Authors: Katherine Lace
Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)
Published by Katherine Lace
Copyright 2016 Katherine Lace
Allan Spiers Photography
Cover Design by Kevin McGrath
I stole her to make a baby…
Wrong? Hell yeah, it’s wrong. Wise guys never live by the rules, but there’s one you don’t break.
I’m not a damn bit sorry. I’m done with one-night stands. I need a family to call my own. A wife. A kid.
I found the perfect girl: Sarah. The second I felt her curves, I knew she was destined to be mine. It’s been explosive since we met, and it’s only getting hotter. I won’t stop until she’s carrying my baby.
One problem—she’s engaged to an abusive bastard. Sal. The man next in line to become my boss. He doesn’t deserve the girl or the job. And ever since I took Sarah, he’s out for blood.
She wants to leave him, so we made a pact: protection for a baby.
I know it’s wrong.
Ask me again if I care.
The dealer drops a card. I glance at it, do quick math, and realize I broke twenty-one. Oh well. Can’t win them all. She gives me a small smile.
She’s a pretty thing—dark hair, dark eyes. I wonder what my chances are of taking her home. Probably pretty good. The Spada family’s paying her, after all. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll say yes to anything anybody asks her.
We finish up the hand, and I accept my losses like a man. Blackjack’s not my game anyway. I should find some other way to enjoy this party. There are plenty of other nice pieces of tail to check out, and I can have any one of them. Don’t even have to play my cards right. Which is a good thing, since that’s exactly what I just didn’t do.
Phil Spada likes having parties at casinos. It’s a moneymaker for him, and it puts him in good with local businessmen. He needs to be in good with somebody right now, since he sure as hell isn’t hanging on too well in his own business.
You want to run a mob organization, you need to be respected. But in the Spada family, things are up in the air. Everybody’s edgy. Nobody’s confident. People are jockeying for power.
I’m one of them.
The party was a good idea, I have to admit, but it’s too little too late. If Spada wanted this get-together to convince us he’s still got his fingers on the pulse of the organization, he’s fallen short by about a mile. Mile and a half, maybe.
Still, no point in not enjoying it, or at least trying to. Nothing’s really sparking me. I try to tell myself it’s just the party—the tension, the emptiness of it, the way everybody’s trying to have fun just like nothing’s changed. Truth is, I’ve been like this for a while. Just…kind of dull. Dreary. Going through the motions, mostly. Ever since Dad died.
Fuck that shit. Time for a drink, maybe, while I try to get my thoughts in order. I glance toward the bar.
Well, what do you know? It’s Salvatore De Luca. He’s got a girl next to him, but her back’s to me and I can’t tell who it is right off. It’s probably his latest arm candy, though. Susan? Sheri? No, Sarah. I don’t understand how any woman can spend more than about fifteen seconds in his company, though. Just the sight of him makes me want to go spit in his drink. Or, better yet, in his face.
I’d better get used to looking at him, though. Right now it looks like he’s next in line to the Spada family empire. Spada’s been grooming Sal since Carmine bit it. Nobody likes that. Sal’s an asshole—more so even than most of the rest of us. If we don’t trust Spada right now, double that for Sal. It’s pretty well agreed upon that, if he takes over Spada’s place, things are going to get ugly.
Well, uglier than they are now. I shake my head a little. Sal’s got to go, and I’m probably going to have to be the one to get that job done. That’s fine. I’m up to the task. Thing is, how do I manage it?
The girl next to him turns her head just enough that I can see her profile. Just like I figured, it’s Sarah. They’ve been together a while—several months, I’m pretty sure. I can’t figure it. Sarah’s always seemed quiet, but solid, and Sal? He’s like a box of C4. You wiggle him the wrong way and he’s going to explode. He’s not known for his humanitarian leanings, if you get my drift. How he ended up with a treat like Sarah is beyond me.
Women. What can you do?
She’s talking to him calmly, her gaze steady on his, and I can tell by the way Sal’s back goes stiff in his tuxedo jacket that he doesn’t like what she has to say. She touches his arm, her fingers grasping a bit of the fabric of his sleeve. Sal jerks his arm back, way harder than necessary, and gets right up in her face. She leans back, but she can’t get away from him. I can’t make out what Sal is saying, but his mouth twists, and it’s ugly when he spits the words at her. Then he slams his empty glass down on the bar and stalks away.
Sarah’s hand comes up to cover her mouth. Her eyes have gone big and wide, like she might cry, but she blinks a couple of times and they clear. The bartender approaches her; she nods, and he brings her another drink.
Curious as to what just went down with Sal, I head toward the bar. Probably not the best idea, approaching Sal’s girl, but…
Fuck. Maybe it’s a good idea. What better way to make Sal look like the useless piece of shit he is? Smirking, I head for the bar and slide onto the bar stool Sal just vacated.
Sarah looks up, surprised.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask her.
She gestures toward the highball glass in front of her. “I’ve got a drink.”
“You finish that one. I’ll get you another one.”
“I don’t know. I’ve probably had enough.”
I shrug. “I’ll get you one anyway. You might get thirsty.” I hold my hand out to her. “Nick Angelino.”
She nods. “I know.” Hesitantly she slides her small hand into mine. “Sarah Corelli.”
“I know.” I grin at her, and she manages a wan smile back. Of course we know each other. Everybody in the family knows each other one way or another, even if only by reputation. But as far as having been formally introduced—that’s a different story. “You’re too pretty to be here all on your own.”
“I’m not on my own. I’m with Sal. You know Sal?” The edge to her voice tells me she’s warning me off. That she’s taken.
