She only needs to look exactly like herself to look… absolutely ravishing.
Devastating.
In the days following our first meeting, I waited, regretting when the shine would wear off, when allure would inevitably slide into boredom or ennui.
When one characteristic or another would begin to grate and I would need to inform my assistant to start putting together the ‘farewell package’.
And with each day that sensation didn’t arrive, I’d been both alarmed and elated. Then prodded into believing I’d found the woman who could, with her streak of rebellion coupled with an unabashed zest for life, hold my attention for years, if not a lifetime.
And right in this moment, as every one of those sensations rouses to painful life, I allow my gaze to flick deliberately over her body before returning to her face. Stoking that fire I know lurks just beneath the enchanting surface of her smooth skin.
“You didn’t wear any of the clothes I had waiting for you,” I observe mildly.
Her chin lifts. Predictably. As her eyes fire poisoned darts at me. “I told you I wouldn’t. You shouldn’t have bothered bringing them.”
“So you say.” A corner of my mouth curves. “And perhaps I’m willing to let it go for now.”
She narrows her eyes. “How generous of you. And what prompts this magnanimity?”
“Because you look incredible,” I state calmly. “And because the only argument I intend to have about your clothing tonight is when I get to take it off your body.”
Colour floods her cheeks instantly and her fingers flutter enchantingly before she stills the movement. “Keep dreaming, Dragoni,” she snaps, even as her pulse jumps visibly in her throat.
I rise to my feet, try not to look too smug at the accelerated pulse beating at her throat, and pull out her chair. “Sit down,cara.”
She hesitates, torn between rebellion and the needs of her body. I know for a fact she hasn’t eaten anything else besides the bruschetta Caterina gave her earlier.
When hunger wins, she takes the last few steps and she sits. While I attempt not to gulp in the maddeningly addictive scent of her perfume. Her shampoo. Her warm skin I want to stroke more than I want sustenance.
Dinner is served in silence at first because food this exceptional deserves several moments of appreciation. I watch her devour theburrata al tartufo nero con carpaccio di fichi e prosciutto riservawith satisfaction.
Lucia eats like someone who hasn’t realised how hungry she is until the first bite hits her tongue.
I watch her more than I eat.
Remember how she described the silk-thin ravioli filled with butter-poached lobster, floating in a delicate Champagne-saffron broth, the first time I had it prepared for her.
She catches me at it twice. “Do you plan to stare at me all night?” she mutters when I top up her Malbec.
“Yes.”
She snorts despite her fluttering eyelashes and the faint colour staining her cheeks, and for a few minutes, we manage something almost civil.
Almost normal.
She manages only half of the perfectly seared Wagyu filet mignon on a crisp brioche round, and I don’t object when she sets her fork down carefully.
But I’m perfectly braced for the next battle when her fingers begin to drum on the tablecloth.
“If divorce is off the table,” she says, voice too controlled, “then we need to talk about a separation.”
The word lands between us like a thrown knife.
I let my own fork rest on the plate, swallow thefuck nothat snarls up my throat, then pick up my wineglass, for a moment wishing it was something stronger. “Explain how you see that playing out,” I indulge, knowing full well that will never happen.
But it’s clear she needs time. And for now, I’ll grant it.
If she’s surprised by my even tone, she doesn’t show. Or maybe she’s simply not aware that Giovanni Dragoni is at his most dangerous when he appears calmest.
