“Oh, my God,” Raoul groans. “You’re making me hard.”
“Oy! I heard that, ya filthy fucker!” I recognize the sound of my father in the background.
Raoul’s voice lowers. “Yeah…so this is a bit of a problem since I’m sitting here with your Pops.”
I fight a giggle. “Then hold that thought till tonight. I’m making us dinner. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” I can almost picture those dark brows pulling together over his beautiful eyes.
“You’ll find out when you get home. Try not to be late.”
“Shouldn’t be later than 6.30. Good for you?” he asks.
“Everything about you is good for me,” I shoot back.
There’s another low growl as I cut the call, then lean forward to tell the driver to take us to a food store on the way home.
An hour later, laden with bags, I’m back at the apartment. Paolo joins me in the kitchen, running an eye over the mounds of provisions I start to unpack.
“Shall I call Cook in to help, Signora?” he asks.
“Nope.” I’m still grinning like an idiot. “I’m making a meal for my husband. Me. All on my own.”
“Uh…of course, Signora.”
Why the hell does everyone seem surprised when I say this?
Setting to work, I go through Parker’s instructions, preparing the duck and shoving it in the oven, then set the timer for two hours to check it again.
“Two hours. And then another hour after that. Who knew you’d need so long to cook a damn duck?” I mutter, wiping my forearm over my flushed face. I’m in a grimy apron smelling of spices and grease, and that won’t do at all. “Enough time for a shower and a nap, though.” I’m going to need extra minutes to shave all the essentials, and the nap will keep me perky. God knows I’m tired all the time these days.
Dashing to the bathroom, I lather up, shampoo my hair and make sure I’m silky smooth and hairless by the time I get out. Bundling my wet hair turban-style in a towel, I flop onto the bed and toss and turn until I give up, then spend the rest of my time flipping through my wardrobe, trying to find something perfect to wear. Something that says, “I’m having your baby. Now fuck me senseless on the dining room table!”
I settle on a silver satin sheath that may be a bit over the top for dinner at home, but the draped neckline plunges between my breasts, and the slits up the sides are almost hip-high. And no knickers, of course.
Easy access. That’s the one!
A buzz from the kitchen has me scampering to check the oven, toweling my still-damp hair. The duck looks no different from when I put it in there.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I mutter.
Sorry, Baby!
It takes me a couple of minutes to figure out that I haven’t turned the heat up high enough. A glance at the time tells me that it’s heading for 5.30.
Shit!
“And there I thought I had all the time in the world,” I say wryly, adjusting the heat setting. I crank it up to the max, hoping it’ll make up for the lost time before he gets here. Meanwhile, I need to get back to the bedroom to finish up. Quickly styling my hair and applying some light makeup, I give myself a last appraising look.
Good enough to eat?
Hell, yeah!
I fold the strip of baby scans carefully and set them in a silver gift box I picked up at the store. Securing it with a length of ribbon, I head back to the kitchen, pleased to see my duck is finally cooperating. Rich and golden, the scent of roasting meat is enough to make my mouth water. Thank God the constant nausea is starting to settle down.
Fortunately, I’d had the good sense to pick up some readymade veggies at the store, or I’d be in trouble now. I gather the ingredients for the orange sauce, careful not to get any on my sleek dress. The bottle of Grand Marnier has me fighting a little swirl of guilt, although a Google search had assured me that the alcohol would cook off and be safe for me to eat it.
Well, look at you! Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, Emma.
