Good question. I only shrug in response, then return to my painting. I pick up the brush but my hands are too shaky to do much, so I put it back down.
“I told you I’d give you a week.”
“I don’t have an answer yet.”
He comes to stand beside me in front of the easel. “Cool. You can take another week. But I really, really need to f**k you tonight.”
My core clenches almost painfully, but I keep my voice even. “Because you haven’t had s*x?”
“Because I want you,” he snaps. “Christ, I can’t get you out of my f*****g head!”
“Well, that hardly seems like it’s my fault,” I say, still staring at the canvas, but inside, his confession shoots through me like liquid crack. In my defense, what sensible woman wouldn’t want to be the fixation of a dangerous mafia don?
“Of course, it’s your fault. Ev
