Chapter 5 A Birthday Gift?

Luna Belle POV

I turn my face toward the voice, and then everything inside me goes still. The guy leaning on the wall next to the door is both the most arresting and scariest male specimen I’ve seen. With a square jaw and strong nose, his angular face is strikingly handsome. Yet at a certain angle, there’s a harshness to those lines. Tall and broad with hair as black as coal and skin with a Mediterranean coloring, he looks like a character who emerged straight from a fantasy book. From a different world. He can be either a fallen angel or a demon, depending on his mood.

Right now, with the tilt to his lips, he leans toward the angelic side, but rather an archangel with a sword decapitating dragons than an angel with soft white wings. If he scowls, he’ll look more like a demon. He’s so beautiful, so utterly perfectly created, that something twists in my stomach. He’s dark like the ocean and breathless like water. That’s how I’d describe him if I could only use one word.

Water.

However, it’s not his external beauty that makes my heart skid to a complete stop before resuming to beat like a drum in my chest. It’s the energy surrounding him, a vibe of danger and deadly allure. He looks nineteen or twenty maybe, but there’s a worldly air to him that makes him seem older and more experienced. Even as my pulse spikes and awareness contact my skin, instinct tells me he’s the kind of guy I should stay away from. Yet I stand rooted to the spot. What can I say? It’s not my fault I’m a Capricorn with a sea-goat star sign who’s attracted to water.

With one hand shoved into the pocket of his slacks and his knee bent, his pose is relaxed. It’s just acting though. Tension oozes from his pores. I’m good at feeling people.

He chuckles at my silence. “I guess not.”

Giving myself an internal shake, I try to remember what he asked.

Not in the mood for the party either?

He’s not wearing a tux, but his formal slacks and jacket tell me he’s a guest. The pang in my belly intensifies. I recognize the sentiment with a start. Regret. Regret that I don’t know him. Regret that I won’t, already regretting that I’ll listen to my mind even though my heart loves water.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a hostile tone designed to mask my overwhelming reaction to him. “This entrance is for staff only.”

He lifts his free hand, showing me a joint. Beneath the collar of the white shirt that’s open to the third button, his chest is visible. Just the glimpse is enough to hint at a well-defined body. He’s inked, the top of the tattoo that’s showing jet black. I can make out the decorative curls of a border. I wish I could see the whole picture. Where it ends. His broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. The tailored pants and the fitted cut of the shirt where his jacket falls open to show off his lean shape. He’s a good dresser. I know all about understated elegance. Mom drilled it into me.

I drag my gaze back to his face lest I give him the impression that I’m staring. His full lips stretch, revealing straight white teeth set off by the olive tone of his skin. He observes me with eyes blacker than onyx, which are framed by long, dark lashes and thick eyebrows. Running a gaze over me, he weighs me in turn. When he lingers for a couple of seconds on my breasts, my heart does something funny in my chest. My shirt is still wet in patches, particularly where it’s plastered to my boobs. The red bikini top is visible underneath, as is the dip of my stomach where he fixes his attention next.

“You don’t look old enough to be a waitress,” he says, finishing his evaluation by inspecting my legs. “How young are they hiring these days?”

I don’t correct him. If he knows how young I am, he won’t give me another ounce of his attention. Although walking away is without a doubt the wiser option, I don’t want to turn my back on him. Not just yet.

His lips quirk, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Has the cat got your tongue, Luna?”

A jolt runs through me. How does he know my name? Only my family and close friends call me Luna. But no. He said it differently. He said it like a term of endearment. I know what Luna in that context means, and it warms my chest with a pleasant heat.

“You have an accent,” I say.

“Filipino-Italian.”

“Are you from Italy or only here in the Philippines?”

“We’re from Paris Italy actually, but migrate here Manila.”

“You speak English very well.”

“My mother insisted that we learn from a young age. It’s important to speak it for business.”

His cryptic and polite answers are a clear sign that he’s getting bored with the conversation. I should go, but I linger, unable to pull myself away. “I wish I could speak a foreign language.”

“Shouldn’t you be working?” he asks, nodding at the box in my hands.

His animosity gets my hackles up. “Shouldn’t you be mingling with the guests?”

