Free His To Take: Night One by Kera Whisper Page A

about that!
    I bit my lip . Calm, Juliet, calm! Wait... was that a scuff on my black heels?
    Like a cat pouncing on a ball of yarn, I seized my large purse and hefted it into my lap. Looking for a Sharpie, I rooted past sample sizes of toiletries, Wisps, antibacterial wipes, my passport with one stamp, my birth control pills. Not that I needed those for sex , I thought with annoyance.
    Co me on, come on, Sharpie. It was bad enough that my clothes were knockoffs, but I’d thought they were at least in good repair. Earlier, the starchy butler who’d shown me into this study hadn’t sneered as he’d looked me up and down.
    When I was little, my mother had said, “A lady always has a good bag and nice shoes.”
    I was oh for two , about to meet a man like Cesan.
    Sharpie score! I’d just taken the cap between my teeth and started coloring in my scuff when he walked in.
    I sucked in a breath, almost choking on the cap.
    There stood the face of international commerce— and crime—and the world’s most eligible bachelor.
    He paused in the doorway , his muscular body and broad shoulders seeming to take up the entire space. I’d known he was over six feet tall, but he looked closer to seven right now.
    The many pictures I’d seen of him had emphasized his chiseled good looks. He’d always been clad a suit, his straight raven-black hair neatly styled.
    Now he wore a black cashmere V-neck sweater that hugged the rises and falls of his muscular chest. His hair was ruffled. From the helicopter? His skin was tanned to a dark bronze. Though he was thirty-four, he looked a shade younger.
    Right now, w ith his piercing dark eyes and the stubble shadowing his masculine jaw, he skewed less toward his commerce ties and more toward his underworld-enforcer ones.
    His looks said, I’m constrained by no laws, have more money than I know what to do with, and I have to beat women off with a stick.
    He was utterly breathtaking in person.
    He strode toward me, his intense gaze assessing me. “Juliet Riverleigh. Descended of the Boston Riverleighs.”
    And late of Podunk—obviously. I capped my marker, dropped it in my bag. When I stood, I squared my shoulders. “Mr. Cesan, hello.”
    H e continued closer until I had to crane my head up and up. Not for the first time, I wished I was taller than five foot four—in heels.
    Once he stood before me , I could see his irises were so dark they appeared black. His eyes were naturally a touch heavy-lidded, softening the harder planes of his gorgeous face, giving him a sensual aspect. 
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
    He took it in his large one. It was warm and surprisingly calloused, like he worked with his hands. “The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.” His accent had been described as a mix of Cockney British and upper-crust Italian.
    I wouldn’t know. This was my first trip abroad and not many overseas travelers stopped over in my hometo wn of Donovan, population two thousand.
    “Thank you for taking time to see me,” I said. When my private investigator contact had arranged this meeting, I’d researched Cesan in depth—easy enough since he often graced covers of magazines, with multi-page spreads. He fascinated people, everyone wondering if he was a crime lord, or a classically educated businessman trying to shuck old rumors that refused to die.
    They called him the Dark Angel of Milan.
    I felt like I’d seen him a million times; yet now an uncanny sense of déjà vu flitted over me. I could swear that we’d actually ... met.
    Maybe that was just my little case of infatuation raising its head. I’d perused photo after photo of him, rereading his interviews. He’d been charming, intelligent, even funny. How could I not nurse a crush on him? He was a polylingual genius, with a Cambridge degree, street cred, and a mysterious past. Plus he looked like Adonis.
    I might even have fantasized about him kissing me. Just a bit.
    “Your accent is