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  “Italian,” she blurts out without a second thought. Then, turning to face me, she tilts her head inquiringly. “Are you afraid we won’t finish our discussion about the project during tonight’s dinner?” A small grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as she asks the question.

  Laughing softly, I glance over at her and play her little game. “I think it may take many meals to get through all of the details on this one. I hope your boyfriend won’t mind all the late work nights.”

  “You should simply ask questions you want answers to,” she retorts sassily.

  “As should you.”

  The remainder of the drive is spent in comfortable silence, and I can’t help but notice how she quietly sings along to damn near every song that comes on the radio. I usually get annoyed with people who sing in the car, but her voice is pitch-perfect and pleases me greatly. Of course, what I really want to know is how it will sound screaming my name, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

  IN THE HEART OF BURBANK’S Media District, we pull into a circular drive on the side of a moderately-sized brown and white brick office building, and Madden shifts the transmission into park. Within seconds, the valet is opening my door and helping me out of the car before scurrying over to the driver’s side. As the attendant drives away to park the sleek sedan, Madden approaches me, confidently takes my hand in his, and leads us to a rather unassuming entrance at the corner of the building.

  As I did earlier in the day, I attempt to withdraw my hand from his, but he holds onto it tightly. Honestly, I kind of like the way my hand feels in his—protected and secure—but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Regardless of Jae’s advice, the last thing I need is a good fucking, especially not with the CEO of a firm I have a business relationship with, no matter how good looking he is, or how my insides melt a little when he looks at me. I’m pretty proud of myself for the progress I’ve made in my new life over the last week—despite the never-ending nightmares and busted lip—and I don’t want to ruin it all for a one-night romp in the sheets.

  We pass under a modest burgundy sign that reads Arnie Morton’s The Steakhouse, and he opens the dark-stained wooden door, ushering me inside. He releases the grip on my hand as he gives his name to the hostess, while I scan the area to inspect my surroundings—standard operating procedure. The lighting inside is dim though, and I can barely see the people in the dining area. No one seems to take notice of our entrance, so my fear of someone from back home waiting for me here diminishes, only to be replaced with apprehension and nerves about spending an entire evening with this intimidating man.

  A middle-aged man in a tie walks up and greets us with a smile, and then motions for us to follow him to our table in the back of the restaurant. Several people peer up from their meals to look at us as we walk by—mostly women checking out Madden—and I find myself wishing he was still holding my hand. As if he can hear my thoughts, he brings his hand up to the small of my back; the pressure is light, but the warmth it sends throughout my body is dense and filling. We pass through a doorway in the back, to a private area apparently used for banquets or small parties, but there’s a single candlelit table for two set up in the center of the room.

  “Your table, as requested, Mr. Decker,” the gentleman states as he pulls the chair out for me.

  “Thank you,” I say politely, hoping he’ll leave quickly so I can ask Madden what the hell this is all about.

  Thankfully, he does, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, I narrow my eyes and purse my lips at the man sitting across the table from me. “What is this?” I demand.

  “What is what?” he replies acting innocent, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “This,” I hiss, waving my hands around the room and over the table. “A candlelit table for two in a private room. This is supposed to be a business meeting, not a date.”

  Smirking, he brings the glass of water from the table to his lips and takes a long drink. My gaze naturally moves to his mouth, and the fleeting thought of how those lips would feel on mine crosses my mind before I push it away and remember to be irritated with him. I bring my eyes back to his, and the mischievous gleam tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking.

  “It is a meeting, Blake. I simply requested we have some privacy so we could concentrate on our pending business,” he explains coolly. Leaning forward, his voice drops into a near growl. “Believe me—you’ll know when we’re on a date.”

  His words instigate a chain reaction of tingles whizzing through me, and I suddenly need a drink of water as well. Thankfully, our server appears to get our drink order, saving me from asking something stupid like How exactly will I know?.

