Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 2

  I slide it into my bag.

  I am in such a trance, I don’t bother to do my usual sweep of the rest of the store. Normally after a steal, I would wander aimlessly about the shop, taking any attention away from the area of my crime. I never rush after a conquest. I always take my time, looking calm, collected.

  But everything about today is different. I came into this store, unplanned, in my work clothes. The sales assistant was nice, young. And although I’d only planned to play act, I now have a piece of Bachman’s in my bag, ready to go home with me.

  Nerves cooling, a satisfied smile sneaks up on me.

  I head to the door. Alice is not looking surprised to see me leaving so soon—she probably assumes I’ve been eyeing the impossible price tags—and she calls out a kind farewell. I raise my hand in a wave of thanks. The fingers of my other hand curl around the handle of the door.

  “Not so fast.”

  The heavy words come growling out of thin air.

  Bile rises in my throat. My heart drops. A cold sweat breaks out over my forehead.

  Do I run? My fingers tighten around the handle.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  The voice is shockingly commanding.

  I have to obey it.

  My hand drops to my side. Nausea pools in my stomach. I turn to face the owner of the voice.

  My heart stops beating in my chest.

  A huge man stands before me. And he’s livid.

  Dark hair meticulously combed over dark brows. The broad shoulders filling out the gray suit jacket, tapering down to a single button done over a slender waist. There’s got to be rippling muscles beneath that starched white shirt. Bronzed skin that looks like it just left a Greek Island, gleaming against that white collar. His arms are crossed over his chest. His hands are huge.

  And those eyes. Those flashing black eyes. He takes another step toward me and my stomach drops to my feet. He’s inches from my face and I can see they aren’t black at all. They’re an entrancing deep brown.

  He’s The Looker.

  “It’s... you,” I stammer.

  His already creased brow further narrows. “Excuse me?” he demands. “I don’t have time for games.”

  He has no idea who I am.

  And I barely know him.

  For the past month or so, he would come up to Jane’s floor every Sunday afternoon, visit a newer patient of hers, stay for hours, then leave just as the sun was setting. He was always courteous, but not friendly. He had an energy about him that made me keep a distance. The others didn’t sense it—they were too taken with his striking features.

  He looked to be in his early thirties, and the older nurses couldn’t let a visit go by without elbowing my shy friend, saying, “Jane, you have to find out who that man is. He’s such a looker.”

  Hence, he’d been given the nickname, The Looker, by the henhouse.

  He repeats himself. “I said, I don’t have time for games, little girl. Now tell me what the hell you’re up to.” His fingers curl around his bicep, clutching as if he’s stopping himself from doing something he’d regret.

  A shiver runs through me.

  “Nothing,” I manage to murmur. “And I was just leaving.” I reach for the door once more.

  The gaze he gives me stops me. My reaching hand hangs awkwardly in midair.

  In a sudden movement, his arms uncross. He’s reaching toward me and I cringe. His right hand wraps around the back of my upper left arm. His strong fingers dig into my flesh. The pressure from his grip is uncomfortable, bordering on painful. Panic pulses through my body.

  “Come with me,” he growls.

  My feet move on their own, my mind blank, as he escorts me to the back of the store. I shoot a ‘help me’ glance at Alice, but she’s busy with a client who’s looking at the high-end stuff. The commission from one of those pieces probably pays her rent. She doesn’t even notice me.

  “Where are you taking me?” I stammer, my mouth finally working. It feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton.

  “To the back. To talk.” His grip tightens. The pain makes a tiny yelp escape my lips.

  My mind races. What are my options?

  I can scream.

  I can take my chances on talking.

  I can kick him in the shin and try to make a run for it. Judging by the strength in his grip I don’t stand a chance in a battle of physical wills. I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s tall. Built. And furious. His chiseled features are set in a stony state. Jaw clenched, he catches me looking at him and gives me a sneer.

