LUCIANA

I may not have a very high alcohol tolerance, but I’m lucid enough to know I’m not dreaming. That’s Dario Morata.

What are the odds that the most annoying client I have ever dealt with just happens to come to the club Claudia and I frequent, on the very day we met?

It is not a coincidence—doesn’t take a genius.

Would it really be surprising that, on top of his colorful personality, he is a stalker? It doesn’t seem likely; why would he stalk me when we didn’t know each other before today?

I try to make sense of the situation, but no matter how I explain it in my head, it boils down to only one possibility, as insane as it sounds.

I glare in his direction. The prince of Annoyingville is not sitting in an overpriced booth with bartenders at his beck and call—how surprising.

He is sitting at a regular table, flanked by two men. The one on his left looks almost twice his age, and nearly as intimidating as Dario himself.

When my gaze returns to Dario, the asshole has the guts to wink at me.

“Oh, my goodness!” Claudia screeches. I almost forgot that we were at the same table.

“He's so hot! Wait…is that Dario Morata, and did he just wink?” She grabs my arm excitedly. She is never going to let me hear the end of this.

I ignore her excitement, my mind preoccupied with plotting a secret way to make that man’s life miserable since I cannot end it.

My fried brain can’t come up with any, so I turn to the waiter who’s laying the glamorous drinks out in front of us. “Take them back to him and tell him to shove them where the sun don’t shine.”

“Luciana!” Claudia glares at me like I've uttered a profanity.

“What?” I raise my shoulders.

“That's no way to treat a hot guy.”

The waiter looks between us, confused as to whose order to follow.

Claudia takes a sip of one of the drinks through the colorful, crazy straw and pushes the other to me as she tells the waiter, “Can you be a darling and tell the hot gentleman we appreciate it?”

“What are you doing?” I ask, too late to stop her.

My night is going to be just as colorful as my day.

"Don't give me that look, Missy. Who rejects drinks from a hot guy?” She scolds me, taking another long sip.

“Someone who prefers not to get roofied?”

“Oh, shush. As if THE Dario would do such a thing. I wonder how…”

“Don’t say it,” I cut her short, because we both know the kind of dirty crap that was about to leave those lips.

I’m not going to let him pay for my drinks, even if doing it myself will put a dent in my wallet.

Before I can gather my thoughts, Claudia waves a hand at Dario's table.

“You two deserve each other.” I offer her the sweet smile that lets her know I’m going to kill her later, to which she drunkenly giggles and snorts.

Where’s the random bolt of lightning that strikes down movie characters out of the blue? I need one of those for Dario.

A few minutes later, Dario and his men disappear to the upper floor of the club. I’m relieved, until the waiter from earlier informs us that the gentleman would appreciate our company if we would like to join him.

“Of course we’re going!” Claudia answers and shoos the waiter off before I can get a single word in.

"Are you out of your mind? How many glasses of those have you had?'' I ask.

“I'm not light-headed, silly. I’m just glad that finally some light is going to brighten your path,” she says.

I have no damn clue about what she's talking about.

I blame the cocktails.

“I know what you're thinking,” she wags her finger at me, as if reading what just crossed my mind. She takes a long drag of her drink. “The only thing wrong with these cocktails is that there’s only one flute of each. These are heavenly.”

With two long drags, she empties her glass and turns to me. “As I was saying…”

I was avoiding this topic.

She taps my cheek when she notices my sulk. “Sweetheart, you've had the worst breakup. That asshole Vicente didn't deserve you. You can't spend your entire life hating men because you made a mistake trusting the wrong one.”

“Hate men? The alcohol is dominating your head, ma’am.”

I don't want to talk about my love life, and I don’t like the direction this conversation is headed.

She’s saying something about the perks of being with Dario. In the middle of it, she stops, snapping her fingers frantically. “What if eager girls followed him to his private booth? I noticed some flipping their hair at him earlier.”

“None of our business,” I say.

“Yet he ignored them and asked for us to join him—though we both know you’re the one he meant.” She bats her eyes at me as if cracking the world’s most hidden mystery.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, Claudia. Don’t give me those eyes.”

“It means he only has eyes for you, silly.”

“Are you going to spend the entire night calling me silly because of an asshole?” I ask. Earning a warning glare from her, like I've broken the law.

“Careful with how you talk about a hot guy who's ignoring other girls for you.”

When I stand, she grabs my wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Didn’t you want to join them at the booth? Come on.” I entice. She looks confused, but I drag her along.

