Chapter 3 Chapter 3
Damon's POV
I stared at my phone after she hung up.
Scarlett Romano.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. One month ago. The business meeting in Brooklyn that turned into an ambush. Someone had paid good money to put a bullet in my head that night.
They drugged me first. Slipped something into my drink at the restaurant. By the time I realized what was happening, there were two hired guns following me out to the parking lot.
I made it to the Champlain. But the drug was hitting hard by the time I got inside. My vision was blurring. My body was burning up.
I remembered stumbling through the lobby. Taking the private elevator to the top floor. And then in the hallway, grabbing someone. A girl. I pulled her into the penthouse suite with me and locked the door.
I needed cover.
I remembered her smell. Something clean and simple. Not perfume. Just soap and shampoo. I remembered her body pressed against mine. Soft. Warm. And then I woke up alone. The bed was empty. She was gone.
For weeks, I told myself it didn't matter. Just another night. Just another close call. I had survived worse.
But I'd thought about her. More than I wanted to admit. The girl with the clean smell. The one who hadn't screamed or fought me even though she should have. The one who'd simply... stayed.
And now she was here.
My assistant knocked on the door.
"Miss Romano is here to see you, sir."
I sat up straight. Fixed my tie. My hands were steady but my pulse wasn't. I ignored that. "Send her in."
The door opened.
She was young. Early twenties. She wore fitted jeans that hugged her hips and thighs. The denim stretched over her round ass and showed off curves that were impossible to ignore. A black jacket over a tight t-shirt that clung to her full breasts. She wasn't model-thin. She had real weight to her. Real shape. The kind of body that moved when she walked.
My hands remembered that body. The softness of it. The way she'd fit against me.
I forced myself to look at her face instead.
Light brown hair pulled back. Light colored eyes that caught the office lighting. Pretty but not trying to be. No heavy makeup. No jewelry. Natural.
Beautiful.
I crushed that thought immediately.
The third thing I noticed was how calm she looked. She walked into my office like she owned it. She looked around once—taking in the exits, I realized with surprise—then her eyes locked on mine.
Most people couldn't hold my gaze for more than a few seconds. She didn't look away.
Something tightened in my chest. Interest. Attraction.
I stood up slowly. Buttoned my suit jacket to give myself time to think. Walked around the desk but didn't get too close.
Don't touch her. Don't get close enough to smell her again. Stay in control.
"Prove it was you," I said.
My voice came out cold. I wanted her to know I wasn't playing games. Even if part of me wanted something very different.
She didn't ask what I meant. She just sat down in one of the chairs across from my desk without being invited.
Bold. I liked that.
I didn't let it show on my face.
"You have a scar on your left shoulder blade," she said. Her voice was steady. Clear. "Looks like a gunshot wound. It's about two inches long and curves slightly to the right."
My body went still. That scar was hidden under my clothes. No one saw it except my doctor and the people who had been in my bed. There weren't many of those.
She'd touched me there. That night. Her fingers had traced the scar while I was half-conscious from the drugs. I remembered it suddenly. Remembered the gentleness of it.
"You woke up in the middle of the night," she continued. She was looking straight at me. Those light eyes were completely focused. "You grabbed my wrist. You asked me three times if the door was locked. Then you checked the nightstand drawer. There was a Glock 19 inside."
My breathing changed. Just slightly.
She was telling the truth. It was really her.
The girl from that night. The one I'd been thinking about for a month. She was sitting right in front of me.
I wanted to walk over there. I wanted to pull her up from that chair and—
No.
I walked back to my desk and sat down. Put the furniture between us. Looked at her more carefully now.
She was looking at me too. Studying me the same way I was studying her.
That made me suspicious again. The attraction pulled one way. My survival instincts pulled the other.
"Why did you run?" I asked. My voice came out harsher than I meant.
"Waking up in a crime lord's bed didn't seem like a smart move," she said. No apology in her voice. Just honesty.
"Why come now?"
"Because I had to."
"How did you get my private number?"
"I went through your wallet while you were passed out," she said. "I saw your ID. Your business cards. Getting the number wasn't hard once I knew who you were."
I should have been angry. I should have been threatening her for stealing from me. But all I could think was that she was clever. The kind of person who thought fast under pressure.
My jaw tightened. My mind was running through possibilities. Was this a setup? Was she working for someone? The Romanos were small but they had connections. Maybe they sent her to get close to me. Maybe this whole thing was a trap.
"Who sent you?" I asked. My voice dropped to ice.
"No one."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
She reached into her jacket pocket. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. Slid it across the desk toward me.
"I'm pregnant," she said. "Four weeks."
Everything in me went still.
I stared at the paper. Didn't pick it up. Didn't move.
Pregnant. She was pregnant.
With my child.
A hundred scenarios ran through my head. This could be a trap. This could be blackmail. This could be—
She pushed the paper closer.