  Okay, so I won’t try to make a break for it.

  We reach what I assume is his office door. Leaving me with my last and most humiliating defense.

  I can cry.

  Willing the tears to come to my dry eyes, I sob the song of the poor, pitiful street wench. “I’m so sorry—I don’t make much money and the necklace was just... so... pretty.” I can feel the beginnings of a tear forming. I tell my lower lip to quiver—just a touch, don’t want to overdo. “And I just wanted... One. Nice. Thing.” I open my eyes wider, creating what I hope is a doe-eye effect. Damn, I’m good. I prepare to look up at him from underneath my mascara-coated lashes. My gaze slowly rises to meet his—first traveling over an endless stretch of muscled torso. When I see his face, I gulp.

  If looks could kill, I’d be lying on the floor. Dead as a corpse.

  He releases my arm.

  His dark eyes flash. Challenging.

  “You don’t have any nice things?” The question was innocent enough but the razor-sharp edge in his voice reawakens my fight or flight response. I’m glistening, my heart beating so loud I can hear the blood as it rushes past my ears.

  “Ah... no...”

  His eyes fall to my purse. “And what of that Casa Blanca canary yellow leather purse on your shoulder? I believe that runs, what, five hundred?” His dark brow rises.

  My fear dissipates, instantly replaced with my very quick temper.

  I had scrimped, saved, and even gone without gel in my manicures for weeks just to get ahold of that bag. A friend who worked in the department store had come in and hid it for me, every morning, behind a row of black bags. It had taken months for me to save up enough to shell out for it.

  But it was a classic.

  And I had paid every penny. The words burst from my lips, pitiful girl act shoved aside. “Hey! I actually bought this with my own money. It’s the one thing I didn’t...” My words trail off as I realize what I’m about to reveal.

  “Steal?” he asks. A satisfied smirk crosses his face, somehow making him even more handsome than before. He crosses his arms over his chest again, the material of his suit stretching and pulling to form around his muscles. He studies me for a moment.

  My stomach flips, then dives into my clodhopper shoes. Heat rises in my cheeks. “What I meant to say was... that... I didn’t...”

  He almost smiles, shooting me a look of mild curiosity. “Didn’t what?”

  Didn’t what? Didn’t what?

  I rack my brain. It comes to me and I cry out in a burst of enthusiasm, “Didn’t even get it on sale! Can you believe that? A little old medical assistant like me managed to buy a Casa Blanca, full price?”

  “They never go on sale.” Uncrossing his arms, he grabs the doorknob and turns it. The door swings open. Grabbing my upper arm again, he pulls me into a small office. “But I’m guessing you already know that.”

  Time to steer the conversation away from me. “How do you know so much about women’s fashion, anyway?”

  Closing the door behind him, he stands before it, blocking my exit. “I dabble in what you could call import exports. But that is neither here nor there. The only thing that matters is what’s in the bag?”

  As if turning itself in, the strap slips, the purse sliding from my shoulder. I grab at it, clutching the soft leather to my chest. “I don’t think you want to look in there. It’s that time of the month if you know w
hat I mean. Might make you a tad uncomfortable. Just handfuls of tampons. Super plus, super plus plus...”

  His hand shoots toward me, snatching the bag and whipping it from me. My mouth drops open, forming the unsaid word that I’m shouting in my head.

  No!

  His gaze leaves mine, his hand dips into the almost empty bag. Nausea roils in my stomach.

  He lifts his hand. The chain hooks around his index finger, the butterfly dangling in the air. The light dances off its tiny diamonds.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” he asks.

  He speaks of the necklace, but his gaze is locked on me. His eyes travel over my body, peeling away my clothing. I stand before him, feeling naked. A tingling sensation prickles at my core. Heat rises in my face. My tongue is thick and useless in my mouth. I hope to God he can’t see how hard he’s making my nipples beneath my shirt.

