Hot in Handcuffs

by Sylvia Day

  “Maybe not…” Ashley whispered. “Every time you’re not looking at him, his eyes are all over you. Those glances of his could singe the chrome off a fender.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink. If he’s looking, he’s probably wondering how Nicki could possibly share genes with such a frumpy sister.”

  Ashley smacked her arm. “You are not frumpy. If he thought you were, he wouldn’t stare like he’s dying to eat you up.” She anchored a hand on her hip and sent her a sour glare. “You do this, you know?”

  “Do what?” Lucia scowled into her daiquiri glass before finishing the last sip.

  “Undermine yourself. I’ve seen it a hundred times with you. You talk, you laugh, you sparkle with a guy. The minute he acts interested, you clam up, shut down, and your personality leaves town. Why is that?”

  Lucia rolled her eyes. Why did Ashley have to drudge this crap up tonight? “I know when men are being polite. They aren’t interested in me sexually. They like to talk to me. I’m a good listener. I laugh at their jokes. But they always ask out someone thin and cute who doesn’t have an IQ that puts her in the ‘freak’ category. Trust me, the one-two punch of being thirty pounds overweight and enjoying a healthy debate about whether Alexander the Great or Napoleon was the more brilliant military strategist scares them off. If, by some miracle, they’re still interested despite the thunder thighs or the fact I earned a PhD at twenty-one…well, the family name drives off the rest.”

  Pursing her glossy red lips together, Ashley sighed. “You’re the one who puts a stop to anything beyond friendship. That one”—she nodded at Jon—“isn’t thinking anything about your thighs except how much he’d like to be between them. I guarantee it.”

  “He’s probably looking at you,” Lucia said. And that would be normal. Ashley stood tall and slender, with long, blond hair tumbling down her back in tousled waves. She was every man’s walking wet dream.

  “Nope. Bocelli likes curves, especially breasts, which you’ve got plenty of, lucky thing.”

  “You’ve never met the guy. How would you know?”

  “Because every time you turn in his direction, he looks at yours.” Before she could object, Ashley cut her off. “How about a friendly bet?”

  “Okay.” Lucia turned her back to Jon and frowned suspiciously. “What?”

  “When he talks to you, engage him in conversation, flirt, give him the green-light vibe. If he backs away after that, I promise to proofread your latest research article. Deal?”

  Tempting offer. Ashley was a killer with copyediting marks and a red pen. And this last article she’d finished was so, so important to her professionally.

  “All right. But I’m telling you, he’s only staring because he’s wondering why I squeezed an ass so big into a black dress so tiny. Last time I listen to you for fashion advice, by the way.”

  Ashley grinned. “Honey, please consider the possibility that he genuinely likes you, that you make him hard as hell, and that he’s trying to figure out how to get your panties off.”

  “Sure.” Lucia rolled her eyes. “Every scrumptious bad boy in Vegas is trying to figure out how to get me into bed.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me in the least, Doc,” murmured an all-too-familiar gravelly, Jersey-accented voice that went straight to her belly and bloomed into a wild, sensual ache.

  Jon Bocelli.

  Oh my God! She gasped. He’d heard her?

  Lucia could feel him now, hot at her back, mere inches away. The musky spice unique to him alone wrapped around her, intensifying the ache in her gut into something with claws that had dug in deep long ago and refused to let go.

  She turned, hoping somehow that her senses had deceived her. But no. There he stood, all six-plus feet of him, clad in a midnight blue shirt, black slacks, and matching suit coat.

  The slam of her heartbeat kicking into overdrive thumped like a sledgehammer against her chest. Lucia swallowed, fighting the ache low in her belly, spreading between her legs. Helplessly, her gaze climbed up his sculpted torso, past the golden sinew of his throat visible through his open-collared shirt, gliding over the five o’clock shadow that spelled danger, lingering on his full mouth, which would have looked just as at home on a sultan, a gigolo, or the cover of a magazine. Finally, she made her way to his dark eyes. His stare, relentless, self-possessed, hungry, and not remotely teasing, made her suck in a breath. The sense of leashed control he gave off absolutely melted her.

  “Talk to him,” Ashley mumbled in her ear.

  Talk? Lucia could barely find the presence of mind to shut her gaping mouth, let alone think of a witty rejoinder.

  “All right, everyone!” Nicki spoke into a small microphone, breaking the tense moment. “Time for the birthday girl to open gifts.”

  Jon flicked his gaze to her sister for a moment, breaking the spell. Lucia released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Guess I…should go,” Lucia murmured. “It was good seeing you.”

  His gaze drilled into her, hot, intense. “I’m not leaving yet. I need to talk to you.”

  About what? “Sure.”

  “Lucia!” Nicki prompted into the microphone at center stage. Her mountain of a husband, Mark, stood behind her, hand resting protectively around her waist. “Get up here, birthday girl!”

  Doing her best to balance on four-inch heels, Lucia made her way to Nicki’s side, mindful of her little black dress—which was just barely shy of indecent—and sat in the waiting chair in the center. Nicki thrust a fresh daiquiri in her hand. Lucia promptly consumed half of it, nervous when she noticed Jon’s gaze lingering on her.