I expect the two beefy security guards standing at the end of the hallway to stop us shy of the private booths, but instead, one extends a hand. “This way, Miss Vargas.”

His certainty that I would come makes me bite my tongue. We follow the security guard to the ornate booth at the end of the hallway, where Dario and his friends are laughing at something.

“Stalking is a crime,” I cross my arms, looking down at the man who's made my day a living hell.”

He looks at me with a grin. “Miss Vargas, how nice of you to join us. Have a seat.”

I ignore the comfortable-looking red couch.

His friends have stopped speaking and are looking at me.

“Aren't you going to say hi to my friends?” Dario asks.

“Not interested,” I say.

“I wouldn’t be so rude if I were you,” he smirks.

I have to play my cards right. These are not work hours. But I still need him.

This guy is influential, and if he gave a bad review about a drowning company, who wouldn't believe that? Still, I'm not going to cower in his presence.

Not when he's taking advantage of my situation.

“Threat is an overstatement. Oh, but I just remembered we have a date. So why don't we talk about it tomorrow? For now, I can buy you more drinks.”

“That’s what I came to talk about.” I take out a few twenty-dollar bills from my purse. “I can buy my own drinks, Mister.”

He smiles at the bills I place on the table. “You think I would buy such cheap drinks? Luciana, I almost feel offended.”

I knew the damn cocktails would cost a dime. I grit my teeth as I take out a few hundred-dollar bills and slam them on the table before him.

“She thinks that’s good enough,” he says to no one in particular and laughs.

Actually, you know what?

I turn and take the money from the table and shove it into his pants pockets, making him wince.

“Careful, miss, you might not be able to handle what else is in there.”

This man never stops, does he?

I must have had too much to drink as well, because I lower my voice and inch even closer to him to say, “How can you be so certain?”

When I push the notes deeper into his pockets, my eyes widen when I touch something hard.

That’s a gun, right? If it isn’t, there’s only one other thing it could be.

DARIO MORATA

Making plans is a walk in the park, but the same cannot be said about executing them. I’ve planned my moves for years, making sure every pawn glides into its spot at the exact right moment, down to the last second.

Needless to say, getting close to the Vargas princess was nowhere on my packed itinerary—yet here I am. I don’t know if it’s the clarity in her eyes or the annoyance in them when she looks at me, but something keeps me glued to her side like a moth to a flame.

When I sat on that couch in her office earlier, I didn’t want to move an inch. A fire could have broken out, and escaping would have had to wait until I had my fill of staring at Luciana, which, I soon realized, might have resulted in a charred meal of grilled Dario Morata marinated with Luciana’s glare.

It’s a good thing, then, that I am not afraid of death. I have cheated it more times than I can count, starting from my childhood. The last thing that could kill me is her.

Her parents, on the other hand, wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through my skull if they found out about my existence, but that’s not keeping me away.

VRE is on the edge of bankruptcy (thanks to me), and the only way out is to sell a property costing a dime—which is exactly what I am here to do. Am I turning into Santa Claus? Hell no. Like I said, chessboard. It’s all part of a plan, and it seems all the stars are in my favor. I wouldn’t be surprised. The Vargas family deserves everything coming their way.

I was joking—mostly—about her going out with me in exchange for answers, but I can’t complain about her compliance. Who would reject the company of such a beauty?

It’s not what she wants; she would prefer to throw the damn coffee in my face, but I’m too selfish to let her out of the deal. Besides, why let her off when my quest is not over yet? I am here to stay.

Speaking of lucky stars and whatnot, I’m thrilled to learn that the club she frequents is my latest property. I learned of the ‘coincidence’ this morning as I signed the property ownership papers, successfully purchasing yet another way of bumping into her.

In my defense, getting close to her is not the only reason I bought the club. It may have been the catalyst, but I am technically a businessman. Why would I say no to another cash cow?

Needless to say, Luciana is not in the slightest bit happy about finding me here. Her nostrils are flaring when she confronts me to give me that speech about affording her own drinks, which my men watch in silence. I catch them snickering discreetly, but I know Fidel will rim into me about it all night.

That’s not any of my concern right now. My focus is on the furious princess shoving money into my pockets because I won’t accept it. She has no clue what she might find in a man’s pockets, does she? Her hand brushes against my cock before she can move any further, letting her know exactly what can be felt from her angle.

Her eyes widen, her cheeks instantly flushing red. It’s so beautiful that I want to bite her cheek—I don’t know when I turned into a cannibal, either. The woman’s getting me all sorts of disoriented.