  He reaches out, gently taking my hand in his. Electric pulses dance over my skin where he’s touching me. He opens my palm, turning it face up. He lowers the necklace into my hand. One by one, he curls my fingers, closing them around the charm. His gaze locks on mine. A shiver runs down my spine.

  “Keep it,” he says. His words sound like a threat. He tosses the purse to me.

  “Thank you?” I stutter as I grab the bag. Breaking his gaze, I slip the necklace back into my purse.

  “Now, we must discuss your punishment,” he says.

  My body turns to ice. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I shift the strap of my bag to my shoulder. My hands are shaking, and I hide them in the pockets of my shirt. I steady my voice and say, “Punishment?”

  He glares. “Yes. I think you’ll find me quite fair.”

  I stare at him, my mouth gaping.

  A muscle in his jaw twitches as he speaks. He has the slightest hint of an exotic accent, but I can’t place it. “I can call the police. Have you arrested for theft? That would be the proper protocol. Or...”

  My fate hangs in his pause.

  I gulp, arranging my face in a mask of confidence I do not feel. I raise my brow. Jut out my chin. I demand, “Or what?”

  One of his arms remains crossed over his chest. The hand of his other arm goes beneath his chin. As if he’s thinking. He begins to circle me. Slow, purposeful steps as his gaze studies me. My nipples tighten beneath my bra as he comes closer to me. I can smell his cologne. Feel the air move around me as he paces.

  He says, “We can take care of things the old-fashioned way. My way. Your punishment will be quick, severe. Then your crime will be forgiven.” He’s not even touching me, yet my skin raises in chill bumps. Beyond my fear, a strange sensation rises. My pussy is soaking my panties. He wants to punish me and he’s so... big... stern... and damn—he is a looker.

  His anger only serves to give his handsomeness a dangerous, sexy as hell edge.

  As he awaits my answer, my mind spins, my core throbs.

  What am I going to do?

  Chapter Two

  Bronson

  A soft pink rises in her cheeks as she processes my words.

  She’s just a bitty little thing.

  But she’s strong. I can sense her will, her determination, her toughness.

  Her eyes dart from my face to the door behind me.

  Brave. If not a bit silly.

  This is a young woman who has felt pain. Taken care of herself the best way she knew how.

  A fighter.

  Her dark hair falls into her eyes as she tries to avoid my gaze. I long to reach out and smooth it back into place as one would with a lost little girl.

  She locks eyes with me.

  I know she’s made her decision.

  She will play nice, then try to run.

  Smart. Resourceful. Trying to protect her ass and get away with her crimes in one swift move.

  I almost laugh out loud. I have a full foot of height and eighty pounds on this woman.

  But she’s not letting that stop her.

  Her eyes meet mine. They flash with determination. Her brow narrows and the tips of her teeth press into her full bottom lip.

  Wait.

  I do know her.

  She’s the one from the nursing home. The woman who makes everyone call it, ‘Our Home.’ I overheard her fighting with her boss about it. Insisting that it was disrespectful to her patients to call it anything other than that.

  I remember nodding my head as I passed the office. Silently agreeing with her.

  She has her perfectly shaped chin jutted out now, as she had then.

  She heaves a sigh. One strand of her dark hair catches her breath and rises, falling onto her cheekbone.

  My God, this woman is gorgeous.

  It is a quiet beauty—one not everyone can see. Her looks won’t be getting her on the cover of a magazine, no. But for someone with impeccable taste, one who can see real beauty, they will know she is magnificent.

  She’s fetching, but that doesn’t change the fact that she has stolen from me.

  And she will have to pay.

  No one steals from me.

  This is the Bachman way. And I’m not about to make an exception for a beautiful, sassy, curvy-assed little girl.

  Especially not for a curvy girl.

  I do love a beautiful ass.

  I know she has one underneath that ugly blue nurses’ outfit she wears. My cock hardens just at the thought of putting her over my lap. Her hips wiggling back and forth. Her luscious ass jiggling after my hand comes down in a loud smack.