  “Start unwrapping!” Nicki demanded, pulling Lucia out of her thoughts.

  Setting aside the other half of her daiquiri, Lucia stared at the smattering of brightly wrapped boxes, some little, some big, all around her. She dove in.

  From a group of the dancers who worked at the club, a gift certificate for a day of pampering at an upscale spa nearby. From Nicki and Mark, a gorgeous pair of pearl earrings and a matching pendant. Amid the scattering of boxes, one that had no wrapping paper and no card snagged her attention.

  Her father, God rest him, had never wrapped any of her gifts or given the folks at Hallmark a dime.

  Lucia frowned as she picked up the rectangular box.

  Definitely odd. It barely fit on her lap. The cardboard of the box was a bit dulled, as if it was old. The edges were even frayed.

  Lucia frowned. “Who is this from, do you know?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Nicki piped up. “That arrived this morning from Dalton Cahill.”

  “Dad’s estate attorney?”

  Nicki nodded with a shrug thrown in. “I thought that was weird, too. But I signed for it.”

  They only heard from Dalton Cahill whenever business pertaining to the assets her father had left behind arose. But he’d never contacted them in a personal way. Certainly, he’d never observed their birthdays. Cahill had all the warmth of a used car salesman crossed with a cobra.

  Frowning, Lucia pulled away the heavy strapping tape around the faded box and lifted the lid. She peeled back the tissue paper, feeling the outline of something hard and square with rounded edges. She dug deeper inside and wrapped her fingers around the metallic outline. Lifting it free, she found a photo in a sleek silver frame. The image was raised in the center, and the sides of the frame slanted down, giving the photo a three-dimensional effect.

  The picture itself was of her father, looking as he had shortly before his murder, standing next to his brother, her Uncle Pietro, arms around one another, both smiling as they stood outside an Italian restaurant called Celeste’s. She’d never heard of the place. But seeing her father looking so vital, standing beside the man she was certain had orchestrated her father’s death, torqued something in her stomach. The hot sting of tears stabbed at the back of her eyes.

  Nicki wandered closer, leaned in, then hugged her. “Oh my God…”

  The moment her sister’s arms c
ame around her, Lucia lost it, and tears fell. With one hand, she clutched the picture to her chest. With the other, she covered her mouth. But even that didn’t keep the sobs in.

  “Why would Cahill have sent this to you?” Nicki frowned. “And why a picture of him with Pietro?”

  “Are you okay?” Mark moved in behind her, his brows lowered in concern, eyes gentle.

  Lucia wiped at her tears. “Fine. I’ll be fine. I just…I didn’t get anything in the way of personal mementos when my father passed away. So this is a shock.”

  “And really unusual,” Nicki murmured.

  Exactly. Why had her father’s attorney sent her such a thing, especially after all this time?

  “Have you spoken to Dalton Cahill lately?” Nicki asked, practically reading Lucia’s mind.

  She shook her head. “He just left me a message a few weeks ago and asked if I’d be coming to Atlantic City anytime this summer. He wanted to have lunch. I left him a voice mail telling him that I was coming here.”

  Snagged by the weight of a hot stare across the room, Lucia looked up. Jon stood there, over six feet of testosterone. He drilled her with a questioning gaze, part concern, part crowbar. He had questions about something and intended to get answers.

  Nearly lost in the wad of tissue paper on the floor of the stage, she glimpsed a piece of paper she’d missed before, taped to the bottom of the box. Grabbing the little scrap, she ripped it off and opened the handwritten note from Dalton Cahill.

  “What does it say?” Nicki prompted impatiently, leaning over her shoulder.

  Miss DiStefano,

  Shortly before his death, your father asked me to pass this box and its contents to you on the occasion of your twenty-fifth birthday. Therefore, I am forwarding this box to you at his behest.

  Best,

  D. Cahill

  Her father had asked his attorney to do this before his murder? And years after his passing? Cold shock cascaded through her. It made no sense…Then again, many of her father’s actions hadn’t. Always cloaked in secrecy, in kind evasions. She knew he’d been trying to protect her from his big, bad world. She missed him in death, even if she hadn’t understood him in life. They’d shared a familial bond. She’d loved him. And in his macho Italian way, he’d loved her, too.

  Fresh tears filled her eyes, and Lucia swiped at them. This was a birthday party, a celebration of life. Ashley hadn’t flown all the way to Vegas to be sad. Tomorrow, they were going to the tropics to get their tan on and find hot guys at Erotics Anonymous. Now wasn’t the time to weep. She’d been through the grief process, and had learned to deal with life minus her dad. But every once in a while, a new pang would assert itself, and she’d feel the sadness weigh her down.

  Maybe she was looking at his gift all wrong. Her father had given her a memento so she could remember and celebrate, not so she could mourn.

