Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
More would never be enough of her.
With an internal curse, I pushed the treacherous thought away but not before tempting the devil by leaning in close to whisper in her ear, once more inhaling her sweet fragrance. “I always want more, especially if it gives me pleasure.”
This time, she broke free.
Throwing her body weight backward, she pitched to the side to avoid the tree trunk before stumbling onto the gravel path. Her hand flew to her head as she swayed, seemingly disoriented by the sudden movement, before her ankle bent inward on the loose and slippery seashells as she tried to take another step.
I caught her before she fell. “Dammit. When was the last time you ate? I know it wasn’t at dinner.”
She slowly shook her head. “I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
After swinging her up into my arms, I growled, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Surveying the garden, I spotted an ornate, whitewashed gazebo tucked among the trees and headed for it.
CHAPTER 14
ELLA
Isquirmed in his embrace. “Let me go!”
His intense gaze stared down at me. “It is uncanny how much you and your sister sound alike.”
It would poke the bear to say something.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut.
That he hadn’t recognized me yet made me bold. Too bold.
“Are you saying my sister has also screamed at you to let her go?”
I held my breath with barely concealed curiosity over his response.
He winked. “A gentleman never tells but I will say this, if she did, that’s not what she was screaming later.”
My cheeks burned.
Well, ask a stupid question…
My only consolation was he would probably think it was shyness at his crass talk and not humiliating memories of my wanton display on his boat last night.
“You’re disgusting.”
“That’s not what she said.”
With narrowed eyes, I fired back. “Actually, that is exactly what I said to”—I bit my lip—“what I imagined she said.”
He swung me around so he could push open the gazebo door with his back, then carried me inside. After placing me on the cushioned side bench which ran around the octagon-shaped inside perimeter, he surveyed the space.
I crossed my arms over my middle and resisted the urge to dive for my cello as if I were protecting my child from harm. It was oddly threatening to have him here, inside my private sanctuary.
Having any man here really, but in particular, him.
Matteo Cavalieri exuded a dark energy about him. I wasn’t the least bit fooled by the casual demeanor and dry wit. They were all deflections, reflections in a warped mirror. It was what he wanted people to see.
That was one perk of being a wallflower, of being the shy sister who was often ignored. I had honed my skills in observing people and their interactions from the sideline.
That was also how I learned of my father’s involvement in my mother’s disappearance.
People had a way of forgetting I was nearby.
With Matteo, the indications were fleeting. The emotions played across his face like the shadows of the swiftly moving clouds above; intense and almost sinister one moment, all sunshine and laughter the next. But it was there. It was in the tension in his jaw when someone said something he didn’t like. In the covert way he clenched his fist down at his side. The way his lips tightened as if he were biting off the words he wanted to say.
He wanted others to be lulled into a false sense of security at his casual, easygoing attitude, and in the half-interested, almost bored way he contributed to the conversation when it turned to mafia business and local politics.
After all, it was the threat you failed to anticipate that was the deadliest.
It fascinated me that the others around him didn’t seem to pick up on the signs. The glaring, flapping red flags that Matteo Cavalieri was a dangerous man to cross.
He may have the others fooled, but not me.
Matteo crossed to a small cupboard above a shelf of crystal bird figurines that were my mother's, which I rescued from my father’s wrath when I was a teenager. “Where do you keep it?”
I leaned to my side to pull my dress out from under my hips so I could yank it as far down as possible over my knees. “Keep what?”
“Your stash of snacks. You have to keep some snacks out here.”
My fingers curled in the fabric of my skirt. Lucky guess. Lifting my chin, I said, “As a matter of fact, I don’t keep any—”
“Here they are,” he called out triumphantly after taking only two seconds to correctly theorize I hid my snacks in the old oil can tucked into the back of the cupboard.
Damn him.
He popped open the improvised lid and pulled out one of the Nucatuli Eoliani cookies I had squirreled away from Maria's Christmas baking. The decorative cookies filled with mandarin liqueur, almond paste, and cinnamon stuffing were my favorite.