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said. “Just ask.”
    He rolled out, disappearing into the darkness again, and Skylar could swear she heard a chuckle echo down the hall. When he was gone, she had to work hard to look in Sandro’s direction.
    He didn’t seem too anxious to meet her gaze, either.
    Turning away from her, he reached behind his neck and, in one swift movement, yanked off his sweatshirt along with the T-shirt over his head. The next thing she knew, she was confronted with gleaming brown skin and the toned and rippled physique of a man who’d received at least twice his share of beautiful genes when God was divvying out the world’s supply of attractive.
    There went all of the air, sucked right out of the room. “What are you doing?” she cried.
    “Here.” With jerky movements that only underscored the flex and play of those glorious muscles, he tossed the T-shirt, which had managed to stay dry under the bulky sweatshirt, to her. “Do us all a favor and put this on.”
    Fumbling—it wasn’t every day that she witnessed God’s creative brilliance in full force and effect quite like that —she managed to catch it before it whacked her across the face. But then another distraction arose.
    In the half second before Sandro stood and pulled the sweatshirt back on, she glimpsed a horrific scar, raised, puckered and glaring across the smoothness of his skin, extending from the middle of his back, down through that perfect six-pack and disappearing south of his waistband in front.
    Skylar gasped, surprise and concern making her nosier than she’d normally be. “My God. What happened to—”
    But Sandro had already stalked off, disappearing into the shadowy edges of the room beyond the lamp’s glow, and she heard the clink of a glass and the splash of liquid. Then he was back, passing her a Big Gulp portion of scotch in a crystal tumbler and keeping one for himself.
    “Stop yakking and drink up. You need it. Cheers.”
    With that, he tossed back his scotch, reached for a lethal pair of scissors that looked like they doubled as hedge trimmers and eyed her leg.
    Whoa. Skylar’s head swam again, this time with the surplus of things happening that she needed to stop. ASAP.
    “Don’t come near me with those scissors—”
    His brows flattened.
    “And forget about the scotch. I’m not drinking it.”
    No way, Jose. The last thing she needed right now was to ingest something that would make her loopier and lower her resistance to…she didn’t even want to think about it. Not that she thought Sandro or Mickey would take advantage of her; she’d stake her life that they were honorable men who wouldn’t dream of hurting a woman. It was just that her thoughts and feelings veered off in unsettling directions where Sandro was involved, especially when he touched her.
    That implacable and unblinking gaze of his nailed her between the eyes and held until some of her defiance melted away and she began to squirm. Then she began to feel foolish, which pissed her off. How could she win here? Matching wits with him was like being in a staring contest with an eagle.
    “I’m trying to take care of you,” he quietly reminded her. “Do you understand that? Do you even know why you’re disagreeing with me, or is it just a reflex?”
    That did it. Now officially feeling like an idiot, she looked away, raised the glass, and drank.
    The effect was immediate. Fire sizzled down her throat like a lit fuse, hit her belly and made a shock wave of heat pulse through her body. She coughed…wheezed…and drank again, draining the glass, which she thunked on the coffee table.
    Buzzing pleasantly, she glared at Sandro, who was giving her that quirked-brow look of cool amusement.
    “Happy?” she demanded.
    “I’m delirious with glee.”
    The liquor quickly took over (at least that’s what she’d tell herself in the morning), lowering her inhibitions and making her recklessly embrace her desire to rattle his cage.
    Thus, she dropped the front of the throw,