Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

I’ve done this dance countless times. Different men, same suits. Kisses on the back of my hand, a frozen smile on my lips. But this time, it feels different. It feels like I can’t breathe. Why? Because for some inexplicable reason, I’d rather throw myself off the cliff in Devil’s Dip than do this dance with Angelo Visconti. Vicious Visconti. Taking a deep breath for courage, I force myself to look up from the carpet. A weight pushes down on my chest as I meet his heavy gaze. Oh, holy crow, he’s handsome. Maybe it’s because he’s no longer standing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, or perhaps it’s the way he reclines in that armchair, an irritated sneer on his face, but I can’t believe I never realized he was a Visconti. Green eyes glitter against his tanned skin, and black hair that looks like silk gleams under the spotlights built into the low ceiling. That jaw and those cheekbones; they are as sharp as I remember them, and they still have the effect of snatching the air from my lungs.