After all, what was a man who could not please his wife?
Not a lion but a laughing hyena.
My grandfather often laughed at that one, attempting to mimic the sound they made. I grinned when I thought of it, and the two betrotheds in front of me gave me suspicious looks. We got back to business, and after it was completed for the day, I raced back to Pienza and picked up another special package from Mario before heading to Siena. The package was bigger this time. He gave me triple the amount since I had not received the others.
My heart started to pound harder in my chest when the ballerina met me at the door.
Lifting the bag, I grinned. “I will be your private chef. Lead me to your kitchen,Signora.”
She laughed, inviting me in.
Thebellaballerina watched as I took out the contents of the bag and set them on the counter. I could cook simple dishes, but nothing extravagant. Abate Pears with pecorino cheese was what Ihad decided on. I sliced them finely, along with the cheese, and then drizzled warm honey and pepper over it all.
I did not think it possible, but she was even more beautiful than she was the day before. She would only age like a fine wine. There was a pleasant warmth about her that went beyond the physical. As if her love could take a seed in winter and create a rose from it in spring. That was the scent that drifted off her skin. Rose. But I was not sure if the scent would always fit her. With long hair, yes. She looked innocent. A subtle beauty breezing into a man’s life and changing it forever. But with the style of her hair after it had been cut, she had turned into a vixen. It brought more attention to her feline eyes. They were a true jade green, but closer to the irises, gold streaks like sunbeams bled out.
The look in her eyes as she studied the dish almost made me grin. She was uncertain but took the risk. I did not know what to do at first when she lifted her hand after eating a few bites.
“High-five,” she said, wiggling her fingers.
When I did not move, she took her two hands and brought them together, making them clap once.
“That’s how you do the high-five thing.” She lifted her hand again. “Don’t leave me hanging, Rocco.”
I lifted my hand, and she slapped hers against mine. I could do nothing but laugh.
She was so intriguing, it should have been a crime.
“That means your dish is excellent,” she said, seemingly forcing her eyes away from mine, as if my laughter had hypnotized her and she had to look away, going for another bite of jazzed up pear.
“Grazie,”I breathed out as she whisked past me, done with our meal. She began to show me areas of the house she wanted to change to suit her tastes.
Not only her tastes, but her husband’s. He was always in her thoughts.
I was intrigued by this. By her. By him. By their relationship.
She had excellent taste. All that she longed to do to thefarmhouse would suit it. She was being respectful of its bones but giving it a facelift. My grandmother would have approved. I did not hesitate to think that my great uncle would stop by and approve of it himself as well. I made sure the workers knew that the Fausti name had sealed itself over the door of this home. I even brought up my wife’s name to thebellaballerina, leaving out the wife part, and approved of the deal Rosaria had worked out with my great uncle.
However, there was more to this story than my wife was telling me. She was purposely not sharing, and I was purposely not demanding it. The truth would reveal itself in time. Where thisbellaballerina was concerned, the mystery surrounding her almost suited her magnetic spirit.
The more time I spent with her, the more I understood there was a draw to her that the eye could not immediately capture. Her intelligent eyes were sharp, and they cut straight to the bone, revealing feelings not on the table. Her perception was invasive, and when she would speak the thoughts before the people around her had a chance to voice them, it could cause cold ripples on the skin.
In another time, she would have been labeled astrega,a witch, and possibly burned at the stake.
She was a woman who felt too much, and perhaps she did not always know how to control the burden of it. As if she were a sponge, she would have to be wrung out not to drown. This softened me toward her, especially when I would catch her staring at me, or when she would be hypnotized by my smile or my laughter.
My wife blinked at me when I laughed, ready to jump on my cock, but this woman…she looked at me as though I was a person. A man who, perhaps, did not look as though he would laugh often, and when he did, the sound touched her core.
Then the questions about my father came.
“What was it like growing up with a famous racecar driver?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “He wasn’t around much.”
“Do you get along with him?”
I shrugged. “He is my father.”
“Are you an only child?” she rushed out.
