Bile formed in my throat. "My father never talked about his involvement, but I do know that they have dirt on various politicians and wealthy business moguls. That's how they made so much money, by learning dirty little secrets."
"We all have them."
"Whatever the Massimo family is into is much bigger than money laundering or drug runners. I wasn't allowed to hear his business."
"Yes, he wouldn't want the princess to know his business," Michael hissed. He suddenly bristled, walking toward the bathroom.
I clenched my fist, wanting to pummel it into his chest. He was infuriating. The conversation had just ended. Period.
When he returned, he tossed a robe in my direction. "Freshen up. Shower. Whatever. Then come to the kitchen. I'll make some dinner."
With that, he grabbed his guns and walked out of the room.
Entirely naked.
Without reservation.
A man on a mission. Francesca
I heard the same kind of music that had filtered through my brain the moment I awakened from the coma-like state. The lilting guitar music was Spanish in origin, beautiful by design. I moved down the stairs, taking them slowly and indulging in the sounds for a few precious seconds. Me time. All I had was a fluffy robe, no longer wanting to wear the sloppy shorts and man's tee shirt. This wasn't much better but at least I felt more feminine.
Before I even walked into the kitchen, my mouth watered, my stomach rumbling. I hadn't realized just how hungry I was. The aromas were incredible, garlic and tomatoes, cilantro and what smelled like steak. I stood in the doorway, watching him. He'd donned clothing, a tight fitting pair of black jeans and a red polo, the color suiting him.
And he was humming.
This just didn't seem like him, the dichotomy fascinating, especially since he had a gun positioned in the small of his back, placed under his belt. I shivered. The danger was consistent, reminiscent of days of my youth. My father was never without his weapon or a security guard. I did wonder why Michael had sent his human protection away. He worked quickly, seasoning the two-inch-thick steaks, every so often taking a sip of his wine. Blood-red wine. My mind was intoxicated from a cataclysm of thoughts, swirling with the notion that this was all a fantasy.
Or a nightmare.
"Smells divine."
He seemed to tense knowing I was in the room, as if I'd been spying on him. After a few seconds, he resumed his duties, finally turning on the water with his elbow and washing his hands. He grabbed a towel and turned, drying his hands in the most provocative manner, his intense eyes sweeping over me. "Would you like some wine?"
"I would very much."
The oddity of the man waiting on me was also surreal, drawing me closer. The kitchen was a beautiful mess, various fruits and vegetables spewed over the counter, a loaf of French bread on a cutting board. He was preparing a feast. This seemed out of character for him in every way. Why dote on me? Why try to impress?
I remained skittish, as if another shoe would drop.
I'd always loved a man's hands and his were strong, long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. They were slightly tanned, and I knew instinctively the bronze color was natural, a kiss from the sun. As he poured the wine, he kept his gaze locked on me, sultry and inviting although a touch uncertain himself.
The word popped into my mind again. Trust. I was no fool, completely aware of the dangerous precedent he'd established. Whether my father, members of the Massimo family, or the Saltoris ordered a hit, I could be caught in the crossfire. Especially if this was some sort of battle over territory. In order to survive, we'd have to learn to trust each other. Could we actually do that?
Michael slid the tall stem in my direction, waiting until our fingers touched. The move seemed so uncharacteristic, the electricity soaring.
I swallowed before nodding, unable to put two coherent words together.
"I hope you like red meat," he said in his usual commanding tone. I had the feeling that he'd feed me the nourishment if I refused to eat.
"Very much so. The rarer the better."
My comment definitely pleased him, a slight smile curling on his mouth. He lifted his wineglass, taking a sip, still studying me as if I were indeed his prized possession.
"I have other clothes for you. I'll get them after dinner."
I licked the rim of the glass, dragging the few drops onto my tongue. Did he know I was purposely being provocative? Perhaps. I was always on edge, playing the perfect girl. I just never realized how much so. "I would appreciate that. Hopefully something more... suitable." I was still so nervous around him, the very man who could drag every last breath out of my body.
With passion.
With danger.
The dichotomy was electrifying.
My hand refused to cooperate, trembling to the point the wine sloshed. I watched as two beads slipped ever so slowly down the crystal clear glass, a reminder just how fragile this situation truly was. He could shatter my entire world with a single shot from his gun, or a quick phone call made to one of his soldiers. He could destroy the new life I'd created in an instant, without breaking a sweat. Yes, he made me nervous and weak, despondent and hungry. He was all powerful yet still with a touch of vulnerability that was far too attractive, blinding.
I quickly took a sip then a gulp, chastising the rather girlish behavior. He wasn't the star high-school quarterback and I was no prom queen.
He moved around the island, taking his time and running his fingers along the edge of the counter. "Are you afraid of me, Francesca?"
Every time he said my name out loud was pure torment, driving into the very heart of me. The kind of deep emotion that would forever keep me ill at ease. "Nothing scares me."
"Another lie. What have I told you about lies?"
Why did his voice have to be so incredibly husky, the deep baritone like a sinful bite of the most decadent dark chocolate? "I'm not lying." My words were meek, without conviction.
Using just the tip of his index finger, he delicately brushed down the bridge of my nose. He took his time encircling my mouth, lips that remained plump from the hours of raw passion. The slight growl somehow rumbled into my tummy as he brushed his fingers across my cheek, sliding my long strands of hair behind my shoulder.