But then, ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away. Ignoring Rocco wouldn’t make him go away. Wouldn’t remove the threat that had been placed on her freedom.
She would have to go to the meeting. She would have to comply with his instructions.
And after that, she had no idea what she would do. Her eyes fell to the lingerie bag again. A shiver of disgust wound down her spine. She didn’t know what his offer would be, but a suspicion was starting to form. One that didn’t sit well at all. One that, now it had entered her mind, would not be removed.
It was silly, of course, because she couldn’t imagine why he would want her in lieu of a million dollars or justice. But there was lingerie. That fact remained.
No matter what her concerns, she had no choice but to comply.
It was either that or jail.
And as terrifying as the bag of lingerie was, an orange jumpsuit was far, far scarier. There were enough courtroom dramas on TV painting law and order as a great equalizer that Charity knew most people must see the justice system as something that protected them.
She never had.
Her father had talked about Robin Hood. Twisting tales where thieves were heroes and anyone in uniform was out to shore up the impossible walls built around the rich and elite. Walls that kept people like them down and out.
Yes. The law was nothing but evil. Jail, the worst fate that could befall someone like them because they could disappear in there. No one on the outside cared about people like them. The ones on the bottom rung of society. They had to take care of themselves, because no one else would.
There was a very large part of her that still clung to those teachings, was still shaped by them.
But she’d talked her way out of worse.
She just had to find her angle.
And once she found it, she would exploit it to the best of her ability. And her abilities on that score were pretty damn good.
Rocco might think he had the upper hand...and she would allow him to continue thinking that.
* * *
The dress was so tight that Charity could barely breathe. Sheer layers of black lace that clung to her curves and revealed hints of skin beneath. There had been shoes in the bag which, somehow, fit her, just like the dress. Just like the lingerie. The heels were tall, and given the brief hemline of the garment, lengthened her legs and showed a whole lot more skin than she was comfortable with.
Which was, in many ways, going to work to her advantage. The fact that she was uncomfortable in these clothes would help. She could use it, and use them.
Charity took a deep breath and walked through the black entryway doors of The Mark, her impractical heels clicking loudly on the black-and-white-striped tile. She walked through the lobby area into the entrance of the restaurant, feeling her face heat when the hostess appraised her.
The woman’s expression remained neutral, and yet, somehow, Charity sensed a hint of disdain beneath it.
She could well imagine that women in tight, tiny dresses only served one purpose in an establishment like this. If Rocco had intended to humiliate her, he was doing a very fine job.
Yet again, not necessarily a bad thing. Because she could embrace that. Go ahead and welcome the heat she could feel spreading in her face, the slight trembling in her legs. All the better to play the part of shivering ingénue.
All the better to appeal to his humanity.
“I’m here to see...Rocco Amari,” she said, placing a slight hesitation before his name. Getting into character already.
This earned her a slight smile. “Of course, miss. Mr. Amari keeps his own private table in the back of the dining room. He has not arrived yet, but I’m happy to show you to your seat.”
The hostess turned and began to walk into the dining room, and Charity followed. Her high heels sank into the plush carpet, her ankle rolling slightly with each step. She put all of her focus on walking in a straight line and not breaking a bone.
She hadn’t worn shoes like this in a while. The mangled sidewalks that ran through the ancient New York neighborhood she lived in certainly weren’t practical for this kind of footwear. And in her line of work, she rarely wore anything fancier than black slacks and a black polo shirt. Along with some very sensible sneakers that allowed her to stand on her feet all day.
Her waitressing job, at a restaurant that was much less posh than this one, was the first real job she’d ever had. After her dad had left last year she’d wanted to get out of their “family business.” She was old enough now to understand that running cons wasn’t just a job, and that, no matter how rich or terrible the people you conned were, it wasn’t any way to live your life in the long term.
But then he’d come back, all beguiling smiles and laughter, the kind she’d missed since he’d been gone, and he’d asked her to help him again.
Just one more time...
She could stab her own arm with the salad fork. She was such an idiot. She was a con who’d been conned by a con. And now she was in too deep.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the hostess asked.
Charity weighed her options. On the one hand, sobriety would definitely be an asset when dealing with a man like Rocco. On the other hand, she needed something to help her get a handle on her nerves. Sometimes wine made conversation flow a little more smoothly.
“White wine,” she said. She didn’t have to drink it after all. But it would be there if she needed it.
“Of course, miss.” The hostess disappeared, leaving Charity sitting alone.
Charity glanced at the menu, not really bothering to read the descriptions of the food. Everything would be good at a place like this, but she was feeling a little nervous. Her stomach always got funny when she was lying. Which was inconvenient when you had to lie a lot.
While she was skimming the menu a hush fell over the restaurant. Or, perhaps the restaurant had already been hushed and something else in the atmosphere changed. Grew thicker, tighter.
Whatever it was, there was a change.
She looked up, just in time to see a man walk in. He was arresting, and she wasn’t the only one who found him so. It seemed that almost every eye in the restaurant—male and female—was on him. He was tall, sleek like a panther. His black hair slicked back off his forehead, trim physique encased in a black suit that was tailored perfectly to the stark, lean lines of his body. But it wasn’t his clothing, or the handmade Italian shoes on his feet, nor the impossibly expensive gold watch on his wrist and the no doubt overpriced sunglasses he pulled from over his eyes as he walked deeper into the restaurant, that held everyone’s attention.
It was something deeper. Something more. A magnetism that could not be denied.
Everything about him was designed to capture and hold the attention of an audience.
And as he drew closer she could see that he was extraordinarily handsome. Olive skin, high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose. And his lips... She couldn’t remember ever noticing a man’s lips before, but she certainly noticed his.
Rocco Amari was even more beautiful in person than he was in the glossy pages of a magazine. So annoying. Why couldn’t he be a sad disappointment?
“Ms. Wyatt,” he said, that voice as affecting now as it had been over the phone. “I am pleased to see you made it. And that you found the dress to your liking.”
That comment made her wish her wine was already here, so she could throw it in his face. He had given her no choice, and he knew it.
Don’t let him get to you. You have to get to him.