Monster in His Eyes (Monster in His Eyes 1)

He lets out a sigh. "Don't worry about it, Karissa."

"But I don't know what to do about it all."

"It'll work out," he says. "What you need is some time away, some time to clear your head and not think of everything. Come away with me this weekend."

I roll my eyes. He sounds so damn relaxed, nothing bothering him. I wish I had his confidence. "You know I will."

The town car is idling along the curb in front of the dorm, the driver standing beside it, waiting for me. I pause a few feet away, my bag dragging the sidewalk, a new red dress still in plastic and on the hanger, draped over my arm.

I'm a mess, sweaty and tired, wearing a pair of black leggings and an oversize white shirt, the outfit complete with a pair of flip flops.

I couldn't put on my shoes. My toenails are wet, painted red to match my dress. I was in the middle of doing it when Naz called, informing me the car was waiting downstairs. He hadn't given me much notice. I had to rush around at the last second getting all of my stuff.

The driver takes my things and puts them in the trunk. I don't wait for him to open the door for me, opening it myself. Naz is sitting there, phone to his ear, dressed as usual. He casts a look at me as I climb in beside him, talking to whoever's on the line.

"We're leaving Greenwich now," he says. "We should be to Jersey in about half an hour."

My brow furrows. He's taking me to New Jersey?

He hangs up without saying goodbye, slipping the phone away, as he leans toward me and quickly kisses my lips. The driver gets in and pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic.

"So what's in New Jersey?" I ask curiously.

"A lot," he says. "Full-service gas stations, saltwater taffy, the Jersey Devils, Palisades Park... Atlantic City, the Jersey shore... and Snooki, of course."

"Snooki?"

"Oh, and the Sopranos." He raises his eyebrows. "You watch it?"

"Uh, I caught a few episodes."

"Great show," he says. "Purely fictional, of course."

I laugh, shaking my head. "So that's why we're going to Jersey? Because of TV shows and gas stations?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are we going?"

"You'll see."

Not long after we cross the state line, the car heads toward a small airport. As soon as I see the sign for it, I cut my eyes at Naz. "We're not really going to New Jersey, are we?"

"Of course not," he says. "There's nothing in Jersey."

Rolling my eyes, I watch out of the window as we approach a private jet parked off to the side, the car pulling right up to it. A group of people hangs out beside it, chatting as other cars unload luggage, their belongings being loaded onto the aircraft.

Most of the faces on the tarmac are foreign to me, middle aged men and a few women, maybe a dozen in total. But dead center in the crowd, I recognize Raymond Angelo.

He's smiling cheerfully, his arm around a blonde woman not much older than me.

Everyone is dressed impeccably—suits and dresses, not a single hair out of place. They fit in with Naz, in his expensive black suit, but not me. I don't belong here. I'm not like these people. They're lobster and caviar, thousand dollar bottles of wine.

I'm more like something you can order in a drive-through.

I reach over and grab Naz's arm when the car stops. He hesitates, shooting me a peculiar look, as the driver opens the door.

"Give us a moment," Naz says. "Go ahead and load our things."

"Yes, sir."

Once we're alone, Naz shifts around in the seat to face me. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I can't do this."

"Why?" he asks. "Afraid of flying?"

"No," I whisper, although now that he mentions it I feel the anxiety bubbling in my stomach. "I mean, I've never flown before, but that's not it. I just... I don't fit in."

"I know you don't."

I guess I expected him to contradict me, because his agreeing catches me off guard. "What?"

"I know you don't fit in, Karissa, but that's one of my favorite things about you. You stand out."

"What if they don't think so?"

"Then it's a good thing I don't care what they think."

He says it so matter of fact, like any differing opinion is just plain wrong.

"Trust me on this," he says, reaching over and cupping my cheek. "It's going to be the best weekend of your life. And if anyone here ruins it for you in any way, I'll make certain they pay for it."

He gets out of the car without awaiting a response, and my chest tightens. Something tells me them paying for it won't be monetarily.

I take a deep breath as Naz opens my door, and before I can talk myself out of this, I step out to join him.

Eyes shift our way. I can feel them on me, meeting curious gazes as I scan the crowd. The looks aren't so much hostile as they are puzzled taking in the sight of me. The women especially regard me with skepticism. They're painted up pretty, Picasso masterpieces, while I feel more like one of his rough sketches.

Raymond breaks from the pack, stepping toward us. "Ah, Vitale, perfect timing."

Naz nods to acknowledge that, but Raymond isn't looking at him. No, Raymond is looking at me.

He takes my hand, kissing the back of it. "I'm honored you'd join us, Karissa."

I want to say it's not intentional, that I had no idea I was joining the likes of him, but I keep my mouth shut, merely smiling tersely to keep from saying anything. My mother taught me enough to know he isn't the kind of man that takes kindly to being offended.

Naz doesn't dawdle. Pressing his hand to the small of my back, he leads me past the crowd onto the plane. The inside looks bigger than it does on the outside, all cream-colored and wood-paneled, with more than enough seats to accommodate everyone.

Naz stops dead center of the plane and plops down on the end of a long couch, a small two-cushion portion segregated from the rest. I sit down beside him nervously, but he eases some of my anxiety by draping his arm over my shoulder and pulling me closer. He presses a kiss to my hair, his cologne swarming my senses, making me lightheaded, as everyone else boards the plane.

Raymond decides to sit beside me, nothing more than a cushioned armrest separating me from the infamous man. The blonde sits with him as the others file in. I peek at her, unable to fathom what she sees in him.

I know Naz is older than me, and maybe people see our age difference as extreme, but he's still quite youthful, and regal, and so goddamn sexy. There's an attraction with him I can't deny—don't want to deny. But Raymond is much older, maybe old enough to be that woman's grandfather, and has not a smidgen of the sex appeal.