When sleep finally does come, my usual nightmares are nowhere to be found. Instead of being plagued by horrific images of my past, my dreams are bursting with hopes for my brilliant future. I dream of the sprawling Las Vegas strip, the neon lights and gushing fountains. I dream about the elegant parties, the glamorous hotels, the fascinating people I could meet. But more than anything else, I dream of Declan Tiberi—the elusive, enigmatic man who could very well alter the course of my life. In my nighttime imaginings, he smiles at me knowingly, intimately. Like he already knows that we’re going to be very, very important to each other.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s five minutes until three, the day of my interview with Declan Tiberi. I’m perched at a table for two at the campus Starbucks, sitting right up against the window. I want to see my potential employer the minute he pulls into the parking lot, try and get a read on him before he even sits down. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn’t nervous, but it’s an excited, thrilling kind of nervous. I’m ready for this.
I glance up at Kelly, who’s sitting across the room with her laptop open in front of her. She gives me a reassuring nod, telling me that she’s got my back. I smile shakily and take a sip of my mocha latte—a personal favorite treat. A little chocolate comfort is going a long way right about now. I’ve got a thick folder sitting on the table before me, stuffed with resumes, recommendations, and my fine-tuned business plan. I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be.
Let’s do this, Tiberi, I think to myself.
My peace of mind is interrupted by the ripping, roaring sound of a motorcycle engine. The noise tears through the coffee shop, and I seriously wonder if the window is about to shatter all over me. I look up toward the source of the sound and spot a Harley flying into the Starbucks parking lot. My ears are ringing as the bike swings to a stop, leaving a crescent shaped tire mark on the asphalt. Looks like somebody likes to make an entrance, I think, giving the driver a thorough once-over.
The guy is as staggeringly built as the bike he now climbs off of. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a well-worn black leather cut over a plain black tee shirt. On the back of his cut, a pair of dice that’s rolled a nine is emblazoned in white. Arching over the image in bold, scrolling calligraphy are the words Dante’s Nine; and beneath, Las Vegas, NV. The driver lifts off his helmet and shakes out a mane of short chestnut curls...
“Oh my God,” I whisper, as the man leans back against his bike, nursing a cigarette he must have been smoking on the road. After hours of internet searching, I’d know that sculpted profile anywhere: the strong, scruffy jaw, the aquiline nose, the perfect cheekbones... As the man swings his piercing blue eyes toward the coffee shop, a bolt of recognition runs through me like lightening.
That’s Declan Tiberi.
Wait. That’s Declan Tiberi?
I can’t help but gape as that perfectly balanced body swings toward the coffee shop. He takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks it away, sending a trail of sparks dancing along the pavement. His gait is not so much a saunter—he doesn’t need to try that hard to look cool. His movement is all effortless power and prowess. This is a man who knows how to get what he wants, when he wants it. And from his last email, it would seem that what he wants right now is for me to work with him.
“Christ,” I catch my breath, “What have I gotten myself into?”
I can hear Kelly gasp audibly from the other side of the room as she catches sight of my interviewer. Glancing her way, I watch her lips mouth the words, Holy shit, Kassie.
No kidding, I mouth back.
If I sprinted, I could probably get out the back door before this bad boy made it inside. Should I abandon ship, get out while I still can? There’s no way in hell this Harley-riding thug has two-hundred fifty thousand dollars lying around to invest in my startup. If I had any sense whatsoever, I’d beat it. But I can’t make myself stand up to go. Despite all the red flags and inconsistencies, I can’t write this guy off just yet. His presence has me hypnotized, rooted to my seat. I can’t look away as his rippling, impressive form advances, not that I want to. I have to at least meet him, I decide.
No harm in that...Right?
The front door of the coffee shop swings open, and in walks the man himself. I’m surprised that his broad shoulders even fit through the doorframe. He strides into the joint, scanning the tables with those bottomless blue eyes of his. Finally, his gaze lands on me, and I immediately forget how to breathe. I sit, rooted to my chair, staring at him like an idiot. I can feel his attention on my bare legs, the low dip of my blouse, everywhere. Recognition lifts the corners of his full lips in an irresistible smile, and I feel my every cell liquefying. What in the world is the matter with me?
He’s just a good-looking man, I chide myself, as Declan walks my way. The most good-looking, interesting, exciting man I’ve ever encountered in my life, that is...
“Kassenia Bennett?” he asks, coming to a stop before my table. His voice is rich and smoky—like dark chocolate and good whiskey.
“That’s me,” I manage to reply, holding my hand out for him to shake.
“I’m Declan Tiberi,” he says, closing his fingers around mine, “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”
Sensation roars along my nerve endings, shooting up my arm from where his skin meets mine. As gently as I can, I remove my hand from his—fearing that I might catch fire if I go on touching him any longer. I run a hand over my elegant up do, hoping that he can’t see my heart beating like a hammer through my chest. For his part, Declan seems cool and composed, all easy confidence and charisma. I notice quite a few sets of eyes swing his way around the room, male and female alike. It’s hard not to take notice of so striking a man as Declan Tiberi.
“This is a pretty charming town,” he says, amiably, setting his cut frame into the chair across from mine, “Not quite as exciting as Vegas, to be fair, but what is?”
I remember suddenly that Declan’s traveled all the way from Nevada for this meeting. But how can that be possible if he came by motorcycle?
“You must be exhausted, having come from Vegas,” I say.
“Not really,” he shrugs, “I made good time.”
“Isn’t it an eight hour drive from there?” I ask, “You must have set off at five, or—”
“I shaved a couple hours off the trip,” he grins, “What can I say? I like to drive fast.”