on my poker skills if he saw through me so easily. Or maybe I hadn’t really tried all that hard to disguise my contempt. Either way, my inability to smother what I was thinking or feeling had just bitten me in the ass—again.
“I like you just fine,” I protested, trying for an earnest expression, but I felt as if I probably looked like the Joker with a pasted-on smile so I tried a different tack. “I mean, fine enough to do this interview. I doubt we have enough in common to enjoy a friendship, but other than that...I’m sure you’re great.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, enjoying my sudden squirming. “Why don’t you like me?”
He wasn’t going to stop pressing. I could lay it all on the line and risk everything or I could try to lie through my teeth and maybe flirt a little. The latter made my dignity shrivel like a raisin, so that left me with pure honesty. I shut off the recorder—again. “Not that it matters for the sake of this interview, but maybe, I don’t care for your personality type.”
“Which is?”
I waved away his question. “Are we really doing this? Look, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would give their right foot to date you, I’m just not one of them.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to date me, I asked why you didn’t like me. But since you brought it up, why wouldn’t you want to date me?”
I hesitated, wondering how I’d lost control of this interview. I should’ve realized the Donatos were master manipulators. I should’ve been more diligent—or walked out when I’d had the chance.
But my chance to right the ship had just sailed.
Nico snorted with derision. “C’mon, you really think I can’t smell your condescension from a mile away? Sweetheart, you’re going to have to be a better actress than that if you’re going to fool anyone into believing that you don’t think I’m a big pile of shit.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn’t finished. “What I don’t understand is why Luxe would insult my family in such a manner as to send someone who clearly hates me to do this interview. I mean, what the fuck? Was this all a joke or something?”
Just apologize and appease his monster-sized ego. The answer seemed so simple, and yet I couldn’t do it. I stiffened, wary. “If you planned on being a dick from the start, why didn’t you let me leave?”
He shrugged. “I was curious but now I’m just bored and irritated.”
“Why should my opinion matter at all?” I countered, feeling reckless. There was something about Nico that I couldn’t quite shake, something that made me want to push when otherwise I might wisely fold.
Or maybe I was just tired of being railroaded for the sake of a paycheck. Patrice had never been my biggest fan, and this colossal train wreck of an interview shouldn’t come as too big of a surprise, right?
Would she fire me?
Maybe?
Nico leaned forward, invading my space. “You think I’m another useless trust-fund baby with nothing better to do than spend my money on hookers and blow or at the very least strippers and booze.” When I didn’t deny it, he barked a laugh at my expense, as if I were an unprepared newb who hadn’t done a lick of research. “My family donates gobs of money to various organizations and charities, but it is scattered among the different companies we own. We choose not to advertise our philanthropic endeavors because we believe that’s private and we aren’t looking for accolades. So we don’t talk much about those things, but because we don’t advertise, you make an assumption that I’m just another rich playboy who wipes his ass with money.”