  Yes, but…why this photo? Why now? One thing she and her father had in common was the love of a good puzzle. Maybe she was supposed to figure out why Dad had sent this to her. Was it a message from beyond the grave?

  chapter two

  “That’s a really special gift, Lucia,” Nicki said with a too-bright smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I know you’ll treasure it. But there’s more fun to be had tonight. It’s a celebration. Let’s dance!”

  The deejay started playing a bubble-gum pop song by Katy Perry about Friday night. Jon blocked it out and watched as Lucia hugged the framed picture to her chest and fought more tears. Nicholas DiStefano may have been a Mafia dirtbag and Stefan’s boss for years, but he’d been this sweet woman’s father. Her confusion and pain were visible. Jon’s chest buckled at the sight.

  Until five minutes ago, he’d been just about ready to write this trip to Vegas off as a wild-goose chase. Walking away from Lucia again was going to be a blow. Though seeing her again thwacked him like a two-by-four in the chest, he’d been prepared to leave her once more.

  Now…his every instinct was on high alert. He couldn’t ignore a dead man arranging a birthday gift for his daughter posthumously without investigating. It didn’t add up. Why not leave this gift to her in his will? Or with his personal effects? Certainly, the girls would have found it after he’d gone. Instead, almost as if he’d known his murder was imminent, Nicholas DiStefano had arranged with his solicitor to leave this picture to Lucia years later.

  From everything Stefan had said about his boss, DiStefano had been smart and calculating. It stood to reason that the man had left this gift for a specific cause. But what? He scowled. And why leave it to his younger daughter? Jon had no evidence to suggest that Lucia had been closer to her father than Nicki. They were very different women, but they were both caring and warm. If Nicholas had loved the girls equally, why leave a memento to Lucia and not Nicki? Why bypass the party girl and leave something to…

  That was it. He’d chosen Lucia because she was a genius. Jon’s heart rate picked up. That present must have some deeper meaning. He felt it in his gut. Granted, it was a long shot that anything this picture revealed could help Stef, but it was better than no shot. Right now, this was his only lead.

  No way was he leaving Vegas now. Or Lucia. Maybe that was the best part of all…

  When another tear rolled down her cheek, Jon jumped onto the stage and knelt in front of her. “Lucia?”

  Standing this close, her confusion and grief were tangible. When she blinked up at him, his chest tightened again. He wiped the tear from her cheek, then tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her thick lashes lowered, brushed her rosy cheek, then lifted again, revealing a golden gaze that jolted him and raced through his system like a drug.

  Jon gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of desire—to both touch and protect her. He had to focus on her unexpected gift. Every minute his brother sat in prison was dangerous. Pietro DiStefano must know that Stef had all kinds of dirty details on him and would talk for the right deal. Jon doubted that Pietro would leave him alive. Stef had survived by his wits—so far—but he couldn’t count on that lasting forever.

  “I’m fine.” Lucia swallowed and sent him a brave—but totally false—smile.

  “You sure?” he chided gently. She wasn’t his to punish for fibbing, and she probably needed his comfort now more than anything.

  She nodded and set the photo in her lap. “I don’t mean to be weepy. This is one of the few pictures I have of my father. Getting it was really…unexpected. It just hit me.”

  Jon resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and draw her close. Instead, he stared down at the image. “I understand. Have you been to the restaurant where the picture was taken?”

  Lucia shook her head. “I don’t even know where it is.”

  “Newark.” With every moment that passed, Jon became more certain that this gift shouldn’t be taken at face value. “Good food.”

  “I—I had no idea. I never knew that he even traveled to that part of New Jersey.” She frowned.

  About now, Lucia had to be asking herself why her father had sent her a picture of himself in front of a restaurant she knew nothing about, standing next to the very man who had likely killed him. Jon couldn’t agree more.

  “I think there was a lot about your father that you didn’t know.”

  “That’s an understatement.” She stared at the picture again. “Growing up, I was told that he owned a string of dry cleaners and nightclubs in Manhattan. During brief breaks from boarding school, I’d hear kids whispering that my dad was a Mafia boss. I always laughed—until you investigated my family.”

  “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

  But it had, and the pain on her face said so. He wished he had the right to pull her into his lap and console her, but he was here for his brother, not himself.

  Lucia sighed. “You were doing your job. I just wish you’d been able to prove who killed my father.”

  “About that…Is there someplace quiet we can talk?” He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took
it. He tried not to notice just how damn soft her hands were and how fucking good she smelled. He had to get his dick out of the equation and focus.

  But Lucia’s soft little mouth was so close. He could almost taste the fruity drink she’d been imbibing earlier. Her breath hitched. The idea of being alone with him made her slightly nervous. Jon’s blood pumped at the thought.

  Their gazes locked, unblinking. The long, silent moment drew on. The background music and people faded away, and he itched to crush her mouth under his and touch her all over. Damn it, he was trying to keep his head, but her awareness of the attraction raging between them made his skin flare with heat, his desire rise dangerously. Lucia’s eyes widened, as if she knew every nasty, sweaty, lusty thing he wanted to do to her…