Her eyes blazed, and she crossed the floor to lean over his desk. “Intelligence? I was at the top of my class at UCLA. If you had even bothered to read the resume I sent your casino manager, you would have seen I’ve had contracts from multi-national corporations, state and local governments. I was even invited to submit a tender to the FBI. I got those contracts myself. I run a very successful business with the help of two on-site employees and a floating team of five online hackers.”
She paused for breath, and Nico tried to tear his gaze away from her magnificent breasts now only inches away from his face, but she wouldn’t let him.
“This…” She cupped her breasts over the corset and gave them a shake, sending all Nico’s blood down to his groin. “Ridiculous outfit is me doing my job and the only reason I was caught was because your security guard has the same antiquated, sexist, misogynistic attitude as you and decided to pinch my ass. I jabbed my knife into his thigh to defend myself as any woman being sexually harassed is entitled to do.”
For the first time in his twenty-eight years, Nico had nothing to say. Captivated, entranced, and fiercely aroused by the infuriated, beautiful woman leaning over his desk, her face dark with indignant fury, he almost forgot she was the enemy—the daughter of the man he hated most in the world.
“If I hadn’t been distracted,” she continued, straightening up to Nico’s abject disappointment, “I would have been in and out of your control room and hacking into your system as we speak.”
“Exactly.” Unable to contain the fierce arousal coursing through his veins, Nico pushed back his chair, and rounded his desk forcing her to take a few steps back. He perched on the edge of the desk in front of her, arms folded, legs spread wide, back in control of the room, of himself. “You were distracted. A man wouldn’t have been distracted.”
Her lips pressed tight together, she brazenly stepped between his parted legs. Electricity crackled between them, caused the air in the room to swelter. Unused to being challenged in any way, and never by a woman, Nico couldn’t decide if she was coming on to him or about to rip out his throat.
She gave him a smile that was at once sultry and sweet. “So you’re saying”—she dropped her hand until it dangled just below his crotch—“that if I were to grab you right now, you wouldn’t get distracted?”
Adrenaline pulsed through his body in response to her challenge, and he fought the urge to slide back on his desk. Not because she scared him—he was confident he could knock her hand away before she got close—but because he was so fucking turned on, he didn’t know what would happen if she touched him.
Goddam fucking delicious.
He curled his hand around her neck, beneath the silken waterfall of her hair, and pulled her close, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Do it,” he demanded.
She met his challenging gaze, and he could almost taste her need, as thick and fierce as his own. Finally, her hand fell to the side and she wrenched out of his grasp. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, you’re not worth it.”
Dio mio. If he didn’t get rid of her, he’d have her over his desk in a heartbeat, stockings and panties torn away, skirt flipped up to bare that beautiful ass, hair wrapped around his hand, her back arched, and his name a scream of pleasure on her lips. “Goodbye, Ms. Cordano.”
He expected apologies, embarrassment, some sign that acknowledged he had won that confrontation. Instead, he got a sniff.
“I’ll send you my bill.”
She turned and walked out of the room, back straight, head high, beautiful ass swaying gently as she walked.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Magnificent.
Irritating and utterly disrespectful.
Totally off-limits.
The enemy.
TWO
Unlike most Vegas locals, Mia loved the city at the tail end of winter. From the light dusting of snow that covered the hills in the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, to the rain that turned the Interstate 15 into an angry mess, and from the gray skies that put everyone in a bad mood to the shortened days, it was a Vegas that most tourists didn’t know existed, and with everyone huddling in doors in weather that the rest of the country embraced in spring, it gave the city an intimate feel.
It also meant she could indulge her passion for street-punk clothing without worrying that she would melt the minute she stepped outside her grungy apartment. Today she wore a pair of worn, skin-tight black jeans, a graphic rocker shirt, and her favorite green cargo jacket. She’d paired it with her favorite Doc Martens lace-up boots embroidered with red flowers, and a cozy, oversized black wool hat that flopped from side to side as she walked.
By the time she reached the coffee shop two blocks away from her apartment in the John S. Park neighborhood of downtown, she was chilled to the bone and grateful for the fingerless gloves she wore on her hands. She picked up her usual double-shot Monday morning latte from the small, free-trade coffee shop on the corner and made her way to the pool hall where she rented office space in the upstairs suite.