Before he died, Dad ensured his girls knew basic self-defense skills—as much as you can teach that to a five and a twelve year old. Thankfully, I’ve never needed to use them. But, getting on the wrong side of a guy like Abello was probably not what my father contemplated when instructing me.
Still, I refuse to back down because of some potential perceived danger. That wouldn’t be doing my job, and I would feel like utter shit if I let my suspicions go. Maybe it’s because my dad was a cop and spent his whole life trying to put douchebags like Abello away, or maybe I have some innate moral compass compelling me, but either way, I can’t just let this get buried. If I did, I feel like I’d be letting myself, and my father, down. Dad died protecting people from Abello’s type of scum, and I’m not about to let him continue his control over this city.
“Your bravado is exactly what concerns me, Danika.”
I smile at her, grabbing her arm and tugging her toward the elevator with me. I definitely need to get some drinks tonight, and I know Caroline is always up for whatever, so I try to steer the conversation away from her unfounded fears. “I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”
Mostly.
After three days of agonizing Savage fantasies and frustrating non-movement on my story, I walk into my office and immediately see an over-the-top bouquet of at least a dozen white roses occupying the center of my desk. Glancing up and down the hallway, I check to see if the person who left them might be lingering nearby, but the entire office is empty. I’m almost always the first person in, and it’s barely seven a.m.
How did these even get delivered?
My bags slide down my arm and onto my chair. I don’t know why, but finding this in the middle of my desk in the deserted office is making me more than a little nervous. I refuse to acknowledge it might be related to my current investigation; that means admitting Abello can get to me.
A small, white envelope is nestled in the petals and I reach in and pull it out. I slip my finger under the seal and open it. I’m half-expecting it to be from my sister, as an apology for all the shit she put me through in the last couple weeks. She knows I love white roses, and there aren’t really any other possible senders.
Except maybe Max.
I met him the same day I met Savage. Caroline and I went out for drinks, and it wasn’t like I was looking—okay, maybe a little bit—but he was there, and so damn hot with his dark hair and flashing blue eyes. He reminded me of Savage, a little too much. We had amazing sex that night, but I just couldn’t get there. I’ve never not been able to orgasm. Talk about fucking frustration!
I would have stayed with him longer and continued to try, but I kind of ruined the mood by accidentally whimpering Savage’s damn name when Max had me pinned against the wall, his cock buried deep inside me.
Smooth, Dani, real smooth. Just remembering the look on his face and the tensing of his body makes me cringe.
Pulling the card from the envelope, my heart races when I see the elegant, sloping scrawl of the writing in the note, certainly not Nora’s handwriting.
Ms. Eriksson –
Dinner.
Friday.
Angelo’s.
8:00 p.m.
Savage (504) 202-5555
That pompous bastard!
I throw the card onto my desk and, knocking my bags down to the floor, drop into my chair in a huff.
That arrogant prick!
Who the hell does he think he is? What makes him think I would ever even consider going to dinner with him? He didn’t even ask. He just demands with a goddamn four-word note?
Presumptuous fuck!
A litany of curses spew from my mouth as I stare at the beautiful flowers taking up the majority of my desk. As if it isn’t bad enough I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about him since I met him, now he’s demanding my presence at dinner?
I won’t go. He can sit there, alone, waiting for me. That will teach him a lesson about how he treats women—damn pussy peddler.
And Nora defended him! Thinking back to my conversation with her earlier this week, I find it hard to believe we were talking about the same man.
“He’s not as bad as you think,” she’d insisted.
“Yeah, right. He pays women to shake their asses and tits for pervs. I’m sure he’s an angel.”
She’d sighed and rolled her eyes at me. “Really, Dani, he’s not a perv, at least, not with us. He’s really a good boss and doesn’t ever cross the professional line with anyone.”
The way she told it, he’s some kind of fucking saint, acting like an overprotective big brother to all the girls working for him and taking care of them whenever they get into any kind of trouble. If she had her way, he would win a fucking Nobel Peace Prize.
“Professional? You call parading naked women across a stage for men to gawk at professional?”