He grins. Taking a Zippo lighter from his pocket, he taps the joint against the metal. “Parties are boring, but birthday parties are the worst.” He casts another glance at my unsuitable attire. “You obviously agree.”

Although I do share his sentiment, I can’t help but turn defensive. “Then why did you come?”

Bringing the joint to his mouth, he watches me from the slits of his eyes as he lights it. He inhales and blows out a thin line of smoke. “Business.”

The smoke twists into a ribbon before dispersing in the air, leaving the pungent odor of weed behind.

“Business?” Was I wrong about him being a guest? “Are you with the caterers?”

He laughs. “My father and Mr. Fernandez are business associates.” Studying me through the thick lashes of his hooded eyes as he takes another drag of the joint, he adds after blowing out the smoke, “Of sorts.”

“So you’re only here for business reasons,” I say, my ego unjustifiably bruised.

“That’s how it would seem.”

I fail to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I can see how that must suck for you.”

He shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”

When I don’t reply, he holds the joint out to me.

I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Do you drink?”

My parents let me have a little wine or champagne on important occasions. “Not often.”

His voice drops an octave. “Good.”

He carries on smoking while I just stand there, racking my brain for something to say.

Turning his face, he looks at me as if to ask why I’m still there. “You better run inside and get to work.”

I don’t like the way he speaks to me. I resent how he thinks he can order me around. Most of all, I hate how easily he dismisses me.

When he stubs the joint out on the wall and flicks the butt in the party trash that’s piling up next to the door, I know he’s going to walk away. And I don’t want him to. I stall by using what my feminine intuition tells me will get his attention. Defiance.

“No,” I say, lifting my chin.

His eyes flare as if he doesn’t hear that word often.

“I won’t jump because you told me to,” I continue.

He pushes off the wall. “What did you say to me?”

Standing taller, I tap into my confidence that usually comes naturally but for some reason now has failed me. “Why must I go? You leave if you don’t want me here. You shouldn’t have picked this spot if you were hoping to smoke your drugs without being caught. Which is completely not cool. Not smoking in secret but smoking at all. Especially drugs. It makes you totally uncool.”

Shit. Can I just shut up now?

His dark eyes widen with humor rather than anger. A smile flirts with his lips.

He’s laughing at me. How embarrassing.

I don’t wait for his reply. I intend to make a grand exit while I still have some dregs of dignity left to cling to, but just as I turn toward the kitchen, my mom walks through the door.

Double shit.

“Luna Belle Fernandez.” She grabs my arm, her nails cutting into my skin. “Where have you been?” Her face pales as she takes me in. “My goodness. Look at you. This is too much.” She gives me a not-too-gentle shake. “I’ve had it with you.”

The stranger slides his gaze toward the lawn where white and pink balloons arch around silver blown-up numbers writing sixteen in the center. His lips curve into a full smile as he no doubt puts two and two together.

I nearly die of humiliation. My mom is really upset with me this time, so much so she doesn’t notice the young man standing to the side while the catering staff enter and exit the house like a steady file of ants.

“Get inside.” She lets go of my arm and grabs the box from my hands. “Now.”

“Wait,” I cry out, trying to take back the box. “You’ll drop it.”

My mom holds the box out of reach. “What have you done now?”

“Nothing, I swear.”

Pursing her lips, she opens the flap.

“His name is Kitty-Kat,” I say, talking so fast my tongue trips over the words. “Please, you have to let me keep him.”

My mom holds the box at arm’s length. “You know I’m allergic to cats.”

“Please.” I press my palms together in a begging gesture. “It’s the only birthday gift I want. I’ll never ask you for anything else.”

My mom flicks her fingers. Miraculously, a staff member appears at her side.

“Put this in the guest bathroom upstairs.” She thrusts the box at the man, who’s one of our gardeners. “We’ll take it to the Animals Unlimited tomorrow.”

“No,” the stranger says, the word loaded with so much authority that both my mom and the gardener freeze.

I don’t know who’s more surprised, my mom or me.

My mom spins around and gives a start when her gaze falls on the guy. She looks between us, suspicion tightening her eyes. “What are you doing here at the back of the house?”

He steps up and takes the box from the gardener. “I was just giving Luna her birthday present.”

Reeling, my mother says in a high-pitched voice, “Excuse me?”

XXX