“What do you think you're doing?” Her tone is sharp and stern as she retracts her hand.

I don’t know whether she’s still talking about the drinks, or my getting hard at her simple touch. I pull her closer and whisper, “You were curious. I could show you more, in private.”

She glares at me, snarling for me to let go of her hand, but her flush deepens, and I catch a brief glimpse of reluctance in her eyes when I do as she says. She wasn’t opposed to touching me, was she?

Before she can stomp away, I grab her wrist again, trying to rein in the dirty thoughts. I battle against all the naughty thoughts, but as soon as those dazzling eyes meet mine, I lose the battle, and I know she sees it in my face.

“I could file charges,” she threatens, but her tone tells me it’s the roar of a paper tiger. She doesn’t want me to let go. I’m gripping her wrist, and I can feel her pulse accelerate. The goosebumps on her skin make me wish I could read her mind.

I summon a waiter and tell him to send more drinks to her previous table, where her friend will want to enjoy more drinks. Luciana is staying with me.

“Don’t you dare.” She tells the waiter, then turns to me with a glare. “I can pay for my own drinks, and so can my friend.”

The waiter, however, knows who calls the shots here. No one wants to offend the man whose name will be on their next paycheck. He takes my order, making Luciana gasp in shock.

“Why do they listen to you?”

“Because they still want their jobs,” I muse.

“If they want their job that badly, they should know better than to ignore a patron’s orders. I could file a complaint to his boss.”

Fidel, who has been quiet for all of two minutes, lets out a laugh that sounds almost like a snort.

“What’s funny?” she asks Fidel. I shoot him a warning look, and he, in turn, makes a show of pulling an imaginary zipper over his lips.

Luciana switches targets and returns her gaze to me with the kind of look that tells me if I don’t answer her, she will go sniffing for answers like a bloodhound. “Explain.”

I let go of her wrist as I say, “I happen to own this place. Sounds silly, right?”

She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind, replacing what I know was a round of scolding with “Asshole.”

In the next moment, she struts away, her hips swaying with every move. I may be barreling headfirst towards insanity, but I will certainly not complain about that phenomenal view.

When she’s out of sight, I glance back at my men to catch Rex with his jaw dropped open. My glare pulls him out of his stupor.

“Isn’t that Luciana Vargas?” He asks as a way of saving himself from my wrath.

I still want to kill him, but who would blame him? With a face and figure like that, it would be more surprising if men didn’t want to stare at her all day—that doesn’t mean I’m letting him off.

“That one is going to drive you nuts,” Fidel quips. “I just know it.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice, old man.” I tease. Fidel may only be two decades older than me, but you’d think he’s in his eighties with all his experience with women.

“Are you planning on telling her the truth?” asks Rex.

“And why on earth would I do that?” I glare at the brain-dead idiot. I still haven’t punished him for staring at Luciana like that.

Fidel rubs his chin, deep in thought, as he mumbles, “This is going to be fun.”

I picture the sight of Luciana walking out of the booth a moment ago, and I have to agree with the old fart. I down a shot of tequila at the thought. My quest for revenge just got interesting.

LUCIANA

In my next life, I want nothing to do with real estate, if it means never meeting Dario Morata.

That’s one part of my brain speaking.

The other part of my brain—the one that can’t get over his looks—wishes to see that breathtaking face again. Better yet, it wishes we had met under very different circumstances. Maybe then, it would have been fun to get to know him. Maybe I wouldn’t have found him annoying.

This man has managed to make me question my sanity in less than a day.

If I didn’t need him for business, I would have long shown him the door.

‘But he’s insanely hot, you have to admit,’ a tiny part of my brain whispers. It must be the part responsible for all the bad decisions I have ever made—the devil on my shoulder, if you will.

Why else would I be entertaining the thought of a man like him? He’s shameless, to say the least, especially with that little stunt under the table…

Fine, there was nothing ‘little’ about what I felt through his pants, and shame was the last thing I felt.

My momentary lapse in sanity doesn’t keep me from wondering how he became the owner of the club out of the blue. There is no way this is a coincidence, but what is he up to?

I have to leave before I succumb to the insane temptation of marching back up to that booth and interrogating him.

I may have to haul Claudia out of here—just my luck. She's not too drunk to walk, but she doesn't want to leave yet, claiming that she hasn't had enough looks at Dario.

“Aren't you going to talk about what just happened?” she asks with a mischievous smile.

“What?” I feign ignorance.

Her grunt is all I need to know about what she thinks of my act. As I try not to crack under her detective eyes, I realize she’s not cheering me on for putting a guy in his place. That’s a first.