I shrug it off. “Everybody knows Sal.” I try not to make a face when I say his name. “And it doesn’t look like he’s here right now. He left you here all alone? Unsupervised? How does he know nobody’s going to just pick you up and take you home with them?” I lean a little closer. “Like, say, me?”
Her expression becomes a bit wary. “Are you suggesting something?”
“Honey, I’m always suggesting something.” I trace a finger along the back of her hand. She doesn’t flinch away, or slap me, or throw her drink in my face, so that’s a win.
I’ve seen her several times before, here and there, across a room or milling through a crowd of partygoers. She’s usually on Sal’s arm. She’s even prettier up close than I imagined from seeing her at a distance. She doesn’t seem to have much on in the way of makeup, and her skin is clear and appears virtually pore-less. Smooth, like porcelain. I want to touch her. Is all her skin that creamy-pale ivory color? I can picture it—miles and miles of smooth, flawless skin, face to tits to thighs. I can damn near feel it under my fingers.
Her hair is sleek and black, done up in an updo that looks like it probably took four hairdressers and an architect to construct. One pull on one of those ivory sticks poking out of it and it’d be all down around her shoulders, I bet. Tousled and unkempt, like she just got out of bed after a long, thorough fuck. My dick swells just looking at this woman, and suddenly I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Want her under me, pinned by the wrists while I shove my dick into her until she writhes and screams.
I let my gaze trail down her long neck, over her collarbones, down to the soft mounds of her breasts where they’re propped up by her strapless dress. It’s dark purple and shiny. Those tits are a work of art. Suddenly I’m picturing Sal’s big, blocky hands on them, his thumbs tweaking her nipples, and it makes me almost queasy. How the hell did she end up with that asshole, anyway? She deserves better.
“Hey,” she says. “Eyes up.”
I look up and grin. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes.” She tips her chin up, challenging me with a direct stare. Her eyes are the clearest green I’ve ever seen.
“I bet Sal’s not fond of that. He doesn’t much like being told what to do.”
“Sal’s not fond of a lot of things.” There’s a tightness to her voice that tells me there’s more to that story than I’ll ever know—way more than she’ll ever tell me.
“He’s not very smart.” I keep my voice low, talking close to her ear now, so close I can smell a faint whiff of lavender coming from her hair, can feel the warmth of her face.
“You’re not wrong.” She says it so quietly I’m not sure I actually heard her. When it soaks in, I give her a smile.
Her gaze roots to mine, then she gives a quick, worried glance around the room. She’s looking for Sal, and there’s fear in her eyes. In that moment I’d like to punch Sal in the face, see blood spurt from his nose. My eyes go hot with anger.
“I’m not sure I should,” she says.
I shrug, trying to keep myself under control so I don’t scare her. Sal’s already scared her enough for the both of us, and I hate him for it. “Just a dance,” I reassure her. “Not like I’m going to fuck you in the middle of the dance floor, right?”
Her smile is wan. Maybe I shouldn’t have worded it quite so bluntly. I return her smile, trying to take some of the sting out of my poorly considered words. “Just a dance.”
Her eyes turn to mine again, and her anxiety softens. “Okay. Fine. Just a dance.” She slides from the bar stool, and as I reach for her hand, she lifts a finger in caution. “
a dance. You’ll keep your hands to yourself. Understand?”
“Of course.” She slides her hand into mine. Her fingers are long and slim, and I notice her nails are cut short. There’s no polish on them at all. I wonder why. Most of the rest of the women here are dressed and groomed to the nines, right down to the perfect manicures. I find her blunt, plain nails intriguing. I find everything else about her intriguing, too.
We weave through the crowd until we reach the area where other couples are dancing. I swing her out to arm’s length and then draw her back against me, and we sway into the rhythm of the music.
There’s a thing about dancing. Maybe it’s just me, but when I have a woman tucked up nice and close against me, swaying to the music, her body moving against mine, all I can think about is sex. I want to slide my hand down the curve of her back, cup her ass with my fingers, see how close I can get to her pussy before she cuts me off. But I won’t do that, because I want to keep dancing. She told me to keep my hands to myself, so I’m going to have to stay polite if I want to keep her here in this perfectly chaste, perfectly acceptable embrace.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. Glancing down, I can see between the twin mounds of her breasts. My hand would fit perfectly in the dark space between them. She’d be warm there, the heat collecting under her tits. I could slip my fingers around to the front, pinch her nipple…
My hand is splayed across the small of her back, and I jerk back to myself as she gives me a slight head tilt. I realize my dick is rock hard; she can probably feel it as we sway together. I give her a smile. It’s probably pretty smug. But there’s nothing I can do about my dick. It has a mind of its own. Right now it wants to be inside Sarah.
I can’t say I don’t agree. What would Sal think about that, if I fucked his woman? He wouldn’t like it one bit, I’m sure. Suddenly I’m thinking about what Sal’s face would look like if I fucked Sarah and he found out about it. Face red, veins bulging. Maybe he’d drop dead from a stroke, or a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be a kick? Easiest way ever for me to take over as Spada’s favored successor.
I sober then, focusing again on Sarah, letting my gaze settle on hers. My own thoughts unsettle me. A few months ago, chortling to myself about somebody’s death would have been par for the course. But not so much now. I want Sal’s position, sure. I want his woman, sure. But I don’t really want his death. There are better ways.
Sarah tips her head again, her brows drawing together in a frown. “What are you thinking about?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” Then I think better of it and lean forward to whisper in her ear, “I’m thinking about taking your clothes off and fucking you up against a wall.”
Her hand tightens on mine, and her frown deepens. “I don’t think that’s appropriate. Let me go.”