Gino’s loss was paid in full, and while he could not bring himself to regret it, the lesson had been learnt.
Never gamble with beginners. Especially not virgin beginners.
She was curled up on the bedroom sofa reading when Gino left the bathroom, dressed in a pretty white summer dress with tiny pink roses embroidered on it. The bed she hadn’t slept in had been ruffled, as if she’d got into it to give the illusion it had beenslept in. She looked up from her book and smiled at him, then gave her attention back to the words of the book in her pretty hands.
“Hungry?” he asked once he’d dressed. He would not look at the round cut of her dress and the way it skimmed her cleavage or let his gaze be drawn to the pretty feet he’d kissed only hours before, or remember how he’d had to take hold of his erection and grip it tightly enough to hurt himself to keep his ardour in check.
She jumped to her feet the way she always did, and beamed. “Starving.”
That was a good sign. Francesca was always starving.
Another good sign was her telling a passing guard that he was the spawn of the devil and would be going to hell for his part in holding her hostage.
Except, there seemed little sign of her appetite when they reached his office. Carmita brought their breakfast in to them, and Francesca sat herself on the sofa with her book and a chocolate croissant in hand.
From his desk, he watched her nibble at it, but everything else except her cappuccino and orange juice remained untouched. As he was having to force his own food down, he thought it best not to query this.
An hour passed. Even with the pace of work for the contracts between himself and the Espositos accelerating, it was the slowest hour of his life.
The hours spent in his office since kidnapping her had been interminable for the reason of Francesca’s annoying, amusing and sexy presence and the fact that he loathed being cooped up. Gino wanted to get outside and breathe the fresh air as much as she did.
Today, she was as quiet as a mouse and yet her presence felt more vibrant than ever.
She didn’t so much as glance up from her book at him.
“Coffee?” he asked casually when another snail-crawl hour had passed.
She barely flicked her eyes at him. “Please.”
He turned the machine on. “How’s your book?”
“Really good.”
“Another thriller?”
“Yes.”
“Not tempted to give me a run-down on it to annoy me?”
She turned the page. “Do you want me to?”
“I’d rather take an ice bath.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Very… Sugar in your coffee?”
“No thank you.”
“Cream?”
“No thank you.”
He put a cup on the tray and pressed the americano button. “The contracts between me and your cousins are making good progress. A draft is being couriered over.”
“That’s nice.” The beautiful cheeks he’d pressed his lips to every millimetre of suddenly flushed with colour, but she didn’t lift her gaze. “I mean, that’s good. For you.”
Her coffee made, he removed it from the tray and put his own cup beneath the dispenser. While the machine ground the beans for his coffee, he carried Francesca’s cup to her and placed it on the small table next to her.
