#1.4

For some reason, Christian found that funny. “I believe in it more than

you think.”

Intrigue kindled at his self-deprecating tone.

Despite having access to his apartment, I knew maddeningly little about

him. His penthouse was a study in flawless design and luxury, but it

contained little to no personal effects.

“Care to share?” I tried.

Christian pulled into the Mirage’s private garage and parked in his

reserved spot near the back entrance.

No answer.

Then again, I hadn’t expected one.

Christian Harper was a man cloaked in rumors and shadows. Even

Bridget didn’t know much about him, only his reputation.

We didn’t speak again as we passed through the entrance and into the

lobby.

At six foot three, Christian had a good five inches on me, but I was still

tall enough to match his long strides.

Our steps fell into perfect sync against the marble floors.

I’d always been a bit self-conscious about my height, but Christian’s

powerful presence wrapped around like me a security blanket, drawing

attention away from my Amazonian frame.

“No more walking in a blizzard, Ms. Alonso.” We stopped by the bank of

elevators and faced each other. His shadow of a smile returned, all lazy

charm and confidence. “I can’t have one of my tenants dying of hypothermia.

It would be bad for business.”

Another unexpected laugh rustled my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find

someone to replace me in no time.”

I wasn’t sure whether I owed my slight breathlessness to the cold

lingering in my lungs or the full impact of standing so close to him.

I wasn’t interested in Christian romantically. I wasn’t interested in anyone

romantically; between the magazine and my blog, I didn’t have time to even

think about dating.

But that didn’t mean I was immune to his presence.

Something flared bright in those whiskey eyes before it cooled. “Likely

not.”

The mild breathlessness transformed into something heavier that

strangled my voice.

Every sentence out of his mouth was a code I couldn’t crack, imbued with

a hidden meaning only he was privy to while I was left to scramble in the

dark.

I’d talked to Christian three times in my life: once when I signed my

lease, once in passing at Bridget’s wedding, and once when we discussed my

sans-Jules rent situation.

All three times, I’d left more unsettled than before.

What were we talking about again?

It’d been less than a minute since Christian’s response, but that minute

had stretched so slow it might as well have been an eternity.

“Christian.”

A deep, slightly accented voice slashed the thread holding our suspended

moment aloft.

Time snapped back to its usual cadence, and my breath expelled in one

sharp rush before I turned my head.

Tall. Dark hair. Olive skin.

The newcomer wasn’t as classically good-looking as Christian, but he

filled out the lines of his Delamonte suit with so much raw masculinity it was

difficult to look away.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Delamonte Suit flicked a glance in my

direction.

I’d never been super attracted to older men, and he had to be in his mid to

late thirties, but wow.

“Not at all. You’re right on time.” A hint of irritation hardened

Christian’s otherwise smooth reply. He stepped in front of me, blocking me

from Delamonte Suit’s view and vice versa.

The other man raised an eyebrow before his mask of indifference fell

away to reveal a smirk.

He stepped around Christian, so deliberately it was almost like he was

taunting him, and held out his hand. “Dante Russo.”

“Stella Alonso.”

I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and

brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead.

Coming from anyone else, it would’ve been cheesy, but a tingle of

pleasure erupted instead.

Maybe it was the accent. I had a weakness for all things Italian.

“Dante.” Beneath the calm surface of Christian’s voice lay a razored edge

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