  Madden glances over the wine list and then over at me. “Do you trust me?” I know he’s referring to the wine selection, but something in his tone makes it feel like it’s a loaded question.

  Assuming it wouldn’t be very respectful or courteous if I scream no, I respond, “I have faith you’ll make a good selection.”

  “I always do,” he murmurs under his breath with a sly grin. He reads something off of the list to the server, who smiles and commends his choice. The young man leaves the room, and we both sit there staring at each other.

  “Other than my ability to select a good wine, you don’t trust me?” he probes.

  “I don’t know you to trust you.”

  “So if you got to know me better, you could trust me?”

  Damn, I really wish I wouldn’t’ve made that comment about asking questions he wants answers to in the car. I think for a minute before carefully answering him. “I don’t trust people easily. I’ve learned the hard way in my short life the image most people portray is just what they want you to think of them, not who they really are.”

  “Do you trust the person who did that to your lip?” he asks outright.

  Instinctively, I suck in the battered corner of my lip, senselessly hoping to hide it even though he’s already seen it, and stare at him blankly. His question completely catches me off-guard.

  “Don’t do that to it. It’ll only make it worse,” he scolds as he reaches across the table and tugs gently to free my bottom lip with his thumb. “Now answer my question.”

  Wincing at the pain when he touches the wounded area, I shake my head and whisper, “No.”

  “No, you won’t answer my question, or no, you don’t trust the person who did it?”

  Inhaling a deep breath, I recite the story I told Jae this morning. “I did it to myself this weekend when I was hanging a picture in my living room. I dropped the frame and it hit me in the mouth.”

  “I don’t like to be lied to, Blake,” he grumbles, his eyes fierce. “Tell me you won’t answer the question before you lie to me. I’m far from perfect, but if there’s one thing that pisses me off, it’s dishonesty. You might as well spit in my face as far I’m concerned.”

  His fiery passion alerts me—not that he’s going to hurt me, but that someone close to him broke his trust before, and it affected him greatly. Unsure of how to respond, I simply nod and whisper, “Yes, sir.”

  “Fuuuccckkk,” he growls lowly and closes his eyes, obviously trying to calm himself down. Then I remember his warning not to call him Sir again from the meeting, and I want to kick myself. I’m not trying to offend him; manners have been instilled in me since childhood, and I said it without thinking.

  “I’m sorry…I-I forgot what you said earlier…” I stumble over my excuse.

  Opening his eyes, his expression is softer, but I can tell he’s still a bit distraught. “Tell me what happened to your lip.”

  I swallow hard, fearful he’s going to think I’m a mental freak if I tell him the truth, but I do it anyway. For some inexplicable reason, I really don’t want him upset with me, and it’s more than just for business purposes.

  “I bit through my lip while I was having a bad dream,” I admit quietly, staring at my glass of water.

  “Look at me, Blake,” he instructs sternly. Obli
gingly, I lift my gaze to his, and he smiles sincerely at me. “Thank you for telling me the truth. No more lies, okay?”

  “You’re welcome, and okay.”

  The server comes to the rescue once again, bringing the bottle of wine. He goes through some long, drawn out process of uncorking the bottle and allowing Madden to sample it before pouring us each a glass.

  “Would you like to hear about our specials, or are you both ready to order?” he inquires.

  Looking around the table, I realize we don’t even have menus; I have no idea what I want to eat. Madden chuckles lightly as he watches me search for the list of options.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks teasingly.

  My eyes snap up to the broad smile on his handsome face, and I can’t help but join him. Grinning, I repeat, “I have faith you’ll make a good selection.”

  “I always do.”

  After he rattles off what we’ll be having for dinner, he raises his crystal glass, indicating a toast. I lift mine to clink against his, still unable to wipe this goofy grin off my face. I can’t deny I enjoy the man’s company.

  “Here’s to the best business meeting I’ve had in ages—I can only imagine how sensational our dates will be—and to you, Blake Martin, for trusting me to always make the right choice for you.”