“So what has changed about you?” I ask. “Have you decided to finally tuck your claws away?”

“Fat chance.” Her laughs come off more like a snort. “You still need an elder sister to fight your battles—and if you dare ask which sister I’m talking about, I’ll disown you.”

“Okay.” I laugh, holding my palms up in surrender before instantly resuming my task of dragging her out.

“It’s just…” she drawls. “Why would I fight against your chances of getting laid?”

“Okay, that’s enough madness for one day.” I yank her arm over my shoulder to support her.

_________

I wake up the next morning to a text.

Unknown Number: Good Morning, Babe.

The heart emoji at the end is enough to ruin my day within seconds of opening my eyes. I don’t even need to ask who the unknown sender is. There’s only one man who seems to have taken up the entertaining hobby of infuriating me.

I didn't give him my contact details, but he looks like he has all the power in the world to get the social security number of anyone’s great-grandparents, let alone a mere cell phone number.

I text back so fast that my fingers could break the screen.

Me: Don't make it sound like we're in some sort of relationship.

Unknown Number: We can rectify that… By being in a relationship

No thanks. He may be arguably one of the most handsome men in existence, but I’m not an idiot.

Me: I don't date clients.

Unknown Number: Get me a perfect house, and I will no longer be a client. We can move in.

Gritting my teeth, I groan in frustration, just as the door to my room opens and my mother walks in, pursing her lips.

“Isn't it a little too early for drama?” she asks as she walks towards my bed.

He's going to drive me crazy. Actually, he's driving me crazy, and not the good kind of crazy—is there a good kind?

Perhaps those long, smooth fingers might know a way or two… I scold myself for even noticing such a detail. What on earth is wrong with me?

“Do I even want to know?” Mother teases. When I shake my head, desperately pleading for her not to poke into the matter, she asks, “What’s gotten you so furious?”

“Nothing I want to talk about right now,” I effectively shut the door for discussion.

She sits on my bed, tousling my hair. “Very well. You know where to find me if you want to talk about it.”

Huh? Who are you, and what have you done with Lara Vargas?

My relationship with my parents is not bad, but it's also not the kind where we have heart-to-hearts over ice cream and juice boxes.

To be fair, it’s not easy to juggle a grand empire and family time. They try their best.

“What are you doing here? Did Dad dump you?'' I tease.

“Not in this lifetime.” She laughs. “We haven’t spent time in a while. You have been missing dinner lately.”

“Since when do we talk about that?” I ask.

Last I checked, those should be Paula's words.

“Since today.”

“Everyone has been worried about the company. Your father has been juggling between VRE and the new construction company he wants to launch.”

That's right.

She continues, “I want us to at least have a normal family dinner.”

She wants me to assure her that I'll be there tonight, like something big is going to happen, which is more strange than her showing up in my room out of the blue.

“I can't tonight, Mum,” I say.

“Why not?” Her brows furrow.

“I have some business to take care of. I'll tell you when it's done.”

She reluctantly accepts it after a short while. “Not letting you off the hook tomorrow,” she warns.

“Okay, mum. I'll be there tomorrow.”

She stands to leave, but turns after a few steps to curiously ask, “Date?”

The instant frown must have shown on my face before I could stop it, but I ease it with a wink. “Not talking about it.”

____________

The list of people going to drive me nuts is rapidly expanding, and Sofia has found herself at the top.

She hasn't stopped ranting about how hot the guy I had a meeting with was. “I'd give an arm and a leg just so he could have a drink with me,” she says.

What is wrong with everyone around me?

It's barely nine in the morning and… “Are you going to give my schedule for the day anytime soon?” I ask, trying to avoid the topic.

She's one of the best secretaries I've had, but today I’m in a rare mood and I don’t want to accidentally take it out on her. I'm her boss, though sometimes I treat her like a close friend. Actually, most of the time. Well, except when there is serious business to discuss and when she's messed something up, and I don't want to let her off the hook so easily.

After making her go back to her desk, I resume my work after looking at my schedule.

She comes back a few minutes later.

“Not interested in a chit-chat about Dario,” I tell her immediately as she walks in.

But her expression is different from the one she had in the morning when I walked in.

“Who died?” I ask.

“Nobody, but maybe someone is about to, when she hears this,” she responds.

I look up at her, my finger trembling over my mouse. “Start talking.”

“I have news for you. The Comfort Real Estate contacted Dario, and they've offered him a better deal.”

Oh Crap!