His Mafia Queen

Evil

GABRIEL

I'll call you anything I want.

That's the retort in my mind when Riley demands that I not call her baby. The front door swings open, and Andre is standing there. He eyes Riley for a second, then turns to me.

"Sir, the mayor's been calling. Repeatedly." A line of worry creases the space between his dark brows.

"I'll get back to him soon and meet you in the office. I need to show our guest around first. This is Riley, a wonderful writer for our local newspaper. She'll be spending the evening with me, possibly more. Riley, this is Andre, my assistant."

Andre greets Riley with a stiff formality—he was the grandson of one of Cuba's wealthiest men, before the revolution, and his manners are impeccable—and turns down a hall, to the east wing of the home. It's where my office is located, while the bedrooms are in the west wing. My suite is upstairs. I prefer to separate business from pleasure.

Riley shifts from foot to foot. "The bathroom?" She stares pointedly. Such alluring blue eyes. And the sprinkle of freckles on her nose? Gorgeous.

"Of course. This way."

She follows me as we walk through the foyer, past the sweeping staircase and the massive orchid display on a table in the center of the room. Overhead, a modern crystal chandelier looms. There's a small bathroom tucked in the corner of the foyer, wedged under the staircase and discreetly hidden by an archway. There's a faint scent of vanilla and roses in the air, light and perfumed. The sweet scent is fleeting, evaporating into the blissfully cool air-conditioned home.

"Through that door."

"Thanks." She hustles in.

I suspect the skeptical Riley thinks I'll wait out here for her. But being the man I am, I want to test her a bit, so I step through another door.

It's a small nook, one the staff uses as a bar when I entertain. The heavy, wooden cabinets hold bottles of the best liquor and a stock of crystal glasses, which I use for parties. It's also climate controlled. This little nook, which the realtor called the above ground wine cellar, also has a view of the entire foyer, and I'll be able to watch what Riley does when she emerges from the bathroom.

She'll likely try to leave, and it will give me no small amount of pleasure to catch her in the act.

I lean against the cabinet, listening for the sound of a door opening. She's taking quite a long time in there. Finally, I hear the whisper of a door opening, then footsteps on the tile. She can't see me, but I can hear her. The footsteps stop.

She's likely wondering where I am. Or taking in the lavish entrance. The footsteps begin again, softer this time. Probably because she's trying to be silent. I hear the click of a handle, and I know exactly what she's touching: the front door. I peer around the corner and watch as she tries to yank the door open. Since it's locked and is old and heavy, it takes some force to open.

Grinning, I saunter out and cross the room. The muscles in her thin arm are straining as she pulls on the door handle. She spots me and stops pulling, but keeps her hand on the door.

"That's not the way to your accommodations, Riley. Wrong direction."

Her nostrils flare. "Damn you."

"Please don't think about escaping. It will be impossible. I have dogs, and armed guards, and I really wouldn't want you to get hurt. They might mistake you for an intruder, when you're anything but. I'd hate to see anything happen to you before we get the chance to talk. Come with me."