The other reason the thought of Lukas confessing makes me laugh is because, if any priest alive heard half the things he’d snarled in my ear last night, I’m pretty sure they’d have a coronary on the spot. The whole confessional booth would go up in unholy flames.
I bet Lukas would walk right out of the ash unscathed.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says without turning around. “I hope you like—”
And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment, I watch Lukas Lazarev be lost for words.
His eyes travel down my body with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. They snag on my cleavage, skate lower to the hem of the dress, then drag back up to my face with visible effort. His jaw goes tight. His knuckles whiten around the wine glass.
There it is—that look. The one from last night. Raw and hungry.
Go