  Naughty little thing.

  I might have taken it easy on her, had she shown even an ounce of remorse. But she’s making me furious, acting as if she has a right to this necklace.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “What’s your decision?”

  “What do you have in mind?” Her arms cross over her chest, mocking me.

  Feisty. Those are the ones who need the harshest discipline. My cock twitches in my trousers, begging to punish her ass to teach her a lesson.

  I give her a hard stare. “You did a bad thing. You will be punished.”

  The blush deepens to a rose red, much like the skin on her full bottom will soon be. She looks away from me, shifting her weight to her other foot.

  “So?” she snaps indignantly. She shrugs. “Looks like you have plenty of jewelry here. What’s one less necklace? Not to mention it’s one of the cheapest pieces you have here.”

  My hand twitches. This one needs a good, hard spanking followed by a harder fucking. “It wasn’t yours to take.”

  She speaks with an attitude, but her bottom lip trembles just a touch, breaking her hard facade. “Fine. Just tell me what you plan on doing to me.”

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask, enjoying her discomfort as she squirms where she stands.

  She knows exactly what I’m going to do. And she knows I’m going to make her say it. Out loud.

  She rolls her eyes.

  Keep it up. It’ll only bring me that much more satisfaction when I put you over my knee.

  Finally, she says, “I guess you’re one of those sadists. You enjoy bringing girls back to your office and... punishing them.”

  I take a step toward her. Her face remains composed. Detached. Bored. But I don’t miss the tiny flare of her nostrils at my sudden nearness. She’s beginning to panic.

  She’s going to try to run for it.

  “Punish them, how?” I ask.

  “How am I supposed to know?” she huffs.

  “Use your imagination. What would a big strong man like me do with a naughty, naughty little girl who’s been very, very bad? Hmm?” I ask.

  She begins to squirm.

  I can almost smell her arousal tainted with her fear. My aphrodisiac.

  It’s such a confusing emotion for a woman.

  They cry...

  Oh, please don’t spank me!

  All the while thinking to themselves...

  But wait... my pussy’s so, so... wet... spank me! Fuck me! Own me.


  She begins to creep backwards, holding her bag before her like a shield.

  I step toward her. She will try to make a run for it. I will grab her arm. This will be way too easy.

  Suddenly, she charges forward. Lifting one foot in the air, she pulls back, letting loose a move that looks as if she’s practiced many times. She kicks me, hard.

  Damn! That hurt.

  I grab at my leg, rubbing it. She darts around me. My mind momentarily focuses on the shooting pain in my shin. When I turn, she’s almost to the door.

  “Not so fast,” I say, pulling a breath between my clenched teeth. “I’ll call the cops.”

  “See if they can catch me,” she calls over her shoulder. She grabs at the knob.

  “I know you work at Our Home. I’ll send them there.”

  She freezes. Her face slowly turns over her shoulder. She looks at me in disbelief.

  I have her. “I’ve seen you there. This is your last chance. We do things my way, or I call the law,” I say.

  Her hand drops from the doorknob.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  There’s a welling in my chest, making me feel as if it’s suddenly the most important thing in the world—to know her name.

  “Paige. Paige... Silverman.”

  Paige.

  A little girl’s name. For a grown woman who seems so... lost. A surprising pang tugs at my cold heart, even though my shin throbs.

  She will stay. I can see it in her face... Giving me one long, hard look, she sighs. Taking her purse from her shoulder, she makes her way to the desk where I stand. She thumps her bag down on the desktop. Putting one tiny hand on her narrow waist, she demands, “Let’s get this over with.”

  I lean on the desk. “Get what over with?” I ask.

  “The punishment,” she huffs.

  She’s so close, I can smell her perfume. Vanilla and roses.

  I lean down, my mouth inches from her face as I whisper, “And how should you be punished, little girl?”