“So that’s why you added your perfume?” He leans over the table. “Do you want me to think of you while I use it?”
The image flashes in my mind. Of him, a hand wrapped around his hardness, standing beside the large bed I’ve now seen twice. His too-handsome face tight with pleasure and that mask of control slipping.
I stand up. “The very last thing I care about is your pleasure. Did you see my email?”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “I did.”
“Will you answer it?”
“I’ll consider it.”
I take a step toward the door. “If you answer, I promise I’ll give you a full evening of peace and quiet. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“You’re playing dangerous games, Wilde,” he says.
I look over my shoulder at him, hand on the doorknob, and something tightens in my stomach. He says it like a warning.
But I hear it like a promise.
CHAPTER 16
PAIGE
The next afternoon, I walk through the doors of one of Milan’s most famous patisseries. Karim arranged a driver to take me there. I’m grateful for it, because as much as I enjoyed using Rafe’s Porsche when he specified I could only take the BMW, I don’t want to drive in central Milan again. Once was quite enough.
I’m wearing a short skirt and a silk blouse, two of the few purchases from that wild shopping spree I’ve decided to keep. I’m also in a pair of Mather & Wilde boat shoes.
If I’m to be photographed, I’m going to make damn sure I represent the company I’m trying so hard to protect.
Rafe is already in the bakery, but I haven’t kept him waiting. I’m bang on time today. Too many other people are involved for me to bother them with delays meant only to annoy one person.
The place is cute, with blue walls and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling. There’s a giant counter with delicacies behind glass. Rafe stands at the far end of it.
I hate that my eyes are drawn to him.
His blue shirt looks immaculate tucked into a pair of navy pants. He’s clean-shaven today. I’ve only seen him with afive-o’clock shadow, and the change makes me blink a few times. At least his hair is still a thick mess.
Despite the change, he still looks hopelessly good. Like he’s cut from one of the magazines his luxury items are so often displayed in.
It feels like the room rearranges, just slightly, and he becomes the center. Maybe that’s how boxers feel when they enter the ring. That steady, constant awareness of their opponent.
“Hello.” I smile at him like I’ve missed him.
We’re not alone in here.
He turns to me. “Darling. You made it.”
“Of course.” I lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around my waist.
It’s not a tentative touch. It’s confident, like we do this all the time. Like we’re intimately aware of each other’s bodies. “Paige, you’ve met Wren, of course. And this is the photographer, Luca.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, and give a little wave to the tall photographer setting up his camera.
“You too,” he says in a thick Italian accent.
“Everything is prepared for us,” Rafe says. “Wren…?”
She nods, her red hair back in a tight bun today, and turns to someone else. There are at least eight people in here setting up our tasting. No other guests, though. They’ve closed for us.
