They were talking about her.
Gianna knew it—knew from the bellyful laughter exploding out of Sandro that Zane had mentioned her.
The sound had carried across the club, even over the music, even over the chatter and clinking glasses.
Heat crawled up her neck. Was it about the one-night stand… or the package he had sent this morning?
She clamped her lips tight, her jaw flexing. That fool. That dolt. That birdbrain. That—
"Gianna, what are you thinking about? You look like you want to murder someone." Areso's voice cut in, mild and lazy, her eyes watching Gianna over the rim of her drink.
Oh, she wanted to murder someone quite all right. Gianna concluded inwardly, twirling the cup in her fingers.
Just a quick bash on the head. Maybe, a quick shove. A small, satisfying scream. Perfect.
But in the next second, she forced the rage away, letting it swim back to whatever dark pit it had crawled from.
