“Oh, really?” His eyes darken. “Don’t think I am, babe. Nate tells me you always check with Phoebe to see if I’ll be somewhere, specifically so you can avoid bumpingintome.”
I startle, thrown off balance by thatrevelation.
He’s been asking aroundaboutme?
“Well?” he demands, impatientasever.
“Hearsay,” I insist, my voice somewhat lessconvincing.
“Uh huh.” Luca shakes his head like he knows I’m totally full of shit. His eyes are divided as they scan my face — half-frustrated, half-intrigued. “Must’ve damn near killed you to call metonight.”
“I have a strong constitution,” I murmurweakly.
For a moment, staring down at me, his eyes churn with thoughts I can’t figure out. He seems to make up his mind about something, though, because all the frustration melts out of his expression, leaving behind a determined look I recognize — it’s the same one he wears just before he steps into the octagon for one of his matches. Equal partstake-no-prisonersandwinner-takes-all.
I don’t know what it means in regard to me, but I’m guessing the answer isnothing good. My heart starts poundingdouble-time.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.
He smiles again — god damn, I wish he’d stop doing that so close to me — and leans in, taking clear notice of the way my whole body goes tense in response. I think, for a crazy instant, that he mightkissme.
Which wouldbebad.
Terrible.
Awful.
Right?
Instead, with a gentleness that makes my pulse stutter, his hand finds mine in the darkness. Slowly, one digit at a time, he uncurls my fingers from the plastic baggie still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. I hadn’t even realized I was stillholdingit.
“Let me worry about this,” Luca murmurs, tucking the parcel under his arm and walking over to the bike, as if he hasn’t just given me premature heart palpitations. “You just worry about holding on.” He throws one leg over the Ducati, then glances back at me, eyes shining in the dark. “Tight.”
It’sofficial.
I amsoscrewed.
* * *
Luca wasn’t lying— we drive back to the city so fast, I’m certain we’re nothing but a blur of color to the few people actually out on the streets at this hour. Which, I must say, is a good thing, since my skirt spends the majority of the ride hiked up around my waist, leaving my entire bottom halfexposed.
At this speed, there’s no choice but to follow Luca’s directions and hold him tighter than a girl with a glass of chilled chardonnay at happy hour after a mind-numbing work week. It’s more than a little disconcerting to be pressed up against him — my boobs squished against the broad planes of his back, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, my fingers locked together against each steely indentation of his abdominal muscles. It’s enough to make a girl dizzy. (Don’t you dare judge me: the man has an eight-pack, for god’s sake, and I’m onlyhuman.)
I’m so focused on not falling off — and not wriggling inappropriately against Luca’s back — that it takes me a while to realize we’ve flown past the exit that’ll take us to Beacon Hill and are instead winding our way slowly through a labyrinth of North End streets, tangled like the plates of pasta their restaurants are sofamousfor.
“Hey!” I yell into Luca’s ear. “This isn’t myneighborhood.”
In a shocking turn of events, heignoresme.
“Luca, I mean it. My apartment is the otherdirection.”
Noresponse.
“LucaBuchanan!”
We jolt to a stop near the curb so suddenly, my whole body slams full-frontal into his back. Thankfully, the man is made of stone, so I don’t fall off the motorcycle on my face. I’m still reeling from the impact when he dismounts and lifts me down onto the sidewalk with laughably little effort. As soon as he sets me on my feet, I yank my skirt back into place and glare up at him from beneath the rim of the bulboushelmet.