  Stunned and speechless, I take a big gulp of the chilled wine and wonder how in the hell I’m going to get through the rest of this dinner.

  Surprisingly, throughout the rest of the meal, we discuss the video game project in great detail during a relaxed but professional conversation. Madden admits he wanted nothing to do with the acquisition, that it was all his brother’s great idea to expand Decker Enterprises into the world of gaming. I learn the company’s primary ventures are in developing new technology for security fiber optics, and that it was first started by their father nearly forty years ago. When he suffered a heart attack six years prior, Madden took over the company much earlier than he’d expected to. I’m not sure how old he is, and quite honestly, I’m afraid to ask, but my guess would be early-to-mid-thirties. We almost make it through the discussion without him asking me any questions that make me feel uncomfortable. Almost.

  As my taste buds relish the best slice of cheesecake ever, he asks, “What did you do before going to work for JDT Graphics?”

  The question in and of itself seems like a normal, ordinary thing to ask someone, and I’m sure he’s simply asking out of common curiosity; however, for me, nothing about my past is either normal or ordinary.

  “I, uh…I was in school,” I reply, the uneasiness in my voice clear as day.

  Setting his fork down on the table, he smiles sympathetically at me. “I know you’re young, Blake. It doesn’t concern me that you don’t have any experience in the field, especially after our conversation here this evening. It’s evident you’re sharp and eager to succeed, and that speaks volumes to me.”

  Relieved he mistook my nervous tone for fear he won’t think I’m qualified for the job—which I’m truthfully not—I release the worried breath I was holding. “Thank you, Mr. Decker. I am very enthusiastic about proving myself to both Mr. Thompson and you.”

  “It’s Madden,” he retorts. “I don’t want to tell you again. Mr. Decker makes me think of my father, or worse, my brother.” For the second time tonight, he mentions his brother with disdain. I’m not sure of the existing dynamic, but there are obviously issues between the two of them.

  “Yes, Madden. I apologize.”

  “I know this is terribly ill-mannered of me, but I’m going to ask anyway. How old are you, Blake?”

  Every time the man says my name, he turns me into a pinball machine—my stomach coils up for a brief second before springing free, releasing a ball of decadent desire to bound freely throughout my body, causing my face to glow brighter than a thousand florescent lights.

  “I’m twenty-two,” I answer before placing the last bite of the rich dessert into my mouth, resisting the urge to moan in sugar-filled delight.

  He blinks twice at my reply, but no other expression crosses his face; it’s almost as if he’s calculating something in his head. I’m still unsure if I should ask him the same question, as much as I want to know his age. Thankfully, he answers my silent inquiry.

  “I’ll be thirty-five next month; that’s not too bad,” he says more to himself than to me. I want to ask too bad for what, but I don’t. I’m just happy to know how old he is without having to ask.

  Not long after, Madden pays the bill and we both stand up to leave. He takes my hand in his to lead me out of the restaurant, and this time, I don’t try to pull it back. As we wait for the valet to bring his car around, we stand in comfortable silence, still hand-in-hand.

  After helping me into the car, he climbs in the driver’s seat and shifts the transmission into drive. On the drive back to my car that’s parked outside my office, we make small talk about the cooler-than-normal temperatures and over-abundance of rain in the past month. I want to tell him he has no idea what cold is when he tells me he’s lived in southern California his entire life, but I don’t want to discuss my upbringing any more than I have to.

  As he pulls into the near-empty lot, I point out my car for him to drive over to it. Nervous energy begins to build inside me, not knowing what to expect when we say goodbye. I know Jae’s going to be disappointed tomorrow, but there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping with this guy, no matter how good of a time I’ve had.

  Shifting the car into park, he gets out to open my door for me. He guides me by the hand over to the driver’s side of my car. I peer up at him, ready to thank him once again, and to assure him I’ll do a great job on the project, but he speaks before I get a chance to.

