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

Georgian,” he said, “the state, not the country.”
    “Yes, that’s right.” He must’ve done his homework on me as well.
    His gaze flickered over my red hair. “Georgia. Home of succulent peaches.”
    How did one answer that? With a feigned smile, I said, “We’re the peach tree state.”
    He raked his eyes from my face, lingering on my damnable nipples, down to my legs and back up. “I was told by our mutual acquaintance that you are twenty-two. Is that correct, Juliet?”
    T he way he said my name gave me tingles. Wait, what did my age have to do with anything? And how could he possibly smell this good? Expensive cologne? No, it was too subtle for that. That scent was all him, clean skin and manly vitality.
    I was still staring—wondering h ow other women could resist burying their faces into his neck—when he frowned at me.
    “Your age?” he grated.
    I felt my cheeks redden. The man probably got ogled like this by every female he came across. “I am twenty-two, just turned.” Determined to focus on the crisis at hand, I said, “I don’t know how much Private Investigator Nazario told you, but I have a urgent problem, and I was hoping you could help—”
    Cesan raised a hand, cutting me off. “So quick to get to business, Juliet? I cleared my night to meet with you.”
    Now I was a rude , shabbily-dressed ogler. I supposed being cooped up every day with my bitter grandmother had eroded any graciousness and social skills I’d once had. This meeting couldn’t be going worse.
    And it couldn’t be more important.
    When he crossed to a whiskey service and poured two glasses, I tried to defend myself. “I just know your time is very valuable. And I’d never want to keep you from your work. You must be incredibly busy.”
    His shoulders rose and fell. In a weary tone, he said, “Don’t remind me of work.”
    “Bad day?”
    He bit out a harsh laugh. “When governments need to borrow your money, they suddenly don’t care if it’s green, black, or blood.”
    Black money? Blood money? So he was still connected to the underworld. Thank God!
    He turned to hand me a crystal glass. “Sit. Drink.”
    These words sounded vaguely like orders. The steel in my steel magnolia was beginning to flare, so I tried to steer this conversation. “I’d like that, for us to sit and talk.”
    He narrowed his eyes at me. “Not used to taking orders?”
    “I’m plenty used to it. I’m a caretaker for my grandmother. She’s irascible”—a mean-spirited witch—“and quite a handful.” I heard countless screeched orders over a day. “I might be accustomed to them, but I still ... react.”
    He sat on the front edge of his desk, his imposing body just inches from me. His legs were as muscular as the rest of him, encased in expensive slacks, and as I gazed at them, I felt like fanning myself.
    “What’s the last order you received?” he asked, moving his leg, brushing it against mine.
    T hat contact flustered me. I had difficulty recalling the last order. Ah, yes. My grandmother. “It was, Don’t go to Italy .” She’d all but shrieked it, telling me that if I left her with a nurse for a week, I was never to come home.
    Was it any wonder that the two days I’d spent in Italy had been so liberating for me? I’d clawed my way out of a musty, dilapidated Victorian, into a palazzo hotel with breezes and sunlight streaming through open windows.
    I’d eaten foods my taste buds had never encountered and sampled wines that were so good, they’d made me want to sing.
    Two days of l iberation—and guilt. Yes, I’d been forced to await this meeting, but in my downtime, I’d been taking the opportunity to shed the chains of my stifling life.
    W hile my brother’s life had been on the line.
    “ Well, I see how well that order went,” Cesan said dryly. “How did you answer?”
    I’d told Gran that I would do anything to save Tommy. “Oh, it’s not important,” I said instead. “Can we talk about something