  “Do you trust me, Blake?”

  My first thought is to teasingly reply about him making good selections, but I stop myself. The seriousness in his voice and intensity in his gaze alert me he’s no longer joking.

  “No,” I whisper breathlessly.

  “Thank you for not lying to me,” he replies with a genuine smile. Leaning down, he places a tender kiss on the top of my head and murmurs into my hair, “You will. Slow and steady, sweet girl.”

  Stupefied by his gentleness and choice of words, I slide into my car without a response. He waits for me to pull away before retreating to his own car. Driving in a haze down the highway, my thoughts a jumbled mess, I’m surprised I even find my way home, but thankfully, I do. Minutes after I let myself into my apartment, I receive a text from him.

  Let me know when you’re home.

  And suddenly I can’t breathe.

  SOMETHING SHOULD’VE ALERTED me when Ish showed up at my high school to pick me up the Monday after I met him, when I’d given him no information other than my first name. Somehow, in a city of a couple million people, he’d found me with no problem, but instead of getting freaked out when the well-dressed, good-looking older guy I’d met at the club on Friday pulled up in a brand new Lexus and called out to me, I was awestruck and enchanted. If I hadn’t had dance practice after school, I’d have undoubtedly left with him right then. I explained to him I had mandatory practice all week and my mom would be picking me up, and he smiled and told me ‘no worries’, that he’d see me soon. Then, he kissed me in front of everyone, declaring I was his before he pulled away with the bass in his car thumping loudly. I was in a delusional fog for the rest of the afternoon, and when I received a text from an unknown number about an hour later that read “I want to know when you’re home,” I thought his caveman-like actions were charming. I never bothered to ask how he got my phone number or any other information; I was too caught up in wanting to be wanted. And Ish wanted me.

  By the next weekend, I belonged to him, no question. He swept me off of my feet in the blink of an eye—visiting me at school every day, buying me extravagant gifts, calling me his Princesa Americana, and making me feel like I’d won the boyfriend lottery. Within two weeks, I’d gifted him my virginity, and began skipping school
to be with him. My mom and younger brother were both leery of him, but he was always polite, and as long as I was happy, they went along with what I wanted.

  Whenever I asked about what he did or where his money came from, he told me he worked for his father in a family business. I knew his parents were separated, and I never thought much to ask about his dad because I met his mom on numerous occasions, and she was always very friendly and accepting of me. She was from Brazil, and even though she understood English well, it was very broken when she spoke it. Typically, she and Ish spoke in Portuguese to each other in their home, so I began to study it when I was home late at night or when he was working. I’ll never forget how proud I felt the first time I surprised them both and spoke it during dinner one evening. That night, he rewarded me for my hard work by performing oral sex on me for the first time; usually, it was me who did it to him, thanking him for taking such good care of me. I quickly became obsessed with trying to please him, never wanting to disappoint him. Somehow, I always knew if I upset him the price to pay would be more than I could afford.

  The vibration of my cellphone yanks me from the dreadful memory, and I find myself crouched in a ball on my bedroom floor, knees curled tightly to my chest. Thankfully, I haven’t hurt myself—at least I don’t feel any pain or taste any blood. Glancing at my phone lying on the floor next to me, I study the two messages staring back at me from the screen.

  Let me know when you’re home.

  Blake, please let me know if you’re home safe. I’m worried.

  Both messages are from Madden, and after reading them, I realize why I drifted off into the flashback. Inhaling and exhaling several deep breaths, I stretch my legs out in front of me and pick up the phone. Quickly, I type out a response.

  I’m home. Didn’t mean to worry you.

  My heart rate takes a few minutes to return to normal from the panic-driven anxiety attack that always occurs when I think about my life with Ish. My mom was always right when she said things that seem too good to be true usually are. Ismael Oliveira was way too good to ever be true.